Ian Slater - Arctic Front

Even so, Freeman, while exhorting his men, nevertheless cautioned them not to be “damned foolhardy,” adding, “when you attack, you are to assume that not one, I repeat, not one, of the enemy’s T-90s — or any other of his tanks — has been destroyed by the aerial bombardment. And I don’t give a damn about what reports we get from Air Command. They’re doing a great job — absolutely superb — but they’re not on the ground. We are. I don’t want you taking your tank platoons in there thinking that all We’ve got to do is mop up. The Russians taught the Iraqis how to revet their armor, remember — dug ‘em in so deep even our bombers couldn’t get at them until they decided to come out and make a run for it. Well, I can tell you one thing — those Siberian sons of bitches aren’t working for Hussein. They’re working for themselves. When they come out — if they’re not coming at us already — they’re not going to run away. That you can bank on.

“Another thing — you can’t expect our air superiority to help much once we engage. You’ve seen it enough at Fort Hood, and the fact that this is snow, not sand, doesn’t make one whit of difference. Once the fighting starts, it’ll all be weasel shit and pebbles flying — identification friend or foe hard enough for us, let alone for our boys in the air. They’ll have enough work cut out looking after themselves. But remember, each of your tanks has infrared-visible ID marks. Last thing—” Freeman paused, taking off his battlefield Kevlar infantry helmet, putting it squarely on the briefing table, pulling a tank commander’s helmet to him. “Remember a la the Israelites?” He expected an answer, for it wasn’t a Biblical injunction but one passed down by the Israeli tank commanders in the Arab wars. The men roared in unison. “Keep moving!”

“Didn’t hear you.”

“Keep moving! ”

“Right. Now, remember your buddies you left back there on that never-never road. Cream these jokers!” With that Freeman put on the new helmet, adjusting the throat mike and slicking his hair down under the rim. The interior of an Abrams M-1 A-1 was a high-tech marvel, but it was so cramped that a strand of hair loose over a laser sight could cost you the battle.

Norton told Freeman straight: if the general insisted on leading one of the front two command tanks of the twenty-two-tank battalion spearhead, then the colonel was going to make his protest official. Bravery was fine, but “damn foolhardiness,” to use Freeman’s own words, was something else. What would happen if Freeman was—

“General Wain’d take over,” responded Freeman. He turned, the front of the wide firing-control helmet almost touching Norton’s, his voice lowered. “Goddamn it, Dick, I appreciate your position. Respect it. But after that—” His thumb jerked back to the bloodied road whence they’d come, or rather inched over, in the last few hours. Several marine companies had been decimated, other Americans were dead, their bodies vanished, vaporized in the horror of modern explosives, the only memorial to them now bloodstained snow and a small white cross hammered into the hard Siberian soil. “I couldn’t live with myself after that if I didn’t lead,” he told Norton. “My God, Dick, ‘Skovorodino.’ “ He was looking into the distance — not into Siberia or any other place he’d known but to his field of glory. “Skovorodino! God, what a beautiful name. Even sounds victorious.” His mood suddenly darkened. “It should have been our victory.” He turned and climbed aboard the first of the two command M-1 tanks of the twenty-two-tank echelon that would lead the two-hundred-tank spearhead.

“No secret to the strategy, Dick. If anything happens to me, just keep pressing west — whichever way’ll get you to the east bank of Baikal and Irkutsk. Then we’d be far enough in to bomb the shit out of anything we like — far as the Kara Sea if we have to. Remember, the carriers can’t do it. Despite what the public thought, the flat tops accounted for less than five percent of all sorties flown in Iraq. We have to have land bases in deep.”

“Yes, General.”

“Don’t look so worried, Colonel,” said Freeman, grinning down at him. “We’re going to make ground round of ‘em!”

“Can I quote you, General?” It was the CBN reporter, hopping out of a Humvee, its driver looking apologetically nonplussed at Freeman.

“Sure!” said Freeman and, still standing up in the cupola, rapped on the tank. “Radio silence. Let’s go!”

Norton turned to the CBN newsman. “I thought it was made clear to you people that we’re running this by media pool and that none of you were allowed forward of Skovorodino.”

The reporter was shooting off the end of a roll of four hundred ASA at the general, snow flying up in clumps from the M-1’s tracks, the tank’s aerial leaning back as the war machine, for all of its sixty tons, shot forward from zero to twenty-five miles an hour in less than seven seconds, still nowhere near its forty-five-miles-per-hour cruising speed. It looked great. Freeman brought up his binoculars.

“Marvelous!” said the reporter. “He should be in the movies.”

“Listen!” insisted Norton. “I asked you what the hell are you doing up—”

“Got urgent news for the general,” said the reporter without even turning around. “His wife died.” The reporter was switching to another camera, Voightlander Vito B — older, simpler but with a good lens. “Didn’t think I should let him know before he goes into battle.”

Norton jerked the reporter around by the Voightlander’s strap. “You quote him, you set him up before this thing’s settled, and I’ll shoot you, you son of a bitch! You’ll be out of the pool, Dan! ‘Friendly fire.’ Got it?”

“Hey, hey. What the—”

“Shut up! Listen, big shot. While you’re beaming your videos back home he’s carrying over a thousand dead on his conscience. Nothing he could do about it then, but now he can. So don’t you report anything until the thing’s done. You get it? We don’t want any Baghdad Pete shit from you swinging your goddamned camera around so any Commie intelligence asshole can-”

“Hey. Easy, man.”

“You got it?” Norton was still holding him by the collar; an MP moved in to lend a hand.

“Wait until we’re done!” repeated Norton. The MP had never seen the colonel so mad.

The reporter put up his hands and backed away toward the Humvee, the cameras bashing against one another. The clouds were parting now, the sun turning the snow and endless taiga blindingly white, surface snow turning to ice. “Till you win, huh?” said the reporter sneeringly. “Christ, I’ll be an old man.”

Norton was moving menacingly toward the Humvee. “Get him out of here!” he yelled at the driver. The Humvee spun around in its own axis, splattering Norton head to foot with freezing, oil-stained slush.

Freeman’s tanks, though their gas turbines were the quietest of any main battle tank in the world, were still emitting a deep rumble through the taiga as arrowhead formations of A-10s came up to support high-flying B-52s. Navy carriers and cruisers in the Sea of Japan had already fired Tomahawk cruise missiles, programmed to hit the launch sites reported to be in the taiga around Lake Baikal far to the west.

“The boss runs over that Siberian armor up ahead and our cruise missiles flatten those launch sites, Colonel,” said Wain, “the general’ll sweep a double header.”

Dick Norton looked at his watch. He figured they wouldn’t have long to wait.

He was half right. The U.S. cruise-missile strike against SATINT-identified launch sites would take one hour and fifty-two minutes to reach the targets in the Baikal area, the U.S. cruises traveling at a ground-hugging five hundred miles per hour. Freeman’s armor should engage the enemy around Chichatka Station at about the same time.