CH A P T ER
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As with all wars, there were a million good reasons to go to war, and there were no good reasons at all.
January 28—10:27 p.m. 2nd Platoon, Delta Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry The German-Czech Border
B
eneath the bleak border-guard tower, a solitary figure stood in the drifting snows. Deep within him, the soldier sensed something was wrong. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It was the same helpless feeling he’d first experienced moments before his initial firefight so many years ago. The blizzard pelted him. The windswept snows tore at the exposed cheeks of his aging face. For the moment, however, he had no choice but to endure the intolerable conditions. Sergeant First Class Robert Jensen raised his night-vision goggles. When the heavy goggles masked his eyes, his world turned from one of darkness and swirling snow to a surreal shade of green. Two hundred yards away, across the open landscape, stood the stark cement-and-barbed-wire fence that separated East and West. When Jensen scanned the area beyond the border, the images confirmed what he already knew. On the other side of the wire, less than a mile from his position, hundreds of armored vehicles were on the move. On a small hilltop, a Russian main battle tank’s crew watched the lone American with mounting interest.
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“Josef, are you ready?” the tank’s commander asked. “Nearly, Comrade Commander,” the tank’s driver said. “The engine doesn’t want to start in the bitter cold.” “Well, hurry it up. We need to begin our attack. The American will soon get into his Humvee and leave, and he won’t return for over an hour.” “But, Comrade Commander, how can you be so sure he won’t be back before then?” “Because the American hasn’t varied his routine in the two weeks we’ve been watching. Every two hours he rotates the soldiers in the three towers. He’s changed the guards in the towers to the north. Now he’s satisfying his curiosity about our division’s activities while he waits for the final pair of soldiers to ascend this third tower and relieve those inside. Once that’s done, he’ll get into his vehicle and return to his headquarters hidden in the woods. He won’t come to the border again until nearly midnight, when he’ll begin replacing the soldiers in the towers once more.” The T-90’s engine struggled to life. The driver revved the engine again and again as it rebelled against his efforts. “Okay, Josef, whenever you’re ready, you can start your run at the American position,” the tank’s commander said. “Attack at full speed; hold nothing back.” “But, Comrade Commander, what about the three Bradley Fighting Vehicles the Americans moved forward this morning and placed between the towers? Shouldn’t we concern ourselves with them?” “You just worry about getting to the wire as quickly as you can. Dmetri and I will watch the Americans, won’t we, Dmetri?” “Yes, Comrade Commander,” the tank’s gunner said. Jensen was growing more miserable by the minute. Exposed to the elements, there was nothing he could do to make his predicament any better. He’d been out in the blizzard for the forty minutes it had taken to rotate the shifts in the three widespread towers. And it was beginning to take its toll. Although squadron intelligence had reported that the unrelenting
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storm would end well before morning, it had yet to release its paralyzing grip. It was officially the worst blizzard to strike Europe in over thirty years. For seventy-two endless hours, the storm had been unceasing, slamming the center of the continent with gale-force winds and waist-deep snows. For the forty-five hundred men of the American 4th Cavalry Regiment, their month guarding the southern half of the German border was nearly over. In three days, the relief regiment would arrive. It would be none too soon for the exhausted cavalrymen. Jensen surveyed the distant landscape as the mock battles of the Russian war games continued. On a far ridge, a company-level encoun- ter of BMP armored personnel carriers and T-80 tanks caught his eye. While he waited for Sergeant Foster and Specialist Four Marconi to start down from the forty-foot-high tower, he focused his attention on the armored attack. Inside his parka, a brief smile came to Jensen’s lips. The enemy move- ments were exactly what the veteran platoon sergeant had anticipated. The struggle was predictable. There was nothing subtle in the Russian approach. Forget finesse. His adversary only knew one way to play the deadly game—straight ahead with brute force. What they lacked in cunning and guile, they made up for with a willingness to sacrifice men and equipment to overwhelm their opponent. Having briefed Privates Ramirez and Steele, Foster and Marconi began climbing down the tower’s ladder. “Christ, Michael, watch your step,” Foster called out. “Every inch of this thing’s covered with ice.” Jensen dropped the heavy goggles from his eyes and turned toward the sound of Foster’s voice. A second fleeting smile found its way to his face. His exposure to the elements would soon be over. Even in this weather, five minutes from now, the trio would be safely within the warmth of the platoon building. After that, there would only be four guard rotations to accomplish before the relief platoon and the rising winter sun arrived at eight tomorrow morning.
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Jensen turned back toward the border and raised the goggles to his eyes. Slicing through the blizzard like a runaway snowplow from the depths of hell, the Russian tank was roaring straight for him. The T90 was three hundred yards away and closing fast. At the last possible instant, the tank dug its broad treads into the deep snow and clawed at the frozen earth below. Fifty-one tons of deadly steel screeched to a halt inches from the wire. “Excellent, Josef, excellent,” the tank’s commander said. “Another su- perb job by the best tank driver in all of Central Army.” “Thank you, Comrade Commander.” “What do we do now?” Dmetri asked. “Bring your main gun forward and aim it at the American.” “Yes, Comrade Commander.” The tank’s turret swung slowly around until Jensen was squarely within the sights of its massive cannon. From two hundred yards away, the Russians wouldn’t miss. “I’m ready to fire upon your order, Comrade Commander.” “Patience, Dmetri.” Jensen stood rock steady. Not a muscle flinched. If the enemy’s bold move had unnerved him, he didn’t show it. Instead, he turned and scanned the area to his left with his night-vision equipment, searching the American side of the border. A half mile away, he located Staff Ser- geant Brown’s Bradley Fighting Vehicle sitting in the evermounting snows. Jensen spoke into his communication headset. “Delta-Two-One, this is Delta-Two-Five.” “Yeah, Sarge,” Brown said. “Brownie, I’ve got a T-90 in front of me that appears to be aiming his cannon right at my head.” “We know, Sarge. We spotted him the instant he began his run at the fence.”
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“I don’t think he’s going to fire. But just in case I’m wrong, why don’t you have your gunner lock onto this guy.” “We already have. That Russian son of a bitch is sitting in the cross- hairs of a TOW missile. Give the word, and we’ll blow him away.” “If the time comes for you to destroy him, it’ll be because I’m already dead. Don’t do anything rash. But if he fires on my position, don’t wait for me to give the order. Send him straight to hell, then get all three Bradleys and the teams in the towers out of here as fast as you can. Your only chance will be to slip into the deepest part of the woods before the Russians get organized and set up your defenses there.” “Okay, Sarge, you can count on me.” “Brownie, notice anything unusual about this guy?” “Unusual?” “Take a good look. Tell me if you see what I see.” Brown peered through his Bradley’s sophisticated thermal nightvision system at the idling Russian tank. It didn’t take long for him to locate what Jensen was alluding to. “Jesus, Sarge, look at all those pennants flying from his radio antenna.” “That’s right, Brownie. What you’ve got in your sights is the division commander himself.” “A goddamn Russian general,” Brown said. “The guy must be insane, rushing the wire like that. He’s got to know we could blow him away at any time.” “He’s probably thinking the exact same thing about us at the moment.” “Well, this certainly confirms what squadron told us at this morning’s briefing.” “No doubt at all, is there, Brownie.” “None at all, Sarge,” Brown said. “On our platoon’s three miles of border, we’re face-to-face with an entire Russian armored division. More than eight thousand men, three hundred BMPs, and three hundred tanks. And we’ve got forty-three men, eight Bradleys, and the two Humvees.” “Doesn’t seem like much of a fair fight, does it,” Brown said.
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“Yeah, the Russians won’t stand a chance if they’re crazy enough to take on 2nd Platoon, will they.” “No chance at all, Sarge.” “All right, Brownie, Foster and Marconi are climbing down as we speak. Doesn’t look like the T-90’s going to do anything but sit there for a while. Even so, don’t let your guard down. Keep your TOW trained on him until he decides he’s had enough of this foolishness and moves away from the wire. I’m going back to wrap these frozen fingers around a hot cup of coffee. The Russians are in your capable hands.” “Don’t worry, Sarge. I’ll watch our little friends real close while you’re gone.” Sergeant Foster dropped the final six feet to the waiting snows. The instant his boots touched, he grabbed the night-vision goggles dangling from his neck. “Christ, Sarge. I was halfway down the ladder before I realized that bastard was headed straight for the wire. I damn near fainted, then I damn near fell. What the hell’s going on?” Marconi reached the ground and joined the pair. “Hell if I know,” Jensen said. “For the past two weeks, we’ve been watching Comrade and his crazy winter war games. Every shift’s been reporting that the Russians are getting bolder by the hour. But nothing’s come close to this. A division commander taking this kind of chance is nuts. Something’s wrong here, I can feel it.” “Do you think the Russians might be considering an attack?” Marconi said. “Up until two days ago, Michael, I would have said no way, no way at all. But when they evacuated all American dependents living within one hundred miles of the border and ordered us to move three of the Bradleys up to reinforce the towers, I began to have my doubts. Now a Russian general has charged the wire. I don’t know what to think anymore.” “Look at him sitting there checking us out,” Foster said. “Just like he owns the place.” “At the moment, with six hundred armored vehicles to back him up, I’m afraid he does.”
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“But, Sarge, if the Russians were thinking about an attack, wouldn’t we be on full alert?” Marconi said. “You’d certainly hope so . . . Look, I know it’s impossible to do when you’re staring into the muzzle of a T-90’s main gun, but you two need to take a deep breath and relax. I suspect this is nothing more than some kind of sick Russian joke. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Even the Russians aren’t stupid enough to risk a war. This general’s just getting his kicks at our expense.” “You’re probably right, Sarge,” Foster said. “But even so, are you certain you want to leave Ramirez and Steele alone in this tower for the next two hours?” “I never want to leave those two alone anywhere. Every time I bring them out here, I’m convinced that given a couple of hours to work on it, one of them’s bound to accidentally shoot the other before I get back. Even so, Lieutenant Powers thinks it’s good for morale to let you guys pick who you go up in the towers with.” “But, Sarge, there weren’t Russian tanks everywhere you looked when the lieutenant made that decision.” “Well, I’ve got a solution. You two could stay here and take their places. Ready to climb back up that ladder?” “Not me,” Marconi said. “Another couple of hours out here freezing my ass off, and I might go up to the wire and beg that Russian tank to do me a favor and shoot me.” “And I’d probably go with him,” Foster said. “I suspect Becky would never forgive you if you let that happen.” “Then it’s settled,” Jensen said. “Let’s head back to the platoon build- ing and get warmed up.” “I’m all for that, but what about them?” Foster said. He motioned toward the Russian tank. “Leave ’em there,” Jensen said. “Brown’s got a TOW aimed at them. If they do anything halfway threatening, I guarantee you there’ll be one less T-90 to worry about.” The trio climbed into the cab of the platoon sergeant’s Humvee. Jensen pulled away from the tower and headed west across the two
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hundred yards of barren ground that would take them to the edge of a thick forest. “There he goes, Comrade Commander.” “Yes, Dmetri, I see.” The Russian tank crew watched as the small vehicle churned through the snows toward the narrow trail that would return the cavalry soldiers to their home. “Crushing the token enemy border force is going to be so easy,” the tank’s gunner said. “I wish I had your confidence, Dmetri. But I’m not so sure. Did you see the American when we made our charge? It didn’t affect him at all. There can be little doubt about that one’s courage. And there’s no doubt he knows what he’s doing. Do not underestimate our opponent. I assure you that before this is over, he’ll have proven himself to be an able adversary.” “Comrade Commander, what I assure you is the next time you see the American, his bloody body will be lying in the snows. And we’ll be on our way to conquering Germany.” “We shall see, Dmetri. We shall see.” Upon locating the opening to the constricted trail, the Humvee disappeared into the dense woods. “Okay, Josef, I’ve seen what I needed to see. Back up slowly and get us out of here.” “Yes, Comrade Commander,” the tank’s driver said.
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CH A P T ER
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January 28—10:32 p.m. 2nd Platoon, Delta Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry The German-Czech Border
A
ll around the Humvee, the relentless snowfall caused the forest’s mantle to droop. While the cavalry soldiers traveled down the twisting pathway, the snow-covered evergreen branches a few feet overhead closed in tightly, blocking out the winter’s night sky. Usually, the familiar mile drive back to the cinder-block platoon building would go quickly. In the darkness and snow, however, Jensen carefully felt his way home. “Has there been any further word on our families?” Foster asked. “Nothing more than what they told us this morning. The wives and kids arrived at Rhein-Main last night and were being put on flights to the States.” “All headed to the States . . . When we get back to Regensburg in three days, it’s sure going to feel different with our families gone. Everybody’s going to be awfully lonely.” “Everybody except Ramirez,” Jensen said. “He’s never lonely. How many Frauleins is he presently engaged to?” “It changes from day to day,” Marconi said. “Last count I heard was six, give or take one or two.” “Yep, Ramirez won’t be lonely,” Foster said. “If there’s an attractive woman within five hundred miles, Ramirez will find her.” “No doubt about it, our little Ramirez is destined to be killed by an irate husband someday,” Jensen said.
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“If he doesn’t fall out of one of the towers first. That would sure disappoint the Frauleins in Regensburg,” Marconi added. “You know, I’ll bet our wives are back in the States right now, warm and cozy by the fire while the grandparents spoil the kids,” Foster said. “I’m sure my folks were waiting at the airport in Des Moines when Becky and the kids arrived. This’ll be the first time they’ve seen the baby.” The short journey reached its end. A few feet from the low-lying building, the platoon sergeant’s Humvee eased to a stop between Lieutenant Powers’s Humvee and the platoon’s five remaining Bradley Fight- ing Vehicles. The armored vehicles sat in the darkness beneath a foot of newly fallen powder. To the uninitiated, the platoon’s fighting vehicles could have been mistaken for tanks. Although they tipped the scales at nearly twentyfive tons, that was only half a tank ’s weight. Nevertheless, with the Bradleys’ thick steel treads, tanklike shape, and full body armor, such a misidentification could easily occur. Yet the one recognizable feature that distinguished a Bradley Fighting Vehicle from a tank was the size and shape of its main gun. While the American primary battle tank, the M-1 Abrams, had a huge 120mm cannon, the Bradley’s was signifi- cantly smaller. The 25mm Bushmaster chain gun was extremely thin. Even so, with its armor-piercing Bushmaster and array of TOW missiles, the Amer- icans’ Bradley Fighting Vehicles had proven capable in more than one war of standing up to even the most menacing enemy tank. The trio shook the snow from about their heads and headed toward the ancient building. A wave of moist heat greeted them as they entered the smaller of a pair of rooms. The drafty building was dank and gave off a distinctive odor from the thousands of cavalry soldiers who’d called it their temporary home over the years. A chorus of animated voices resounded from deeper within the old structure. Foster and Marconi passed through the anteroom that served as the platoon’s operations center. Jensen paused. Gregory Powers sat at a tired metal desk in the far corner. The blond- haired, blue-eyed second lieutenant was fiddling with the pipe he’d
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adopted when he took command of the platoon eight weeks earlier. The pipe was an attempt to give himself an air of authority. He seldom smoked the ordinary-looking pipe, but he played with it constantly. Powers, having finished the easier task of changing the shifts in the three Bradleys, had been sitting at the desk for the past twenty minutes. Against the wall nearest the door, the platoon radio operator, Specialist Four Aaron Jelewski, sat reading a comic book. On the table in front of Jelewski was a pair of military radios. The first was tuned to the squadron frequency. The other’s dials were set to connect the platoon command post with the Bradleys, Humvees, and guard towers. Jelewski looked up as Jensen entered. “Anything going on?” Jensen asked. “Not much. Lots of talk on the squadron net about how busy Comrade is tonight. But nothing compared to what I heard you and Brownie discussing a few minutes ago.” “Yeah, when a Russian general’s willing to chance rushing the wire like that, something’s definitely up. One thing’s certain—you’ve got to have a death wish playing division-level war games in the middle of a blizzard.” “You’ve got that right, Sarge. Except, squadron says it’s not just the division in front of us that’s involved. Apparently, across the fiftymile 1st Squadron area, there are ten Russian divisions racing around like madmen in the snow. And over the 150 miles of the American sector, there are twice that many. The British up north are reporting the same kind of activity.” “Squadron have any further information on what the Russians are up to?” “Nothing more than what they’ve been telling us for the past two weeks. This is still officially a war game the Russians are conducting to test their ability to defend Eastern Europe during winter. We’re to stay alert but avoid confrontation with them at all costs.” “Someone needs to tell that to that general who had his cannon pointed at my head.” “Maybe somebody did, Sarge,” Jelewski said.
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“Yeah, maybe they did. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Holler if you need me.” Stripping off his gear as he went, the platoon sergeant entered the larger living area. When he pulled the heavy parka from his head, he revealed his closely cropped hair, which was every bit as gray as the old soldier’s eyes. Inside the noisy room, the never-ceasing card games continued. When Jensen entered, a few members of the platoon lounged on double-decked bunks along the walls. But the majority of the cavalry soldiers were crowded around the three tables, playing in the games or hovering to pounce upon the slightest mistake by those involved. With a newly poured cup of strong coffee, Jensen wandered over to the farthest table. There, the three squad leaders not at the border, Staff Sergeants Cruz and Austin and Sergeant Renoir, along with his assistant squad leader, Sergeant Richmond, were involved in a furious game of pinochle. “Want to take on winners, Sarge?” Specialist Four Winston, standing next to Jensen, asked. “Wait a minute, Winston,” Cruz said. “I’m not giving up this seat for at least another hour. And Brown told me that when I relieve him, he wants my spot.” “Thanks for asking, Winnie,” Jensen said. “But I can’t right now. Got to go back in the other room and watch the lieutenant so he doesn’t hurt himself with that pipe.” Jensen’s comment met with laughter all around. It saved him from having to explain that the real reason he wasn’t interested in the game was his concern over what was happening on the other side of the snow- choked border. Cruz tossed a card on the table and looked up with a broad grin on his face. “You just don’t want to get your butt kicked again, Bob, that’s all.” “Fat chance. When’s the last time you two amateurs were able to beat me?” Jensen said. “I think it was what? About three thirty this afternoon, wouldn’t you say, Hector?” Austin said.
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“Sounds about right to me, Seth.” “You guys got lucky, and you know it.” When Cruz and Austin ignored his comment, Jensen wandered back into the operations center. He slumped into a cold metal chair next to Jelewski, glanced at his watch, and noted it was 10:40. Just over an hour before he would bundle himself in his wet winter gear once more and return to the blowing snows. It turned out to be an uneventful hour. Jelewski made communication checks with squadron headquarters at 10:45 and with the towers and Bradleys at 11:00. The Russians continued to rumble through the furious snowstorm all along the Czech and Polish borders with Germany. Cruz and Austin humiliated their younger opponents. And the lieutenant played with his pipe. Late in the hour, Jensen removed three computer-generated cards from his shirt pocket. Printed on the cards were the names of his wife, Linda, and the couple’s teenage daughters. The cards had arrived yesterday. They were official notice that his family had left Regensburg. If all went well, in the next few days he would receive three additional cards for each of them as they cleared the hurdles on their way home to Texas. And in a short time, he knew he’d be clearing those same hurdles. In five weeks, Robert Jensen was scheduled to join his family in the small East Texas town that held such fond memories of his boyhood days. There he’d begin a long-overdue retirement. 11:40. Time to prepare the next shift to go forward to the border. Jensen shoved the cards into his shirt pocket and headed into the platoon liv- ing area. “All right, next shift get ready to move out.” He took his parka and gear off the bunk where he’d hung them earlier. “First groups for the towers and Bradleys in five minutes.” This was met with the usual pleas for “ just one more hand” and some rather unkind comments about the veteran soldier’s parentage, which, with a smile on his weathered face, Jensen ignored.
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He grabbed his M-4 assault rifle and loaded a thirty-round clip of ammunition. Ready to return to the blizzard, Jensen stood in the middle of the living area, waiting for the pair of troopers scheduled for the northernmost tower. In the other room, the lieutenant got up and started to prepare himself to sally forth once more with a trio of soldiers for the farthest Bradley. Up and down the 150 miles of border under American control, scores of 4th Cavalry platoons were doing the same. The platoon’s routine was suddenly broken. “Hey, Sarge! I think you’d better get in here!” Jelewski called out. “There’s something odd happening at the border.” The urgency in the radio operator’s voice was unmistakable.
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