Charge To Battle: A World War 3 Techno-Thriller Action Event Page 6

  Edge held his breath and watched the lead Stryker approach the bridge, moving cautiously, its 50cal firing through the onboard remote weapons station to lay down a hail of suppressing fire. Discarded shells rained on the road as the vehicle advanced, followed by a second Stryker in close support. The lead vehicle reached the burning remains of the Polish Wolverine and shouldered the ruins aside. With one lane of the bridge cleared, the two Strykers launched themselves at the crossing, running nose-to-tail into a wall of Russian counter-fire. Their objective was the shoulder of the road on the far side of the bridge. Neither Stryker made it. The first vehicle swerved to avoid dead bodies and was struck side-on by a Russian RPG fired from a roadside ditch. The crashing impact flipped the Stryker onto its side and engulfed it in smoke and roiling flames. Three of the soldiers inside the vehicle managed to scramble from the blazing ruin. They staggered amidst the wreckage, dazed and swaying. The Russians opened fire. One of the soldiers was struck in the shoulder. When the gunfire hit him, he stayed on his feet, tottering in a circle as the bullets slapped into his body. His arms flailed in the air and then he fell in a heap in the dust and did not move again. The second survivor sagged to his knees, clutching his chest. His head bowed so that he looked like a man in prayer – until the chattering roar of second machine gun flung him down into the dirt.

  The last survivor from the wreckage tried to return fire. He began screaming; shouting with pain and horror. His face was a bloody mask. He fired blindly into the trees and then was cut down. He fell on his back, his heels drumming on the ground until he bled out.

  The driver of the second Stryker braked to a skidding halt at the far end of the bridge and the vehicle’s rear ramp crashed down. Soldiers spilled from the interior, their weapons raised as they ran into a hail of enemy resistance. They scattered across the blacktop and began to return sporadic fire. The Stryker lurched forward to clear the road for the rest of the armored column, but it was struck a glancing blow by an RPG. On fire and streaming smoke, the shattered hulk veered sideways out of control and tumbled down the grassy verge, into the river, killing the crew.

  The battle quickly became a turmoil of noise, chaos and confusion. The Russians were dug in along the crest of the ridge and along the side of the road. The percussive clap of grenade explosions mingled with the incessant chatter of automatic fire until smoke and thunderous noise enveloped the battlefield. Bullets flayed the blacktop, filling the air with a rattling clamor of death.

  The M1128’s changed point of aim and concentrated their heavy machine gun fire on the ridge, fearful of friendly-fire casualties from continuing to strafe the riverbank. The vehicles magazines ran low on canister cartridges. The crews switched to HEAT rounds and directed their aim to the saddle of the ridge where the road intersected.

  “We have to help the attack!” Edge clenched his jaw. “Come on. Follow me!”

  Edge, Waddingham and Kalina dashed towards the bridge. The two Polish Wolverines by the riverbank sheltered them from enemy fire until they reached the roadside. The column of Cavalry Strykers were backed up for more than a mile. Some vehicles had disgorged their troopers to join the assault on the bridge and then veered into the fields along the riverbank to provide support fire. Others were stalled, their engines idling, waiting for the infantry to secure the crossing.

  Edge scrambled up the rise and reached the roadside. The air was filled with the incessant hiss of gunfire and thick black smoke.

  “Jesus!” he croaked. He dropped to one knee and waited for Waddingham to join him, then shouted at Kalina above the roar of battle. “Wait here!” he signaled with his hand to be certain she understood. “Wait for the rest of the infantry.”

  Edge and Waddingham dashed forward into the maelstrom.

  The bridge was littered with empty shell casings, rubble, and twisted wreckage. They were enveloped in boiling smoke, but Edge knew that when they emerged beyond the wrecked troop carriers, they would be brutally exposed. He led Waddingham left, following the far guardrail while bullets plucked at the smokey veil and whizzed around them.

  A fluke shift of wind drew the blanket of roiling smoke open like a theater curtain, revealing the horror of battle. Edge and Waddingham instinctively dropped to the ground, heads covered, stunned by the sudden hailstorm of fresh fire that swept the air above the bridge.

  “Christ!” Edge gasped.

  “It’s a massacre! Everyone will be slaughtered.”

  They got to their feet and ran forward. The destroyed Wolverine in the center of the bridge had burned out, leaving a mangle of twisted wreckage and a black scar across the road. Edge ducked for cover behind the ruin and peered forward. He counted at least twenty American soldiers pinned down and under relentless fire. As he watched, a trooper on the far side of the bridge was hit in the face. The man had been tucked behind a steel upright. A bullet struck him flush in the cheek, and the wicked impact wrenched his head around. He seemed to be staring directly into Edge’s eyes as his skull collapsed, and he fell face-first to the tarmac in a dark pool of blood.

  Kalina emerged from the smoke behind them, weaving uncertainly across the road. Edge saw her and cursed bitterly. Waddingham reached out a huge hand and pulled her unceremoniously down to the ground as a flail of fresh bullets tore chunks from the blacktop. Edge gave Kalina a withering glare of rebuke and then exchanged a brief glance with Waddingham. “We can’t stay here!” he growled. “We have to go forward.”

  Waddingham’s expression was bleak but determined. A stray Russian bullet struck the wreckage of the Wolverine just an inch above his head. He flinched and cursed. “Okay,” he nodded.

  Edge tensed himself. He drew a deep breath – and together all three of them broke cover and charged into the fury of the firefight.

  *

  A dozen soldiers were crawling their way bravely across the blacktop, trying to reach the knot of survivors stranded at the far end of the bridge. The rest of the infantry huddled in the lee of the wrecked Wolverine that had been barged aside by the advancing Strykers. They were firing in short bursts at the ridgeline.

  Edge went past them in a jinking run, crouched double to make himself small against the hail of gunfire sweeping across the bridge. Waddingham and Kalina followed in his footsteps. They dashed past two more soldiers who were sheltered behind smoldering debris, firing blindly into the trees. Edge pushed on, his jaw clenched, cursing the chattering machine guns and RPG’s that had blunted the assault.

  Ahead of him were the ruined carcasses of a Stryker and a Wolverine. Both vehicles had been mangled beyond recognition. Their blackened shells ghosted out of the swirling smoke as Edge dashed closer, drawn by the promise of temporary relief from the deadly fusillade. Edge reached the shelter of the overturned Stryker just as a grenade came skittering across the bridge. He threw himself into cover, but the grenade bounced across the blacktop and exploded harmlessly against the guardrail.

  “Christ!” Edge gasped as Waddingham and Kalina pressed close to him.

  “How much further to the end of the bridge?” Waddingham grunted.

  Edge rolled onto his side and peeked around the edge of the ruined vehicle. He could see little through the smoke. He ducked back into cover just as a bullet zinged past his ear and ricocheted away.

  “Fifteen yards,” Edge guessed. He was panting, his face slick with sweat. He felt like he was trapped in a furnace. “We crawl from here.”

  He rolled onto his stomach and pushed on, Waddingham’s strained breath hoarse behind him. Russian machine gun fire stitched a line across the tarmac, kicking up chunks of hot bitumen a few feet in front of Edge’s face. He pressed his nose against the ground and covered his head with his hand. He could feel the vibration of the bullets as they gouged holes in the blacktop.

  A loud commanding voice cut across the clamor of combat; a strident, booming voice barking orders to the stranded soldiers. Edge looked sideways. A tall Cavalry Captain stood amidst the smoke, waving men forward, urging troopers on. E
dge watched with incredulity while enemy fire flew thick through the air.

  The Captain lead the renewed attack with a calm, unflustered assurance, and behind him surged a fresh wave of grimly determined infantry. All along the tree-covered ridge the roar of automatic fire hammered, the flames spat and explosions roared.

  Edge got to his feet and joined the assault. His bulky equipment thumped against him as he ran, and sweat poured down his face.

  ‘Wait!” Waddingham dashed into the open with Kalina at his elbow. Almost immediately the attack began to falter, losing momentum as the lead troops ran into a murderous fury of Russian fire.

  “Keep going!” the tall Cavalry Captain cried. A shell – fired from God-knows where – struck the river beside the bridge and a great plume of brown water deluged them. Through the skeins of swirling smoke Edge could see the end of the bridge and a wink of flickering orange flame. He braced himself for the impact of a bullet, but it never came. Instead the man beside him threw up his arms and staggered. He had been shot in the pelvis. His legs buckled and he fell to the ground, smearing the road with his blood and gore. Edge leaped a tangle of debris and Waddingham loomed up on his shoulder.

  “Get to the end of the bridge!”

  Two Polish soldiers and a trooper from one of the destroyed Strykers lay sprawled on the blacktop. The Polish militia had been badly burned, their bodies blackened and charred. The Cavalry trooper had been shot in the guts and had dragged himself across the bridge before dying. Edge saw the slick wet trail he left behind as the life seeped from him. A bullet whipped past Edge’s face and hit another man in the thigh. The soldier clutched at his leg and crumpled to the ground.

  “Carry him!” the Cavalry Captain shouted to the troops following. Others were not so lucky. One of the charging men crawled to a steel bridge truss with a shattered bleeding leg trailing behind him. Another, his face a horror mask of blood from a gruesome head wound, clawed at his eyes with his hands and staggered blindly into the open. He was screaming in pain. The Russians cut him down.

  Edge choked on thick smoke and doubled over, retching. Waddingham seized his arm.

  “Are you hit? Are you hit?”

  Edge shook his head, his eyes streaming oily tears. Kalina loomed out of the smoke and flinched as a bullet whizzed past her face and struck a steel beam.

  Then the tall Cavalry Captain was beside them. He seized Edge by the collar of his grimy sweat-stained uniform. “Are you injured soldier?”

  Edge shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Then keep moving! We’ve got to get across this bridge and find cover.”

  “There is no cover,” Edge ducked instinctively as a bullet cracked past his head.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m a scout,” Edge had to shout above the roar of the battle. “I was here before sunrise. I walked to the far side of the bridge. The only shelter is along the slope of the riverbank.”

  The Captain narrowed his eyes and regarded Edge carefully. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Sergeant Tom Edge, 2nd Platoon, Outlaw Troop, 4th Squadron.”

  “Captain Matthew Walker,” the Cavalry officer introduced himself.

  “I wish I could say it was a pleasure, sir,” Edge said bitterly. He felt uncomfortably exposed, aware that any moment a torrent of machine gun fire could cut them down. Indifferent to the risk, Captain Walker fearlessly drew himself upright and filled his lungs. Bullets bounced off a steel bridge truss a few feet from where he stood, but the Captain seemed not to notice. Instead he peered hard into the chaos and bellowed.

  “Troopers! Follow me! Make for the riverbank!”

  Walker and Edge started to run. Waddingham and Kalina broke cover and joined the dash. Captain Walker continued to bark orders, waving his arms and urging the rest of the survivors to join the desperate charge. Edge glanced over his shoulder, appalled at what he saw. The bridge was a slaughterhouse of spattered blood, broken bodies and fire-blackened carnage.

  The ragged knot of cursing, frightened men rushed past the last of the steel trusses and their boots crunched on loose gravel. Edge swerved off the road and threw himself to the right. He crashed through a thorn bush and tumbled down the muddy slope of the riverbank. He was panting – trembling with fatigue and exhaustion – as the rest of the survivors dived beneath the dip of the bank and into cover.

  *

  Edge clambered up the muddy slope and peered through a clump of leafy shrubs that grew dense along the riverbank. He was covered from sight, but not from gunfire. A Russian mortar shell burst close by and sprayed clods of earth over his back.

  “It’s a slaughterhouse,” Edge watched on in horror as more men fought their way across the bridge.

  Two more Strykers were nosing cautiously forward, their machine guns blazing suppressing fire while, sheltered in their shadow, infantry followed close behind. When the first Stryker reached the bottleneck in the middle of the bridge, it came under sudden attack from somewhere unseen along the ridgeline.

  All Edge heard was a ground-rumbling roar and then a mighty explosion. The Stryker was struck front-on and dissolved into a fireball. The impact shunted the vehicle backwards and ripped it apart. The soldiers sheltered behind the Stryker were killed or maimed by flying shrapnel and the flames that swept over them. The massive roar of the explosion stunned the battlefield into several seconds of relative silence. Then the terrible screams of the wounded began. As Edge watched on, one soldier was flung through the air and over the bridge rail into the river below. Another trooper caught fire. He shrieked in excruciating agony as the flames engulfed him, thrashing his hands feebly until he collapsed on the ground. Another trooper had his leg cleanly severed above the knee. Rivulets of blood and gore dripped from the steel trusses of the bridge and stained the surface of the Sypitki River brown.

  Through it all, the fire from the Russian machine guns never relented, piling up bodies and broken vehicles across the bridge so that the living had to clamber over the dead and dying.

  Edge turned away, aghast, and looked about him for Vince Waddingham. He found him kneeling in the mud by the water’s edge, wrapping a field dressing around Kalina’s hand. Edge slid down the embankment.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked the Polish woman.

  “Just shrapnel,” Waddingham answered for her. But there were many other wounded close by, some groaning softly in pain, others screaming shrilly, demented with agony. One man lay on his back, his jacket ripped open, trying futilely to hold his entrails inside his stomach while two soldiers, covered in blood up to their elbows, fought to keep him alive. Other men sat numb and dazed, their eyes unfocussed. Their bodies shook in uncontrollable spasms, like men in the grips of fever. The sounds of their agonized cries were blurred by chanted prayers and frantic calls for help.

  “Bill? Where the fuck are you?”

  “3rd Platoon on me! On me, dammit!”

  “Christ almighty! Give me something for the pain!”

  “Quick! Find me a field dressing before he bleeds out.”

  Edge scrambled back up the riverbank with Waddingham and Kalina at his side. He found himself lying in the mud beside the Cavalry Captain who had led the charge.

  Captain Walker poked his head up, and peered carefully through a thicket of thorny bush. His face was smeared in dirt and grime but his eyes were bright and intense. He studied the far ridge for a long minute and then ducked back down behind cover as a flurry of machine gun bullets whipped overhead, shredding leaves and twigs from the bushes.

  There were around fifty soldiers strewn along the riverbank. It was a paltry force and they were pinned down by enemy fire. Over his shoulder Walker saw the bridge was blocked by burning wreckage. Men were trying to rig a tow line to the stricken vehicles to clear a way forward. The troopers were working in the open, under heavy fire, while dismounted soldiers nearby provided cover. Walker realized there would be no rescue from across the river; his small force was cut off from help.

  �
�The bastards are dug in deep right across the ridge and along the roadside,” Captain Walker declared. “But until we give the Russians something to think about, hundreds more men are going to die clearing that bridge. We have to create a distraction to buy our guys time to mount a fresh attack.”

  He lifted his head once more and surveyed the ground in front of them. Beyond a stretch of grassy field stood the fringe of a dense thicket of woods. The tree line followed the gentle curve of the road, rising to the low saddle of the ridge and was cordoned off by an old barbed-wire fence that sagged on weathered posts.

  Walker grabbed Edge’s sleeve and pulled him close. The wind of a bullet whipped past Edge’s cheek, so close that he flinched away instinctively.

  “See that barbed wire fence?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “It runs all the way along the verge of the road as far as the dip in the ridgeline.”

  Edge said nothing.

  “And see the fringe of the woods?”

  Edge looked. The line of trees stood sixty or seventy paces away across broken open ground.

  “There’s no fire coming from the trees. The Russians are on the ridge and along the road, but we can threaten their flank if we can get into those woods.”

  “You want to charge across sixty yards of open ground?”

  Captain Walker gave a thin, defiant smile. “Sergeant, my daddy always told me that it’s better to die on your feet than live on your knees. If we don’t fight back we’re going to die here in the mud. Sooner or later the Russians will pick us off, or they’ll hammer us with mortars…”

  Edge studied the open ground more carefully. Sixty yards; eight to ten seconds of exposure, running towards a hail of Russian machine gun fire. “Okay.”