Charge To Battle: A World War 3 Techno-Thriller Action Event Read online

  “A massive Russian armored column has come pouring through the Suwalki Gap and is making directly for Warsaw,” the Lieutenant explained. “They’re advancing under the cover of fighters and they’re moving fast. NATO is struggling to cobble together enough troops to defend the capital. At this stage, it’s doubtful we can repulse the advance.”

  Edge understood. The Russians had never been known for finesse. They used their armor like a battering ram, bludgeoning anything that stood in their way until they steamrolled to their objective. They had fought in the same manner for over a hundred years.

  “So headquarters has come up with two immediate priorities. The first is to slow the Russian attack, giving us more time to defend Warsaw in strength. We’re doing that with fighters and long-range missiles. The second is to use our available mobile units to eat away at the edges of the column, harassing their flank wherever possible.”

  “The cav,” Edge understood. He knew now why the Bemowo Piskie Training Area was practically deserted.

  “Yes,” Lieutenant Parker said. “All of 1st Squadron, 2nd Cavalry’s Strykers moved out yesterday. They’re heading northeast, on a course paralleling the Russian column,” again the tip of the crutch drew a dirty line across the map. “The plan is to swing around onto the enemy’s flank and then to hit the bastards hard and fast.”

  “And you want us to scout the advance, sir?” Waddingham looked up. ‘Outlaw Troop’ were from 4th Squadron, 2nd Cavalry.

  “Yes. Our Platoon from ‘Outlaw Troop’ has been attached to 1st Squadron for the operation. The ‘War Eagles’ are assembling northeast of a little village called Norwid-Slowack. There is a bridge crossing over the Sypitki River just beyond the town’s outskirts. The Squadron needs to get across that bridge if they’re to fall on the Russian flank. But before that, Command needs us to scout the crossing to make sure it’s not defended in strength.”

  “Only 2nd Platoon?” Edge looked concerned. “We’re supposed to scout the advance of an entire Squadron? What about the rest of ‘Outlaw Troop’?”

  “Can’t be spared,” Lieutenant Parker said flatly. “We’re simply stretched too thin. Everything else in the NATO inventory is on a road headed southeast towards Warsaw. And it’s just the bridge that needs scouting. We’re not expecting Russian resistance that far north of Warsaw.”

  Edge studied the map for a long moment and then looked away into the distance, as if visualizing the route in his mind. The sun was just beginning to burn through the morning’s mist, still watery and pale and lacking warmth. He sighed, resigned.

  “Okay. When are we expected to meet up with 1st Squadron?”

  “Later today,” Parker said. “Command wants that bridge scouted tonight in preparation for a crossing at dawn tomorrow.”

  Edge’s face became hard with fresh resolve. He looked at Vince Waddingham and then glanced at his watch. “Let the Platoon know what’s happening, Sergeant. We saddle up and move out in one hour.”

  “Not so fast,” Lieutenant Parker grimaced before Waddingham could stride away. “There’s more.”

  “More?”

  A sudden flurry of guttural shouts and crashing noise cut the discussion short. Armed infantry were pouring out of the Polish KTO Rosomaks and forming up into clumsy ragged ranks. Edge and Waddingham looked on with initial amusement and then rising consternation as the gaggle of soldiers shuffled into straight lines.

  The Company of troops were kitted out in new camouflage uniforms, some wearing helmets and others wearing tan berets at jaunty angles. Their boots were shiny black, their weapons spotless. Some soldiers wore black gloves. Amidst their ranks stood a sprinkling of young women. Several of the men in the front line looked middle aged, their closely cropped hair more grey than black.

  Before them strutted a short, rotund man immaculately dressed in the uniform of a Polish Army Major, wearing a black beret. He paced along the line of soldiers with his thumbs hooked inside his belt. When he reached the end of the formation, he balanced arrogantly on the balls of his feet and withered them with a malevolent glare. Someone within the ranks barked an order and the infantry snapped to attention.

  The officer pirouetted on his heel and turned to face the Polish flag that fluttered over the parade ground. He sucked in his belly and thrust out his chin arrogantly. His eyes were black and suspicious beneath wild bushy brows, and his nose was a large veiny bulb that protruded over thick petulant lips. His moustache was the same wild wiry sprawl as his eyebrows.

  “Who the hell…?” Edge muttered. He could hardly believe his eyes.

  “You’re looking at a Company of the Polish Wojska Obrony Terytorialnej,” Lieutenant Parker said helpfully. “Better known as the WOT.”

  “What exactly are they?” Sergeant Waddingham asked incredulously.

  “They’re the nation’s new Territorial Defense Force,” Parker explained. “They’re the brainchild of the country’s former Defense Minister who decided, back in 2017, that Poland needed a fifth armed forces branch. So he created the WOT and filled its ranks with reservists and volunteers. Then he poured a huge wad of money into fancy new equipment, including a shipment of our FGM-148 Javelin anti-tank guided missiles. Finally, he padded out the troop numbers with a few army regulars. This is the result.”

  “Christ,” Edge gasped. “Do they fight?”

  “Oh, none of them have ever experienced combat,” the Lieutenant went on airily. “But I imagine they will before this war is over.”

  “And they have Javelins?”

  “One for every vehicle…”

  “I’ve never seen them before…”

  “No. They exercise on weekends on a twice-monthly basis over a period of three years. You’re looking at some of the first volunteers. They’ve had a grand total of sixteen days basic training, and a lot of the NCO’s are graduates of an express course that lasts just a couple of weeks.”

  Edge and Waddingham exchanged appalled looks. “The Russians are going to eat them alive,” Edge offered his appraisal.

  The Lieutenant grunted. Edge noticed Parker’s gaze was fixed on the commanding officer.

  “Do you know him?” Edge nudged.

  The Lieutenant’s lips curled into a derisive sneer. “I’m afraid so,” he said. “That pompous little bastard is Major Andrzej Nowakowski.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  Parker nodded. “Yesterday for a briefing. He thinks he’s the next Napoleon.”

  “And he’s not?”

  “No, of course he bloody-well isn’t,” Parker’s temper boiled over and, unbidden, he launched into an unfiltered tirade. “He’s nothing but a trumped-up politician in a fancy uniform. Christ, Edge. That’s the problem I’ve been trying to warn you about. The government leaders in this country believe their troops should be the first to strike a telling blow against the Russians. They say it’s a matter of national pride and they’re making a diplomatic issue of it. They think it will build defiance and resolve in the populace – and they refuse to allow the 1st Squadron across the bridge at Norwid-Slowack unless WOT troops are there to join in the attack on the Russian flank. That’s what I’ve been trying to explain all along. You have to take the Polish militia with you.”

  *

  With the support of an aide, Major Nowakowski clambered awkwardly onto the hull of the nearest KTO Rosomak and glared down at his troops, withering them with the force of his steely gaze.

  “We are about to go to war!” the man clenched his fist and waved it over his head. His voice was unusually high-pitched. “Within twenty-four hours you soldiers will be the first Polish troops to face the Russian dogs in battle. Honor, pride and the future of our country will depend on your determination, your discipline and your willingness to sacrifice yourselves for the Motherland. Let none amongst you fail me, or else you will suffer the consequences.”

  The speech was met with stoic silence. The soldiers stared straight ahead, standing rigidly at attention while the Major’s ominous threats washed
over them.

  With a flourish, he unholstered his sidearm and brandished the weapon. “I will shoot the first soldier who shows their back to the enemy…”

  Standing beside the Stryker, Edge and Waddingham exchanged incredulous glances.

  Lieutenant Parker shook his head and gave Edge a sideways peek. “The Major needs to meet you – but this doesn’t seem to be an opportune moment,” he understated tactfully. The Polish soldiers began forming up into their three Platoons and then marched off the parade ground towards a muddy field behind a cluster of storage sheds. “It might be a good chance to meet your new squad leader and gather the rest of the Platoon.” Parker looked at his watch and made a quick calculation. “Let’s say an hour to refuel and re-arm the vehicles and weapons? I’ll meet you back here at 0900.”

  Edge and Waddingham gathered up their kit and bundled it into the Stryker. The rest of 2nd Platoon were waiting for them outside the US troop barracks. Edge filled the men in quickly on their new mission and introduced himself to the Staff Sergeant (E-6) who would command the fourth vehicle. He was a stocky bow-legged Texan who walked like a cowboy and spoke with a John Wayne drawl. His name was Hal Calhoun. On his right sleeve he wore a combat patch displaying a pattern of four ivy leaves.

  “You saw action with the 4th?”

  Calhoun nodded. “I was with the Second Stryker Brigade Combat Team in Afghanistan.”

  Edge smiled and shook Calhoun’s hand. “It’s good to have another experienced man in the team. Welcome to 2nd Platoon, ‘Outlaw Troop’.”

  “Looking forward to getting my hands dirty,” the Texan drawled.

  “Well you won’t have long to wait,” Edge confided. “We’ll be back in harm’s way before the end of the day. After that, well God knows what’s going to happen.”

  At 0850 the four vehicles braked to a halt on the edge of the parade ground in a neat column. During their absence a military field tent had been erected on the grassy verge. The Americans climbed down from their Strykers, and stared agape.

  “They’re unbelievable,” one of the Platoon’s scouts croaked.

  The Polish infantry were returning from drills. They marched onto the vast concrete pad, their faces smeared with mud, their uniforms grimy. Their weapons were dull and dirty. The soldiers shuffled forward in weary step, some breathless, some sagging with exhaustion. They looked nothing like the pristine Company that had first spilled so energetically out of their troop carriers less than an hour before.

  Hal Calhoun shook his head in disbelief and uttered the question that everyone else in the Platoon wanted answered. “Who the hell are those guys?”

  “They’re the Polish Wojska something something,” Edge said.

  “The who?”

  “They’re a new kind of Polish militia. They’re going to be travelling in convoy to the battlefront with us.”

  As the scouts watched on with incredulity the bedraggled soldiers shuffled into their Platoons, herded and cajoled by their NCO’s. They stood at attention dripping water and mud until Major Nowakowski finally appeared from within the field tent. He strutted along the front rank of the Company and fixed each soldier with a dark-eyed, bad-tempered scowl. When he reached the far end of the line he clasped his hands behind his back and thrust out his chin.

  “You are fortunate to have the opportunity to lay down your lives in defense of the Motherland, and you are lucky indeed to have me as your commander. But my vast military expertise alone will not be enough to bring valor and glory. You must fight like demons. You must show no fear. You must be disciplined and determined.”

  He let the final words of his battle-cry echo around the parade ground for a few menacing seconds and then abruptly dismissed the soldiers. They fell out with sighs of exhausted relief.

  Lieutenant Parker dug his elbow into Edge’s ribs and then propped himself upright on his crutches. “Come on,” he fortified himself. “It’s time to enter the dragon’s lair.”

  Chapter 2:

  Edge and Lieutenant Parker ducked under the canvas tent flap to find themselves standing at the end of a long fold-out bench. Six Polish officers, with glasses and wine bottles before them, sat on either side, with Major Nowakowski seated at the head of the table.

  “Lieutenant! So glad you have arrived,” the Major greeted Parker with buoyant pleasure. “I trust your ankle is not giving you too much inconvenience. Let me introduce you to my Company officers.”

  He made the introductions quickly. Each man nodded a somber greeting as their name was announced. They looked like dry, fussy administrators who had spent their careers behind a desk. Parker doubted any of them had fired a weapon, let alone seen combat.

  “And allow me to introduce Sergeant First Class Thomas Edge,” Parker shuffled aside in the cramped space.

  Edge nodded his head. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  Major Nowakowski studied Edge carefully, his gaze appraising. He noticed the combat patch on Edge’s right sleeve but focused on the man’s rumpled, sweat-stained uniform. His eyes became cunning.

  “Do you always sleep in your uniform, Sergeant Edge?” the Major mocked. He flicked his gaze around the table with a thin smirk on his lips. The rest of his officers tittered in sycophantic support.

  “For the last four days, Major – yes,” Edge answered levelly. “It’s a compromise scouts have to make whenever we are on a covert reconnaissance mission inside enemy territory.”

  The Major’s eyes darkened and turned hostile. For another few seconds the two men studied each other and Edge’s chin lifted firmly as he met and held the Polish Major’s glare. Finally, Major Nowakowski swung his attention back to Lieutenant Parker. “Take a seat, Lieutenant, so we can begin the briefing. Sergeant Edge – you don’t mind standing in the corner do you? We simply can’t fit another chair in such a small space,” the effusive politeness was brittle.

  Tom Edge nodded, understanding he was caught in some undeclared clash of egos. Parker recognized the power-play as well. With the silky skill of a politician he shook his head, parrying the Major’s lunge.

  “Getting up and down with this damned ankle and these crutches is a bother, Major,” he smiled disarmingly. “I think it’s best if SFC Edge takes my seat at the table. After all, he will be the man guiding your Company forward.”

  Major Nowakowski gave a curt dismissive nod and turned to the officer at his right elbow. They put their heads together, and the Major spoke softly and quickly. The officer produced a map of northern Poland – much more detailed than the one Parker had shown Edge earlier. The Polish officers spread the map out and weighted the ends down with wine bottles. Major Nowakowski got to his feet, resting his clenched fists on the benchtop.

  “The Russians are cunning bastards,” he declared solemnly, investing his officers with the benefit of his vast military knowledge. “So we must match them with our cleverness and then defeat them with our combat skills.” He traced a line with the tip of his finger showing the route to the village of Norwid-Slowack and then pressed his thumb down on the blue wiggling line of the Sypitki River. “The bridge across the river is key to our flank attack. We must seize it with speed and daring!”

  Around the table, the Polish officers leaned closer and studied the terrain while the Major went on.

  “We are on the verge of history, gentlemen,” his voice filled with patriotic fervor. “The victory we will win once we cross the bridge and plunder the Russian column’s flank will make us national heroes. But first we must reach Norwid-Slowack to join up with our American Cavalry allies, and for that menial task we will rely on the services of Sergeant Edge’s Platoon of Cavalry scouts.”

  Heads turned. Edge nodded, but said nothing. To him, the Polish Major’s speech was all just fanciful chest-beating nonsense. He glanced out through the open tent flap. The Polish militia were sitting in small groups, fastidiously cleaning their equipment. He imagined them in combat against a crack Russian infantry unit and doubted they would last more than a few sec
onds.

  “Sergeant Edge?”

  He realized with a start that his name had been called, and he turned around. Major Nowakowski had a bemused expression on his face.

  “Sir?”

  “I asked you, Sergeant Edge,” Nowakowski said with patient restraint, “what you think of my Company?”

  “Sir?” Beside him, he sensed Lieutenant Parker tense visibly and shift his weight on his crutches. Then something hard struck his ankle beneath the table as a warning.

  The Major’s smile became fixed, and his eyes hardened. “Well...?”

  “Against experienced Russian infantry? They’ll get slaughtered, Major. Within the first minute of a firefight half of them will be dead and the other half will be in full retreat,” Edge spoke flatly.

  For a long volcanic moment Major Nowakowski said nothing. The men around the table turned pale. Edge kept going.

  “Your troops are barely trained. They have good equipment, but I doubt they even know how to use it effectively. And running around a grassy field won’t help them when they get into battle. They need to know how to fight, and they need to know how to hide. Their only advantage will be surprise. In a toe-to-toe engagement, the Russians will chew them up and spit out their bones.”

  Major Nowakowski looked deeply offended. He leaned over the table.

  “Well, well, well. Listen to the great American soldier,” the Major mocked. “And just how many battles have you fought, Sergeant Edge?”

  “More than I care to remember – sir,” he inflected the honorific with a tinge of insolence.

  “And you claim that my troops need to know how to fight and how to hide if they are to defeat the Russians?”

  “Yes. Ambush is their only chance of securing an advantage.”

  “And you know all about ambush skills, don’t you Sergeant Edge? You’re one of America’s highly-skilled elite Cavalry scouts. No doubt you’re an expert on camouflage and ambush techniques. Isn’t that so?”