Trusov looked over the map, tracing the route 61st Guards Tank Regiment would be taking in their assault. The low-watt bulb flickered as the generator hesitated for a fraction of a second, the radio behind him silent apart from the occasional hiss of static. The division was on radio silence; communications would only be allowed once the attack commenced. He grabbed the flask of coffee from the rack in the rear of his command vehicle, and poured himself a drink. It was tepid, but he didn’t mind. It might help to dilute the vodka he had shared with Colonel Pushkin earlier. Pushkin, promoted to Chief of Staff, as a consequence of Colonel Rykov being killed by an airstrike, had recommended Trusov to replace him as regimental commander. A private celebration had followed. The MTLB-RkhM-K command vehicle, although low and cramped inside, gave him some peace, some time away from the regimental command tent, time to think. There was also a strong taint of diesel in the air, a damaged fuel line had been rapidly repaired earlier that day. After a whistle-stop tour of his new command, he felt weary and could quite happily pull his legs up on the wooden bench seat, close his eyes and fall into a deep sleep. But he had too much to do. He knew the battalion commanders, who up until recently had been his peers, would be watching him closely. That relationship had suddenly changed. Now he commanded them, their equipment and their men. He had been plagued with questions about spares, fuel, ammunition, promotions, and had delegated as much of it as possible. He sensed that one or two of the battalion commanders were testing him, envious that it was he, and not them, that had been promoted. But now he needed time to fully appreciate the status of his new command if he was to lead it into battle when called upon. He went back to sifting through the status reports from his battalion commanders.
Chapter 13
The soldiers were grouped together in lines, the numbers dependent on which aircraft would pick them up. They were checking and rechecking their weapons and equipment, some nervously. They had trained for this, many times over. Some had even done it for real, fighting the Mujahideen in Afghanistan. Lieutenant-Colonel Averin, the battalion commander checked his watch: sixty minutes to go. It was three thirty in the morning; dawn was slowly breaking, giving him a view of the many clusters of men waiting patiently to be collected. His battalion was one of four, all belonging to the 34th Air Assault Brigade. A second battalion, seven kilometres away, was going through the same level of preparation. Further back from the front line, two more battalions were at this very minute loading up onto a mix of AN-12 Cubs, IL-76 Candids and AN-12 Cocks in preparation for a full assault on the NATO forces dug in along the River Leine. Two company-sized forces would very soon be in the air, two advance forces on their way to secure the landing zones for the rest of the Air Assault Brigade of over 2,500 men.
Averin called out to his men nearby, giving them the sixty-minute warning order, the message passed out to all the platoons waiting. Before they went anywhere though, the army’s artillery divisions would hammer the British positions with a barrage that would feel like a seismic event. He was feeling decidedly impatient. For forty-eight hours, the Soviet army had been pounding the NATO forces, pushing them further and further back; up to eighty kilometres in places. It was being said that it had been relatively easy so far, although the Soviet forces had lost much equipment, and many lives given for the cause of the Motherland. The British had fought well, but had been rolled back. Averin understood that the British Brigades they were up against had no intention of digging in; they were but a covering force, their intention to disrupt and delay the Red Army, trading ground for time, providing the rest of the British forces with a chance of digging in; building up their forces, or at least allowing reinforcements to arrive in theatre, to meet the tidal wave that was approaching. His men were finally going to get the chance to test their metal against the capitalist armies. An opportunity for his battalion to shine. All he and his men had to do now was wait. Thirty-seven Mi-Hook helicopters, along with a flight of Hips, would soon be en route to pick up his battalion, along with their BMDs, mechanised infantry combat vehicles, and fly them the twenty kilometres to their landing zone.
The Air Assault Brigade had two missions. The primary mission was to secure the bridge that crossed the River Leine to the west of the town of Gronau. One parachute battalion would land south-east of Esbeck, and a second south of Oldendorf. The two heliborne assault battalions would strike at Gronau itself; one battalion to the north-west and his to the south-west. The supporting units, such as the artillery battalion of D-30s, anti-tank battery with its 85mm ASU-85s, anti-aircraft battery of SA-9s and hand-held SA-14s, along with engineers, supply and signals, would land in the triangle formed by the villages of Esbeck, Sehide and Eime. The enemy won’t know what has hit them, he thought. Two and a half thousand aggressive airborne soldiers bent on taking their objectives and intent on causing the total destruction of the defenders would create havoc behind the enemy’s lines. His was the most important mission, along with his sister battalion: to take the bridge itself. Even if the British managed to destroy it, they would succeed in isolating the troops on the eastern bank and secure the bridge foundations enabling the Soviet engineers to throw a bridge across quickly.
Lieutenant Wesley-Jones turned, slightly startled as he heard someone clambering up the front of his Chieftain tank. He raised his SMG to his shoulder, peering into the slowly gathering light at the shadowy figure making its way towards the turret hatch where he was sitting. Had he been asleep? He was on stag and should have been alert. No, he hadn’t been asleep even though deep tiredness had been dragging at his eyelids.
He pulled the butt tighter into his shoulder. “Who’s that?”
“Relax, Alex, it’s just me.”
He let out the breath he had been holding, sighed gently and lowered his machine gun. “Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t be sorry, Alex. You don’t know who it may have been,” responded Major Lewis, the Squadron Commander. “Crap challenge though.”
The OC clambered over the turret, careful not to catch the camouflage netting just above him, and lowered himself into the turret hatch next to the Bravo Troop Commander.
“Sorry, sir, still doesn’t seem bloody real.”
“It’s bloody real all right, Alex. Ground radar and the fly-boys are picking up movement out to the front. The Sovs are getting ready for something.”