David Pope - Battle of Mesquite

In a few seconds, he realized, his best protection against a tank assault would be gone. Beside him, without waiting for the order, Corporal Hudson went full cyclic, returning fire with his .50-caliber and sending out a long, continuous burst of lethal armor-penetrating rounds. A cacophony of noise ensued as sparks flew from the steel monster while brass shell casings ejected from Hudson’s gun tinkled on the concrete floor.

Inside the pillbox, the noise excruciating, Upton was amazed at how everything was happening so fast. Rattled, forcing himself to regain control, through the firing slit, he spotted the barrel of the enemy tank rising towards them and sensed disaster. The advanced reactive armor on the tank was easily defeating Hudson’s onslaught. Worse, without an APS to protect the pillbox, they were a sitting duck. Just as concerning, he doubted there was enough time for his remaining troops, those inside nearby trenches, to counter with their Javelin III anti-tank missiles. Not waiting, he turned and headed towards the steel door at the back of the hardened enclosure. Reaching it, his assault rifle in one hand, with the other he pulled up the locking mechanism and heaved against the heavy exit, forcing it open. As he began to turn and warn his squad, a wave of over-heated pressure flung him high into the air.

Inside the ROAS command bunker, Lieutenant Colonel Rollins sat monitoring the parley and watched as the enemy tanker pulled down the flag of truce and put on a helmet. Then, the bastard said something to Colonel Rourke and descended inside the tank. Disturbed, he was about to radio Rourke when the colonel and his Humvee disappeared in a ball of flame.

Stunned, Rollins sat rooted at his monitor while Rourke’s Humvee leaped high in the air. A moment later, he heard the rumble. The noise roused him. The fucking bastards killed Colonel Rourke!

Before he could react, an urgent call came over the command network. “Blocker Actual, Tackle One! Inbound missiles detected. Estimate one, two, zero bogies, ETA twenty-five seconds. Auto-interception underway. Request permission to shoot and scoot. Over!”

Rollins recognized the voice of his surface-to-air missile battery commander. Adding to the concern and confusion, across several monitors, over a hundred enemy tanks were moving forward. Puffs of flame emanated from their 120 mm main barrels. Awake at last, the beast was coming.

Out of nowhere, Rollins felt a sudden urge to flee. He hadn’t expected the sensation and forced himself to calm down. Dread rising, he needed to respond. But what to do; where to start?

An aid yelled that CENTCOM was on the line requesting an update. Someone else shouted a warning—the pillboxes were under heavy tank fire. On his monitor, he watched the point bunker explode into flames.

With lives at stake, angry at the enemy, Rollins recovered and barked orders into his headset. He gave the battalion-wide command to carry out the pre-planned defensive response. “Blocker Two, this is Blocker Two Actual. Execute Alpha Dog. I repeat, execute Alpha Dog!”

After issuing the order, shaking with adrenaline, Rollins scrambled to his feet. Another aid cried out enemy missiles were being intercepted, but not fast enough. ETA ten seconds. He took two steps towards the bunker door and caught himself. No, the urge to flee wouldn’t overcome his command responsibilities. He remembered his staff and turned to face them. Some were on the secure network, others appeared in shock looking towards him with expectant eyes. Rollins needed to do more. Maybe he could urge CENTCOM to commit additional assets.

In that moment, with a quick flash of sadness, a massive concussion tore through him.

Through high-powered optics, Staff Sergeant Lisa McMichael witnessed the parley from inside her assigned trench. The nervous soldiers around her also took turns peering over the top, straining to catch a glimpse of the meeting underway towards their right front.

Earlier, upon entering the trench, McMichael had spotted three loaded Javelin III missile launchers stacked against the far wall. Next to the launchers lay two crates of opened missiles. Several more sealed cases stood nearby. While watching the parley, she thought of the weapons and hoped they wouldn’t be needed. And the doubt, as always, crept in. Was she good enough? Did she deserve to lead a squad? Could she really attack the enemy? Her self-doubt was interrupted by the action on the border.

Through her optics, she watched as Colonel Rourke pointed at the ground. The conversation appeared heated. Orders had come over the battalion network a few minutes prior: hold fire and stay vigilant. Worried, she lowered the glasses and glanced back at the missile launchers. As a precaution, she considered ordering her squad to shoulder the weapons. But loaded launchers were heavy, and they’d been cautioned against an accidental misfire. Better to leave them, she decided. Besides, in the event shooting started, it would only take her team a few seconds to arm themselves.

McMichael turned back to the parley and raised her optics, focusing on the enemy tanker. The man atop the tank pointed out to either side, sweeping his arms at the assembled US armor behind him. She guessed he was trying to intimidate Colonel Rourke.

Nervous, she shifted her glasses away from the parley towards her immediate front and scanned for any signs of movement. Her squad of ten unmounted infantry, six soldiers in the trench, including her and four others inside the nearby pillbox, defended this small part of the border. The enemy had more than two hundred tanks on the field, of which ten sat in her sector. None were moving. Beyond the tanks, twenty-one fighting vehicles squatted, also her responsibility. But they weren’t moving either. Even with the missile launchers, the math didn’t equate; her squad was out-gunned. She bit her lip in worry.

McMichael lowered her optics and glanced again at the stacked missile launchers. Compared to the enemy armor, the Javelins seemed puny. With a sigh, she lifted the glasses and returned her attention to the parley.

The tanker pulled at his antennae, threw the white flag to the ground, put on a helmet, and disappeared inside his tank. She swung her optics downward, focused on the flag lying crumpled on the desert floor, when her vision filled with a ball of fire.

Shocked, the suddenness of the explosion caused her to drop the optics, the attached neck cord catching the weight. At the same moment, the air trembled, and on instinct, she dropped to her knees. Above her, the noise of the explosion echoed across the desert. Not thinking, to relieve the weight, she pulled the optics from around her neck and tossed them aside.

Shaken, she turned towards her squad. Three troopers crouched and stared back with frightened eyes. Like her, they’d taken immediate shelter below the trench line. But farther down, two others stood upright, rooted in place, staring towards the fading explosion. As if on cue, high-velocity rounds started zipping across the top of the trench, followed by the steady staccato of machine guns firing in the distance. The sound made the scenario real. Realizing both troopers were exposed, she screamed, “Down, down!”

Riveted by the sights of battle, they seemed not to hear and remained upright. Frustrated, she fast-crawled towards the closest standing soldier. Reaching up, she grabbed him by the pant leg and pulled him down. He turned to look at her, stunned, when the top of his helmet split open, and he crumpled beside her. In that moment, she knew the enemy was using smart bullets with the ability to lock onto a spotted target and go over the trench top. A second later, the female soldier standing to his right did a pirouette and fell in a heap.