Read The Devil's Footprint Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
Fitzduane's
minder, thought Gannon.
Lieutenant
Brock.
The
OPFOR had attacked in force and caught Brock
in a situation just like this.
Using
pre-positioned AT4s, Brock had fought one of the best infantry rear-guard
actions against armor that Gannon had ever seen.
Kill a couple of tanks, make smoke, and fall
back in the confusion.
Next time they
advanced, hit them from a different angle.
Shoot and scoot ground-pounder style.
But the enemy
had been weaker than this, and technically Brock had still been killed, though
he had certainly proved that the right infantry tactics could cause unsupported
armor serious grief.
You could
harass and you could damage, but in the final analysis pure firepower tended to
tilt the scales.
And this was
no training exercise.
"Tell
Colonel Fitzduane's team to let the enemy armor right through," he said,
"and make smoke behind them."
He tapped at the airport layout.
"We'll let Second Brigade block them, and we'll hit them from the
flanks with TOWs and the
Sheepdog tactics.
I want that hostile force to have only one
way out, and that's into
their own
minefield.
Give the Second Brigade all the artillery
support we've got.
Let the Kiowas
loose.
Get the air force in on the act,
but tell them to be damn careful.
Gunships only until we can sort out who is where."
"Airborne,
sir," said Carlson.
Gannon had
heard the 82
nd
referred to as no more than a speed bump when up
against massed enemy armor.
He had taken
the remark ill.
If his
division was a mere obstacle, it was a speed bump with real killing teeth.
*
*
*
*
*
Fitzduane
hugged the ground as Carranza's armor rumbled past.
Stabs of flame
and the deafening crack of their cannon punctuated the chattering of their
coaxial machine guns.
The detritus
of a bomb-blasted air defense position gave some visual cover.
Bodies and
pieces of bodies completed the picture.
A severed leg lay six inches in front of his eyes.
He considered that he was learning more about
the violent disassembly of the human form on this mission than he really wanted
to know.
An armored thrust from beneath the ground.
They had expected something — some kind of
counterpunch — and had prepared a reserve, but the scale was disconcerting.
They had
planned to bomb using penetrator weapons, which could deal with deeply buried
bunkers up to forty feet or so, but had restricted their use after further
consideration when the consequences of setting off the nerve agent had been
considered.
True, the two elements of
the binary gas were stored separately, according to Rheiman, but who knew what
changes Oshima had made in the last couple of days.
It had been a
rational decision to forgo the penetrator bombs, but as the massed wedge of
tanks had punched out of the hangar toward them, Fitzduane had second
thoughts.
Mere flesh and blood seemed
woefully inadequate to counter this massed steel killing machine.
He wished the
hell the airborne had Guntracks.
He had an
enormous urge to flee very fast.
The armored
vehicle wedge included vehicle-mounted guided-missile teams.
Unless taken out, they would keep the Spectre
gunships out of the way.
Countering
Oshima's surprise was going to be down to the infantry.
Brock was
gritting his teeth with frustration.
The
Scouts were correctly positioned to take the armor from the flanks and rear,
but he was under direct orders to do nothing.
There was also the reality that they were down to only a handful of
AT4s.
Still, his two
and they could have really stirred the pot.
Fitzduane put
his Kevlar next to Brock's.
The noise of
engines, the squeal and rumble of tracks, and the constant gunfire made normal
speech impossible.
He bellowed, and
Brock could just hear.
Fitzduane
repeated his orders.
"WHERE
THE ARMOR CAME UP, WE CAN GET DOWN!" he bawled.
"IF THEY CAN GET TANKS UP, WE CAN GET
TANKS DOWN!
AS SOON AS THE FUCKS ARE
PAST, GET YOUR PET
TELL THEM TO USE THE
SIDE DOOR!"
Brock nodded
and held out his hand for the RT.
It was
slapped into his hand.
"WHAT ABOUT
THE TWO KIOWAS?" he shouted.
Fitzduane
contemplated the vast hangar.
It seemed
big enough.
"WHY
NOT!" he said.
The noise of
roaring engines diminished as the last enemy armored vehicle squealed by.
Fitzduane had counted forty-seven vehicles in
all.
He revised his total downward as
two of the missile carriers exploded.
Lased by Delta from the hangar roof, he conjectured accurately.
Still not his war for the
moment.
A row of 120mm
mortar shells from division burst behind the advancing enemy armor, providing
smoke cover for Fitzduane's strike force.
The Scouts
poured automatic-weapons fire and 40mm grenades into the hangar.
Muzzle flashes identified the opposition.
Laser beams
flashed out and painted their targets, to be followed split seconds later by
bursts of aimed fire.
The two Kiowas moved up and, hovering only a few feet off the
ground, let loose ripple-fired antipersonnel rockets.
The terrorists
inside the hangar consisted mainly of mechanics and logistics personnel who had
been concentrating on helping the armor attack.
They had given almost no thought to defending the hangar itself.
Many were cut
down in the Scout's initial fusillade of fire.
The Kiowas Hydra rockets killed most of the remainder.
The thirteen
survivors ran and died as two
Scouts
leapfrogged forward and secured the hangar.
As they did so, Delta troopers rappelled down from the roof and
reinforced Fitzduane's little army.
As he shook
hands with the first one and smelled the bird droppings, Brock sniffed and made
a face.
"What the fuck?" he
said.
"We'll gas ‘em out."
Ten seconds
later, the shaped charge blew and the huge armored door that concealed the ramp
in the floor fell away.
The
cavern below and were joined by the two Kiowas, who were now firing their
rockets from inside the hangar.
A second
shaped charge went off and blew open the steel grille covering a ventilation
shaft.
Powerful antipersonnel demolition
charges were dropped down and exploded with such force that the whole floor
shook.
While the
Sheridans and half the Scouts roared down the ramp, Fitzduane, Lonsdale,
Cochrane, and the balance of the command lowered themselves into the darkness.
*
*
*
*
*
The padre
pushed another blade of rubble off the runway and then paused to wipe his
forehead.
He was streaming with sweat.
Driving a
bulldozer was harder than it looked.
Civilian vehicles might have air-conditioned cabs and soft seats, but
the Airborne's equipment was strictly military specification and designed for
ruggedness rather than comfort.
Civilian
‘dozers did not get dropped.
Rounds spanged
off his armored front, and he crouched down in his seat as he raised the blade
slightly, gunned the engine and reversed.
Doubtless it
was consoling for the engine, having the massive protection of the blade in
front, but it was also a reminder that he, the human factor, was sitting up top
exposed to the elements and a not inconsiderable amount of incoming fire.
The sky was
crisscrossed with tracer, the solid flames of gunship fire, and the visual
chaos of exploding missiles, artillery shells, mortar bombs, and other
weaponry.
Everywhere he looked through
his night-vision goggles, he could see targets being painted with the troopers'
laser beams, and he knew that the quick flash of a beam was being accompanied
by bursts of aimed fire.
Targets were
being sought out and neutralized one by one.
He was
conscious of the fact that his pastoral duties were now being created by that
fire and he should probably hand over to someone else and go and provide succor
to the wounded, but finding someone to delegate to
was
no small problem.
Also, he was well
aware that no matter how helpful a padre's words might be to a wounded trooper,
the practical benefit of getting in reinforcements and being able to fly out
the wounded could be even more appreciated.
The airstrip
was nearly clear, and as best he could see the engineers clearing the mines
were finished.
He throttled up and
headed toward a pile of cement-filled fifty-five-gallon drums.
The stench of diesel fumes filled the air and
mixed with the odors of sweat, fear, blood, and explosive fumes that now
pervaded the battlefield.
Someone ran
toward him and shouted.
They were
pointing toward the oil drums.
The noise
of the bulldozer drowned the shouter's voice, but it was clear he was
indicating the obstructions still to be cleared.
The padre
waved an acknowledgment and trundled on.
"MINES!"
screamed the engineer behind him.
"MINES!
WE
HAVEN'T CLEARED THERE YET!
STOP, YOU
FUCKING IDIOT!"
The padre sped
across the airstrip and then slowed down as he approached the drums.
He lowered the blade and began moving
forward.
Suddenly he was struck
violently on his right side and propelled off the bulldozer onto the
runway.
He hit the ground hard and
painfully, and as he shook himself he became aware that there was a heavy
weight on his back.
He began to
struggle, and the weight on his back moved.
Seconds later, the weight was gone altogether and he rolled over.
In front of him, a paratrooper was getting to
his feet.
It might have been a normal
parachute landing fall recovery, except that this paratrooper had his arms
through his straps as if he had jumped without putting on the ‘chute properly.
He seemed to have descended just holding on
to the thing.
The trooper,
Colonel Dave Palmer, put out his hand.
"Sorry about that, Padre.
Left in a hurry."
"Judas
Priest, Dave!" said the padre.
"You're supposed to wear that bloody thing."
He struggled to his feet.
Driverless,
the bulldozer was still trundling along with the pile of concrete-filled oil
drums rolling in front of it.
"My
bulldozer!" cried the padre.
There was a
vivid flash as the antitank mine blew and the entire bulldozer seemed to rise
in the air and fly for several yards before exploding.
A further mine was set
off,
and then one explosion followed another.
The blast
threw the remaining obstacles clear of the paved strip.
"Interesting
way to clear a runway, Padre," said Palmer.
"The Lord
helped," said the padre hoarsely.
*
*
*
*
*
Carranza's
tank force hit the perimeter of Second Brigade's firing line and veered away to
the right as a barrage of TOWs, Hellfire missiles, AT4s and
The volume of
fire was bad enough.
The accuracy was
horrifying.
All around him tanks were
blowing up, men were on fire, and his command was dying.
Within
twenty-three seconds, Carranza had lost two-thirds of his force and was driving
desperately away from the wall of death that faced him.
He tried to grapple with what he was up
against.
Paratroopers were lightly armed troops
.
This was firepower of a different magnitude.
A further six
tanks exploded behind him.
He caught a
quick glimpse of a
The American tank
was aluminum and virtually obsolete, he had been told.
He had not taken in that it was fast, light,
carried the biggest gun of any tank in general use, and had been upgraded with
long-range optics and night-vision equipment.