Vega motioned his operations staff closer.
“All right. Let’s get down to work. Tell Pellervo to deploy his tanks and infantry to the east for a dismounted attack. We’ll worry about the town later.”
Officers scurried toward the radios to obey.
5TH MECHANIZED INFANTRY
Von Brandis climbed into his Ratel and used the turret optics to examine the advancing enemy line. Johann, his driver,
now serving as turret gunner, waited nervously. The command Ratel’s small turret held only a heavy machine guna weapon that would irritate but not injure a T-62.
Stepping up to the highest magnification, von Brandis was gratified to see several burning BTRs topped by rising pillars of smoke. The 90mm guns on his Elands; hadn’t a prayer of knocking out a tank at two thousand meters, but their shells tore up the thinly armored Cuban personnel carriers like cheap tin cans. Boers have always been good shots, he thought, and we need that expertise now.
The tanks were wheeling now, the entire formation pivoting on its left flank. In less than a minute, his battalion faced a line of ten T-62s-gun barrels, turrets, and thick frontal armor all facing east. They’d stopped moving, though. Why? Then he saw infantry dismounting from some motionless BTRs, while other APCs, already empty, withdrew at high speed.
He shouted down into the Ratel’s crowded interior.
“Infantry attack forming. Lay mortar fire eighteen hundred meters in front of us and adjust for a walking barrage.”
Staff officers acknowledged and began issuing orders to the battalion’s heavy weapons company.
Von Brandis frowned. The mortar fire would help slow the oncoming infantry, but it wouldn’t even scratch the paint on the T-62s.
Moving slowly, very slowly, the tanks started clanking forward, smoke pouring from the rear of each vehicle. They were making smoke by spraying diesel fuel on their engine exhausts, coveting the infantry coming on behind in a gray white blanket.
Mortar rounds began throwing up sand and smoke in front of the advancing
Cuban line. He jumped down out of the turret and let the young artillery observer climb into his seat. From there, the lieutenant would be able to see well enough to adjust the barrage right on top of the enemy force.
Trying to find a place to stand, von Brandis almost tripped over someone’s feet, then jammed his leg into the map table. Good God. Running a battle from inside this metal zoo was like trying to conduct a symphony on a commuter-packed subway train. Fed up, he grabbed his headset, opened one of the roof hatches, and climbed out onto the Ratel’s armor plated roof where he could see.
The mortars were now landing in the smoky haze behind the Cuban tanks.
He couldn’t tell if they were doing damage, but at least they were bursting in the right spot. His armored cars had ceased fire, out of easy
BTR targets and not even bothering to test their lighter cannon against the T-62s’ angled frontal armor until they were much closer.
The rattle of antiaircraft guns broke his attention away from the tanks.
The aircraft were back! Von Brandis quickly scrambled off the Ratel’s roof and dropped to a crouch behind its left side. Peering around the front of his vehicle, he saw the Flogger approach and make its attack.
From the Cuban pilot’s point of view, he knew that his battalion was deployed in an ideal formation. Spread out in line along the embankment, with no cover to the top or rear, his Ratels and Eland armored cars were terribly vulnerable.
The plane came over fast, its automatic cannon blazing again-chewing up sand and rock in a straight line along the 5th Mechanized. Something blew up about three hundred meters away, but the MiG-23 didn’t break off.
Instead, its nose came up for a few seconds, looking for all the world like a hunting dog seeking new prey. Then the nose dipped again, firing at a new target. ‘
This time he saw the cannon shells strike around a nearby Ratel personnel carrier. There wasn’t any clear-cut impression of a line of shells walking toward the vehicle-just a flurry of fiery explosions on and around it. At least three shells struck the Ratel, and one hit a man outside, literally blowing him into pieces.
Von Brandis heard screaming, and men poured out of the Ratel’s side and roof hatches in a torrent of boiling black smoke. Several were wounded, bloodied, or burnt. Damn. The vehicle was wrecked and its squad was crippled.
He heard another jet roaring in and hoped that this time the battalion’s antiaircraft battery would bring it down. He glanced at the nearest gun-a twin 20mm mounting. It was manually pointed and lacked radar ranging, but at least the
blasted thing was better than a vehicle-mounted machine gun. Four of them were deployed up and down his line.
Tracers arced upward into the air, passing close to the second MiG, but none hit it. Instead, the MiG destroyed an Eland armored car, fire balling its fuel tank in a spectacular orange and red explosion.
There was a new note to the sounds around him, and von Brandis realized his Elands had opened fire again. He climbed up the embankment and flattened himself along the railroad tracks-binoculars already up and focused. The Cuban tanks were less than a kilometer away. An Eland fifty meters to the right fired, and he felt a momentary exhilaration as he saw the shell strike a T-62 dead center.
But when the smoke cleared, the tank rolled on apparently unharmed. A bright smear on the bow armor showed where the 90mm armor-piercing shell had struck and been deflected.
Movement to the left caught his eye, and he saw a flickering black dot reach a tank. Smoke, fire, and sand fountained into the air. Another hit!
This time, though, the Cuban T-62 shuddered to a squealing halt as all its hatches blew open in a sheet of flame. Nobody appeared in the hatch openings.
At least the antitank missiles were working, von Brandis thought. Another jet roared low overhead and he turned to see one more of his Ratels and an antiaircraft gun burning. Dead or wounded men lay sprawled close by each of them.
Damn it. They were being murdered by these bloody MiGs. Where the hell were their own planes? He felt a twinge of self-doubt. Maybe he should have risked a radio call to Pretoria instead of seeking complete surprise.
The noise of battle was increasing as the range closed and more weapons on both sides were able to fire. He watched a few more shots by the armored cars as they tried to knock out the T-62s, all ineffective against their heavy front armor. Sand sprayed around him as a stray Cuban shot slammed into the embankment. Time to go.
Von Brandis scrambled down the embankment to the waiting Ratel. Its turret was now firing, and he instinctively sheltered under its sides as another MiG screamed over.
He grabbed the dangling radio headset and put it on. Turning the earphone volume to maximum, he shouted, “Foxtrot Delta One, redeploy to the south!
You need to get flank shots on the tanks! Over!”
The reply was barely audible, but D Squadron’s commander spoke slowly.
“Cannot move. Not enough fuel. Two vehicles empty, laying turret manually. Aiming at tank tracks, will immobilize.” The bang-clank of a cannon’s firing punctuated his words.
More MiGs raced down the length of his line, strafing everything in their path. Each pass left more of his vehicles burning or abandoned.
Crack! Crack! Crack! The Cuban T-62s were now in range. Even though they had larger guns, it was hard to hit a small, dug-in target from a moving tank, so they’d held their fire until now. The crash of big armor-piercing shells filled the air.
HEADQUARTERS, CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE
The young staff officer’s high-pitched voice revealed his excitement.
“Comrade General! Colonel Pellervo reports that his tanks are just five hundred meters from the enemy!”
Vega nodded gravely. Now for the kill.