EndWar Page 22

  She nodded.

  “Let’s go!”

  Major Alexei Noskov stood in the hatch of the BMP- 3K Rys, the reconnaissance version of the infantry vehicle equipped with a 30 mm gun and radar. His was the lead BMP of the entire battalion. And much to the chagrin of all the other officers, he’d insisted on riding at the tip of the spear.

  The other officers were afraid of him, aware of his contacts in Moscow, aware of his temper.

  Of his rumored insanity.

  He chuckled aloud as he glanced right toward the sun lowering on the horizon. He took in some meager warmth, then lifted his binoculars once again.

  The town of High Level stood just a kilometer away, with a pathetic roadblock strewn across the highway.

  Ignoring the order for communications silence he had just given, he got back on the radio and cried, “Great soldiers of the Motherland, this is Werewolf. Tonight we expand our empire! Tonight we make Canada bow to Mother Russia!”

  He thrust his fist in the air, glanced back at the vehicle commander in the BMP behind him, who returned the fist.

  Good man. If he hadn’t, Noskov might’ve shot him.

  His smile grew even broader.

  Someone would write a history book about this battle. And Noskov would lean over that man’s shoulder, making sure NOSKOV was spelled correctly.

  “All right,” he said into the vehicle intercom. “When we draw close to the obstacle, we will shift to the embankment and let the engineers begin breaching operations.”

  “But, sir?” said the driver. “I thought you wanted us to blast on through. I thought you wanted the glory.”

  “Yes, but as I look at that obstacle now, I see a trap, not glory. The engineers will go in first.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you think me a coward?”

  “No, sir. And my girlfriend back home in St. Petersburg thanks you for this.”

  “I’m sure she does. Now pull over.”

  Noskov waved on the BMPs carrying the engineers, those great heroes and saints who would roll out a carpet stained with blood.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Sergeant Nathan Vatz had left six of the Canadian hunters in charge of the roadblock team, and they had done a remarkably fine job organizing and positioning the men.

  Once the Russian engineers pulled up in front of the obstacle and got out to inspect the area, they received some immediate Canadian hospitality.

  From the piles of snow lining the embankment there suddenly emerged more than two hundred local boys, armed with shotguns, .22s, and grenades given to them by Vatz’s team. These rural boys had about as much heart and attitude as any men on earth.

  This was their land. Their country.

  The grandfathers of these invading Russians had fought in Afghanistan in the 1980s, and now their descendants would be taught the same lesson—that sheer numbers and technological superiority will still not triumph over a foe trying to protect his home. Never underestimate sheer force of will and the heart and courage to win.

  Vatz stared through his binoculars from his position about a half kilometer west atop the roof of a small gas station, watching as the Canadians brought down about fifty Russians, killing many of them at point-blank range. It was like medieval carnage out there.

  Grenades dropped into open hatches.

  Buckshot blasted into red-nosed faces.

  And Vatz could almost hear “O Canada,” the national anthem, playing in his ears as several BMPs lit up, smoke and flames pouring from their hatches.

  But then some of the other Spetsnaz vehicles behind the engineering team made their move. The drivers floored it, rolling hard and fast to plow through the long piles of cars.

  As they approached, their gun tubes flashed and boomed, sending 100 mm HE-FRAG (high explosive fragmentation) rounds at the roadblock. Pieces of flaming derby car debris sailed into the sky, taking flight like NASCAR racers forced into the wall and tumbling wildly.

  The BMP gunners opened up with their machine guns, chewing into those patriotic and ferocious hunters, the drivers continuing on at top speed—doing exactly what Vatz expected they would when faced with the ambush.

  And they were in for an even bigger surprise.

  “You seeing this?” Beethoven asked him. “I think they got six, maybe seven BMPs! Those boys are hardcore!”

  “They’re doing one hell of a job, but it’s a one-way trip. They knew it. You could see it in their eyes when we left. But that’s what they wanted.” Vatz got on the radio, told his pair of snipers posted on the rooftops nearby to lend a hand.

  The cracks of thunder commenced. And for some of the Russians, God was a bullet.

  Hallelujah.

  Vatz checked in with Black Bear, who had taken the other half of Berserker team to the neighborhoods to join Zodiac team in flushing out the remaining snipers—no small task—and they most certainly needed more time, which was being bought by Vatz and his group of hell raisers.

  The majority of the local force had been given to Vatz to delay the oncoming battalion, though a handful of residents were scattered throughout the town and remained within their homes, all at the ready.

  It was, of course, imperative that Vatz’s team remain alive so they could be the eyes and ears of the 10th Mountain Division as their first elements arrived. Soon. He hoped.

  “All right, here we go,” said Vatz, resuming his surveillance. “Suicide run.”

  The first few BMPs had blown a pretty deep hole in the obstacle, with only about ten cars left in their way. Two drove up side-by-side and began ramming the pile.

  Impatience was a beautiful thing, and the Russians behind exhibited that perfectly. They made the obvious choice of taking the paths of least resistance on either side of the road, unwilling to wait for the first two vehicles to open the lane. Those frustrated drivers assumed that the snow couldn’t be very deep, that their vehicles would make it across that terrain and they could return to the road behind the stretch of cars. Why blow through all those vehicles when you could go around them?

  If the Russian engineers had survived, they would have cautioned those drivers not to veer around any enemy obstacle.

  But the engineers were dead. And the recon troops inside those lead BMPs would join them for shots of vodka in the afterlife.

  Two BMPs had broken off from the convoy, one heading left around the pile of cars, one heading right.

  “Just like you said, Vatz,” muttered Beethoven. “Just like you said.”

  Vatz tensed.

  And almost in unison explosions lifted beneath both vehicles, destroying the forward wheels and tracks and stopping them as the clouds of fire obscured the area.

  All right, the secret was out: both sides of the obstacle were mined. But this was no ordinary minefield.

  The next two BMPs trundled up, started to swing wider around their burning counterparts, wider and wider, believing they could arc so far around that they would avoid the field.

  Those Russian drivers didn’t realize that the mines were communicating with each other and literally hopping into alternate positions to repair the first two breaches and keep the enemy within the kill zone, no matter how far they drifted off. Each mine was capable of two-sided mobility and able to maneuver up to ten meters with each hop. They were all being carefully monitored by one of the weapons sergeants on Vatz’s team, who sat in the back of a pickup truck parked below, reading data on the computer.

  If the enemy managed to jam the signals between each mine, the system would enter autonomous response mode and maintain minefield integrity for several more hours.

  Either way, the Russians had stumbled upon a convoy’s worst nightmare: a self-healing minefield that could only be breached by a continuous number of suicide runs and the unloading of a significant cache of ordnance.

  ODA 888 and their crew of Canadians could never wipe out an entire Spetsnaz battalion. Not this gentle few. But they sure as hell would delay them.

  “Now we’ve
really stirred up the hornet’s nest,” said Beethoven.

  “Yeah, that’s the scary part.” Vatz keyed his mike. “This is Bali, everybody get ready to move.”

  A series of explosions rose on both sides of the obstacle, as all of the BMPs that had moved in began rolling backward, away from the fields to fire their main guns into the ground.

  Showers of rock, snow, and dirt whipped into clouds that began to blanket the entire area, the rounds themselves bursting into brilliant fireballs that flashed like heat lightning within the clouds.

  Vatz sniffed and crinkled his nose over all that ordnance going off, a smell that reminded him of Moscow.

  There were fifty mines on either side of the cars, and it would take those Russians a while to detonate them all, so long as the mines kept shifting to repair breaches.

  Meanwhile, the entire battalion would come to a halt. While they were most likely prepared to engage in conventional minefield breaching operations by using mine plows and MICLICs (mine clearing line charges) attached to long ropes and fired over the minefield to create a breaching lane, these measures were ineffective against the team’s high-tech surprise.

  The Spetsnaz officers riding out there had to be mighty upset. Vatz smiled as he imagined them growing flush and cursing at their subordinates.

  “All right, this is it. Time to fall back to our secondary position,” he told his men. “Move out!”

  “Your NEST team in Edmonton has narrowed their search to the legislature building,” said General Amadou de Bankolé. “But my Enforcers Corps commanders tell me that another Spetsnaz battalion is heading up from Red Deer—and they will roll directly into the downtown area.”

  “I understand, General,” said Becerra. “And let me emphasize that we truly appreciate all of the assistance the European Federation has provided to us in Edmonton.”

  “You can thank us, Mr. President. But it’s not enough. My troops dropped in light. They’ve engaged the Spetsnaz in the city, but at least a company-size force remains in and around that legislature building. My troops are facing heavy sniper fire. Our first attempt to secure the building has already failed. Furthermore, if that battalion from Red Deer reaches the downtown area, my troops on the ground—and your NEST team—won’t have a chance. They need more time, and I don’t have enough assets in place.”

  “General, you may not like me, but I’ve admired you. I read one of your articles on Hannibal Barca, and I’m well aware of your reputation as a strategist. You’re not telling me you can’t do it, are you?”

  He snorted. “Of course not.”

  “Then what is it you have in mind?”

  Sergeant Raymond McAllen was muttering a string of epithets as he and Major Stephanie Halverson charged through the forest, working directly between Rule and Gutierrez, who were laying down fire to cover them.

  He wasn’t swearing over the fact that the Russians had landed and had ambushed them. He just couldn’t believe that he’d forgotten about Pravota. Now they’d lost their prized POW, who was probably running off to rejoin his comrades.

  They hit the snow and dropped down behind Rule and Gutierrez, and then—to McAllen’s utter astonishment—the Russian pilot came shambling toward them, still gagged and cuffed.

  “Captain? What the hell?” cried McAllen over all the gunfire.

  “He wants to come,” said Halverson.

  McAllen untied the Russian’s gag. Pravota coughed then asked, “Why are you sitting. We must escape.”

  “Are you kidding me?” asked Halverson.

  Pravota shook his head. “I changed my mind.” He faced McAllen. “I want vacation, like you said.”

  McAllen smiled. “Me, too.”

  Friskis came running up behind them, hit the snow. “Contact from the helo. They’re only five minutes out now. I can already hear them.”

  “All right, get back there. You guys cover Khaki while he guides in our bird. We’ll hold them here. Pravota? You go with him.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” said the Russian.

  As they ran off, Halverson turned to McAllen. “You got a new friend.”

  “And it’s not you,” he snapped. “Next time, you listen to me. If you die, you’ll really piss me off.”

  “So this is all about you.”

  “Look, don’t give me that. Just stay close. We’re going to fall back another fifty yards. Ready?”

  She nodded.

  “Break!”

  Major Alice Dennison was studying the maps of Calgary as she listened to the Special Forces company commander on the ground just north of the city issue his update.

  The Stryker Brigade Team from Fort Lewis was in the city, and evacuation operations were well under way, along with the systematic targeting of at least ten Spetsnaz strongholds. Power had already been restored in several areas except downtown.

  That was the good news.

  The Russians had kept their word and aborted all sorties currently under way into Canada, while their ground forces continued operations to put on a show for the Green Brigades.

  Dennison was now faced with a serious request from the commander: a call for a kinetic strike on the Russian mechanized force heading south down Highway 2 from Red Deer.

  Within thirty minutes that force would reach the Country Hills Boulevard overpass, then roll right toward the downtown area. The SEALs and Special Forces already had their hands full, as did the Stryker Brigade.

  She told him to stand by and took the request up to General Kennedy, who in turn wanted to discuss the matter with the president.

  Within a minute, Dennison once more found herself speaking directly with Becerra.

  “Hello again, Major. The general has briefed me, and I have to say I’ve already turned down a similar request from General Bankolé. The collateral damage is just too severe.”

  “I know, sir, but our people on the ground tell me they can’t stop the Russians. Engineers could bring down the overpass and block the road to buy some time, but the Russians will breach fairly quickly. Our air assets won’t reach the battalion in time. The Russians will already be rolling into Calgary, and if you’re worried about collateral damage, well . . .”

  “Where are those Russian forces now?”

  Dennison went over to the touch-screen map table, tapped the appropriate commands, then sent the map’s images to the president as she brought up real-time streaming video from one of their drones.

  The long column of vehicles lumbered steadily south, gun tubes held high like chins in defiance. In a window next to the video, the computer created a sophisticated graphic showing the convoy’s estimated path and probable attack plan, dotted lines flashing red.

  “As you can see, sir, they’re rolling down Highway 2 right now, but the surrounding terrain is mostly slight hills and extremely rural along this eighty-seven-mile stretch. Now is the time to strike, when collateral damage will be at a minimum.”

  “General Kennedy?” called Becerra.

  Dennison shifted back to her station, where the screen had split between the general and the president. “Sir, I concur with the major,” said Kennedy. “We should take out those ground elements before they near the overpass.”

  “Very well. General, tell those platform commanders to stand by for my order to launch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The president regarded Dennison with a polite nod. “Excellent work, Major.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And Major, I’d like to speak to you after the strike. I have new information that I’d like you to share with Colonel Doletskaya.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, and I’m curious to see his reaction.”

  “All right, then.”

  He nodded, and the screen abruptly switched to the call log report.

  Dennison leaned back in her chair, wondering what the new information was. Deep down it excited her, and she hated herself for that.

  Because the excitement wasn’t professional.

&nbs
p; She would get a chance to see him again.

  THIRTY-SIX

  After sinking the Russian task force, Captain Jonathan Andreas had taken the Florida to the Dolphin and Union Strait, where he and his crew had continued to patrol silently and swiftly, listening with all their electronic ears for ships coming through the choke point.

  They had poked their nose up every two hours to receive text messages from COMPACFLT—

  And their most recent one sent Andreas’s pulse bounding. He had even taken the risk to call back Admiral Stanton. That conversation had been interesting—to say the least.

  They now had orders to return to Coronation Gulf. “Are you going to tell me, sir, or keep me in suspense?” asked the XO as he stood in Andreas’s quarters.

  “Have a look.” Andreas was seated at his desk, where on his computer he had pulled up some photos and schematics of High Level Bridge in Edmonton—not to be confused with the small town of High Level much farther north of that city.

  The bridge spanned the North Saskatchewan River and was located next to the Legislative Assembly of Alberta. In the summer months, a waterfall created by artist Peter Lewis dropped one hundred and fifty feet off the side of the bridge, casting mist and rainbows across the waves. It was a beautiful piece of architecture and a significant landmark in Edmonton.

  “High Level Bridge,” said the XO with recognition. “I’ve actually driven over that.”

  “Yes, and it seems a large Russian ground force is looking for the same experience.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes. And you know what they want us to do.”

  “They can’t be serious. What about collateral damage, aren’t they worried about—”

  “The Euros asked for a kinetic strike.”

  “That would take out the surrounding buildings—including the legislature. Couldn’t engineers rig the bridge?”

  “I’m told that was the first plan, but they realized they can’t get it done in time.”

  “I see.”

  “So we’re going to deny the enemy that avenue of approach, but we’ll need to do it like surgeons. If we’re successful, Enforcers Corps troops on the ground will continue the delaying operation. I get the impression from the admiral that something even bigger is going on down there and that it’s imperative we do our part.”