A chill tickled up Armistead’s spine. “How? You’re supposed to be dug in and covering our asses.”
“I don’t sir. The colonel thought he saw an opportunity and moved the entire brigade. Didn’t anyone inform you? Well, things didn’t work out. It was a fucking ambush. A damn slaught… Never mind. Point is, the survivors are rallying back at Objective Green.”
Colonel Armistead tossed the mike away and sucked lukewarm water from his Camelbak nipple. He needed something much stronger. Objective Green was thirty kilometers to their west. They were on their own.
The rest of his battalion clanked by, taking advantage of the battle pause to set up hasty fighting positions. Colonel Armistead gazed right past them. His eyes rested on the much larger federal force shuffling around the tree line, less than a kilometer east.
“No. I’ll be damned if this is the high water mark of the advance!”
He jabbed a finger at the only other man around with a radio, their artillery forward observer. “Get me all the fire support you can muster. We aren’t stopping and letting them pin us down. We’re going to cut right through the bastards!”
Whether in shock from the disaster or from the blood loss, the major’s voice was the epitome of Zen mellowness. “Sir, we’re too far ahead of our main lines. The Texans were supposed to provide the bulk of our artillery support. We’re surrounded. What few guns we have are fighting to defend themselves.”
Their forward observer tucked his radio mike to the side and interrupted with some good news for a change. “He’s right sir, but I got us the next best thing. Fast movers inbound. Time on target… twenty seconds! Sir, have every platoon mark their positions quick!”
Leading by example, the artilleryman chucked a green smoke grenade as far in front of them as he could. Seconds later, a couple dozen puke-green clouds erupted across their raggedy, mile-long line.
The FO stuck his ever-handy radio mic to his ear. “Roger, Snake 6, friendlies marked. Danger close, but kill everything east of us!” The FISTer slunk deeper into the mud, while still keeping his binoculars up and his radio dry. Everyone around him with any sense took his cue and made love to the wet ground.
That’s when the cavalry arrived. “Sweet! You don’t seem them every day!”
Four rebel A-10 tank busters, a significant chunk of the remaining fleet, whooshed overhead. Literally overhead. Heat from all the engine backwashes scorched the cheering rebel soldiers and the jet roars deafened them, but none of the troops minded.
All four stubby planes, affectionately known as “Warthogs,” lit up the federal world. A slew of “fire and forget” Maverick missiles lanced out and torched seven US tanks. Not satisfied, the flying grim reapers looped around in a tight turn and plastered the federal lines with cluster bombs.
Only then did the planes bother with their primary weapon: the GAU-18 Gatling gun. A machine gun as large as a sedan, and powerful enough to kill any tank. Each short-winged aircraft burped hundreds of 30mm depleted uranium rounds into the stunned Feds below, shredding a dozen more armored vehicles into steel confetti.
Watching the jets pull up and bank around for yet another deadly pass, the rebel FO was almost sexually excited. This was some easy hunting for his Air Force partners. He pumped his fist. “Who says the era of close air support is over?”
Awkwardly, twelve contrails erupted below his flying artillery and taught them all a lesson. The A-10’s twisted, dived and sprayed “Angel Wings” of flares… but it made no difference. With three missiles apiece gunning for their asses, the birds were already dead. None of the four rebel pilots accepted their fate in time to eject. They all rode their flaming aircraft into the ground.
Colonel Armistead wasn’t in shock like the rest of his staff. He’d gambled too much to hesitate now. “The Feds have to be dazed, at least. We need to stab hard right now.” He snatched the radio from the pale major and ordered the nearest unit around personally.
“Alpha Company, you’re closest. Advance with all haste and carve a hole in their lines. Bravo and Charlie companies: cover them and bound forward as soon as Alpha is in position to cover you. Have your infantry fix bayonets. Let’s go. Charge!”
The major laughed weakly and rested his head on a rucksack. “Did you really just say ‘charge’? How about we don’t fire until we see ‘the whites of their eyes’? Seriously, what about a smoke screen or something?”
Armistead gritted his teeth. “No time to prep. They’ll see us coming. We need to get in close and gut them.” The charge wasn’t modern army doctrine, but this battle wasn’t a modern fight. This was medieval.
As Alpha Company roared across the open farm fields, the rest of their battalion lit up the eastern tree line with everything they had, hoping to keep the enemy’s heads down.
It wasn’t enough.
A hellacious rain of missile and cannon fire swept the field, erasing all fourteen of Alpha company’s tanks and IFV’s in seconds. None managed to cross more than a hundred yards.
Armistead worked his jaw, digging deep to stay aloof. This wasn’t the first mistake of his career. Over the years, he’d ordered more soldiers than he could ever count to their deaths. Of course, never before were the results so painfully rubbed in his face. Ninety-eight men and women pissed away even faster than he could take a leak. His voice shook a little as he keyed his mike to do what needed doing.
“Bravo 6, they won’t expect us to try the same thing again. The mortars will lay down a smoke screen this time. How copy, over?”
The next company leader hesitated a good five seconds before replying. “Rog—”
Armistead reeled from the screeching static. He craned his neck down the line and searched for his armored company commander. His tank was easy enough to locate. It was the only one not firing. Except for the smoke pouring out of every hatch, nothing seemed amiss. At his distance, Armistead couldn’t see the tiny wound in the armor from a US Sabot round. Since the ammo on American tanks was stored outside the turret, they rarely exploded catastrophically.
Which didn’t mean the crew inside were any less dead. The colonel turned away as a medic climbed aboard the stricken track, hauling out a mess of overcooked spaghetti moments later.
Armistead’s hand quivered as he clicked the radio. “Char… Charlie… 6… can you advance, over?”
“This is Charlie 6. Roger, we could, but are you really ordering us to? Make the call over my company net, so the troops know I haven’t lost my mind, over.”
The colonel shot his forward observer a raised eyebrow. The artilleryman shook his head. “Just some mortars, sir. That’s all we got left.”
Armistead reached down and closed his dead major’s eyes. The man still clutched a radio mike in his cold fist. How long had he been sitting next to his dying friend? Why didn’t the stoic bastard say something?
The constant federal fire heated up to blistering levels. Despite the aerial reapers, the Feds somehow managed to reinforce their position. How badly was he outnumbered now? Two to one? Threefold? Did it even matter? He swallowed his pride and his dreams.
“Net call, net call. All elements: break contact. I say again, break contact and bound back to Objective Green. We’ll rally there and hold the beachhead until reinforcements arrive, out.”
Colonel Armistead climbed out of his ditch, reenergized by the chance to save some troops rather than gamble them away. He raced up the back ramp of the nearest track and shoved the track commander out of the way. He plopped down behind the Blue Force Tracker computer and spit out unit orders like a chess wizard on meth.