Stephen Coonts - Combat

Bolde zoomed in on the nearest laager. The Algerians had learned a few things about desert fighting over the years. They had abandoned the old heavily structured Soviet doctrine in favor of the more flexible and efficient Western-style mixed combat team. One three-tank platoon mated with two four-track infantry platoons. All of the AFVs were parked nose outward in a hundred-meter-wide radial pattern that faced their heaviest protection and armament toward any potential threat.

There would be a sentry posted in every one of those vehicle turrets and a shell or ammunition magazine fed into every gun action. As Bolde looked on, one of the tanks panned its main tube warily across the horizon.

Once upon a time, it had been a Russian-made T-72. However, as Bolde recalled from his technical briefings, little remained that was actually “Russian” barring the bare hull and suspension.

A lightweight Japanese turbocharged diesel had replaced the original power plant, and a Korean-produced copy of a German-designed 120mm smoothbore had been fitted in the turret, replacing the cranky 125mm main gun. A revised velectronics suite had been manufactured in Taiwan, the reactive armor jacketing had come from a factory in Brazil, and the redesign and rebuild had taken place in an Egyptian armaments works.

The end result was an international battlefield “hot rod” considerably more efficient and deadly than the machine that had first rolled out of a Soviet foundry thirty-plus years before. Similar performance upgrades had been applied to the ex-Soviet BMP Infantry Fighting Vehicles of the infantry elements as well.

Again, located in the center of the position, were the unit headquarters tracks and a covering antiaircraft vehicle. Also present were a pair of massive semitankers and a number of smaller deuce-and-a-half utility trucks. The logistics group was up, bearing with it the fuel, food, water, and ammunition that would be needed for the next day’s march. Figures worked around the parked vehicles, unrolling fueling hoses and unloading stores, no doubt thankful for the night’s cool.

A swift scan of the other company sites indicated that similar replenishment operations were going on there as well. The timing was right, and the Gods of Battle were smiling.

“Brid, we’ve got sixteen rounds of antivehicle and eight of antipersonnel in the drone silos. You program the AVs. I want one dropped in on each of the fuel tankers and the command vehicles. I’ll take the APs.”

Overlooking the pass, Nathan Grey Bird and Johnny Roman struggled on against the burden of both the rugged terrain and their augmented munitions load. They were still several hundred meters short of their firing position. Time was growing tight, and the ridgeline looked even more broken ahead of them.

“Hey Nate,” Johnny wheezed. “Hold up. I got an idea.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, why don’t we cache a couple of these spare Jav rounds here so we can move faster. We’ll be working back this way again. We can just pick ‘em up when we’re ready to use ’em.”

“Damn, white man! I’m proud of you! You’re starting to think like an Indian. Let’s do it.”

Farther to the north along the saddleback, Lee Trebain peered cautiously through his firing slit between two boulders. The youthful Texan could see his designated target on the floor of the pass below him. His position was good, the BRM-30 had been backed into the slope between a couple of crude stacked-stone fighting positions. Its tail ramp was down, and Trebain could intermittently make out movement both inside the track and in the gun pits.

Moving with silent care, he verified that a clip of smart rounds was in the grenade launcher of his SABR and that the magazine of 5.56 NATO was well seated in the carbine section. Then he slipped a second clip of 20mm antiarmor projectiles out of a harness pouch, setting them where they could be grabbed in an instant. He’d worked out just exactly how he was going to do this thing. All he had to do was to stay ready for the word.

Trebain tried to keep focused, but he couldn’t keep from glancing away toward the north. Toward that next blue friendly arrow glowing in his visor display.

She wasn’t moving anymore. She must be set, too. And she had to be all right, right? She was on the squad circuit and she could have yelled for help if something had blown. And there hadn’t been any gunfire, and, besides, Mary May could take care of herself.

But then, damn it all entirely, wasn’t the guy supposed to look after a girl? That’s the way it always been where he’d grown up and the instinct was hard to shake, even when the girl was two inches taller than you were and had three grades of seniority. Lee closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear it of a confused jumble of emotions and images. He snapped them open them again when the audile prompt of the tactical datalink sounded in his helmet earphones. The glowing line of a communication was scrolling across the bottom of his vision field.

***SABER 6 TO ALL SABER ELEMENTS***STAND BY TO ENGAGE***ACKNOWLEDGE READINESS STATE***

Lifting his hand to his helmet, Lee tapped the transmit key at the base of his lip-mike boom, giving his go signal. Flipping his visor up, he settled the SABR against his shoulder and peered through the sighting module. Safeties off. Weapons selector to GRENADE. Mode selector to POINT DETONATION. Finger on trigger.

Lee Trebain’s mind was suddenly as cold and clear as a mountain spring.

The same message flashed before the eyes of Nathan Grey Bird and Johnny Roman just as they threw themselves flat on the overlook above the mouth of the pass. Below them, at the foot of a steep scree slope, was a quarter-mile-wide plateau notched into the range side and the fighting positions of the Algerian blocking force. They’d made it, but just barely.

“Johnny, let the LT know we’re in position! Then get those reloads ready!”

“Doing it, Nate.” Roman blipped the acknowledgment, then popped the end caps off the first of the two spare Javelin canisters.

Grey Bird plugged the connector lead from the missile launcher’s firing unit into his helmet’s remote jack and a targeting reticle snapped into existence in the center of his field of vision. Choosing the Javelin’s “ballistic engagement” option, he eased up onto his knees. The boxlike firing unit with its handgrip nestled against the side of his head, the connected launcher tube swiveled to angle down his back, its muzzle pointing to the sky. Turning his head slightly, he set the death pip of the sight on the top of the turret of the Algerian antiair track.

Nathan felt his lips peel back in a feral grin. Back in Idaho, his sister had never been happy with his decision to go career Army. Intensely into American Indian activism, she had felt he was selling out his heritage by joining the service that had defeated his people. And she had been extremely unhappy when he had chosen the cavalry as his preferred branch.

Nathan had pointed out in reply that their ancestors had been some of the best mounted warriors the world had ever seen. What greater heritage did he have except as a cavalryman?

She had retired grumbling before he’d had the chance to mention that the regimental assignment he’d been given was to the Seventh. Hoya, she was going to go through the roof on that one.

Grey Bird eased down the first trigger, giving the missile its initial look at its target.

“All CMMs designated and the scout teams are in position,” Bridget said quietly. “No detected changes in tactical environment. Ready to engage on your command, Lieutenant.”

Bolde swallowed with deliberation before replying. All of the preparations, all twenty-five years of them, were over.