'Give me the rest of it,' said Fitzduane.
'The air force have well and truly worked over the heavy hostile positions,' said Brock, 'but there are a lot bad guys out there spread out in small groups and moving around through linked spider holes and tunnels. That means you don't know where they are going to pop up. If their shooting was a little better we'd have to earn our pay, but as it is they tend to fire high and don't live long enough to adjust. But we're taking some casualties. There is just too much hot metal flying around. It will get easier when our heavy stuff cuts in. It will get a whole lot worse if a reserve starts to throw at us. It's their armor that worries me. They're supposed to have it, but I don't see it. So where is the stuff? It's a fucking shell game.'
The RT operator called Brock and he took the proffered microphone.
Around their position Fitzduane could hear and see the volume of fire emanating from the 82 ^ nd rapidly increasing as units and impromptu fire teams got their bearings. Targets were being identified and M60s were methodically clearing out their designated sectors with SAWs, rifle fire, and grenades. Bunkers were being taken out with AT4s and the smaller LAWS.
On a terrain or model map, Madoa airfield encased in its perimeter defenses had seemed a neat, manageable size.
On the ground, it was brought home to Fitzduane just how large any full-size airfield really was. Two brigades of the 82 ^ nd had dropped onto the place, and now, from his ground-hugging position, the area looked surprisingly empty. True, competing tracers sliced the air and there were constant flashes and explosions over a background of machine-gun and rifle fire, but there were almost no people to be seen.
They were surrounded by thousands of troops trying to kill each other, but from his position they were invisible. It was disconcerting. Fitzduane was used to special-operations missions where your own group was so small virtually your entire focus could be on the enemy.
In this situation, managing your own team was almost an end in itself. It was a whole new layer of worry, and it brought home just what conventional command in combat was all about. There was a paradox in the situation. Special operations were intrinsically much more difficult – but also they were easier. Your training was better, funded, your equipment was normally better and your focus was tighter. Your main area of responsibility was destroying the enemy. It made life simpler.
Debris fountained fifty feet away, and the blast made Fitzduane hug the ground.
Four further explosions were even closer, but the line of impacts as the mortar bombs were walked in passed in front of them.
'Eighty-two millimeter,' said Brock. 'Ten to one they're moving the damn things around. 'Counterbattery takes care of that shit, but that's not going to be a player until we've cleared the airfield. The CB is like… delicate.'
Fitzduane smiled despite their decidedly hairy situation. Dirt was still clumping down on his Kevlar. A minor adjustment to the mortar's aiming mechanism and the Scout Platoon would have to be raked up before being body-bagged.
The counterbattery radar was the one and only item that the airborne did not parachute in. It could track an incoming round in flight and direct return fire before the enemy shell had even landed, but it was sensitive equipment and needed to be flown in. That could not be done until a safe landing zone was cleared and the physical obstacles were removed. Barriers of heavy rocks had been erected across the runway, interspersed with mines. It was all in a night's work to the paratroopers who dropped in with bulldozers and combat engineers, but it took time.
Brock was listening intently, a single earpiece pressed to his right ear.
'Affirmative, Viper One.'
A Hellfire missile streaked diagonally across their line of sight and impacted about eight hundred meters away.
A flash lit up the sky, followed by a series of others as the mortar bombs blew.
Seconds later, pink flame spat at the ground as a C130 Spectre gunship hosed the area with its 20mm Gatling.
'Straight in the balls, Viper One,' said Brock to the Kiowa Warrior pilot.
Two Kiowas, a pair of Sheridan tanks, and air had been tasked to support Fitzduane's mission, which gave his small unit the unusual luxury of being able to call in their own fire support. Normally they would have had to go through channels. The heavier the weapon, the higher the clearance required.
It all made a great deal of organizational sense, unless you were a lowly trooper eating dirt as your buddies died around you and you were helpless to respond.
Scout Platoon were certainly to helpless. Oshima, it was considered, as they had sat sweating in the confines of the SCIF, was worth some very special attention.
Fitzduane did not want Oshima. It had all gone way past that point. She had spilled far too much blood. He did not want a prisoner. He was going to kill her. When this was over, one or the other of them was going to be dead. Dead beyond any doubt.
He wanted her head. Literally.
'Trooper! Where the fuck is your rifle?' said Divisional Command Sergeant Major Webster to a Kevlared figure unfortunate enough to cross his path.
'I'm the padre, Sergeant Major,' said the figure. 'They don't trust me with one.' He was carrying a small bag.
'A little early for spiritual guidance, sir,' said Webster. 'But the thing is, can you drive a bulldozer?'
'No problem,' said the padre. 'What do you want me to do?'
'Clear the crap off the runway, Padre,' said Webster, 'but watch the fucking mines. We don't have many bulldozers.'
'Hooah,' said the padre. It was nice to know where you stood in the pecking order.
He hopped up on the combat bulldozer. The unit spat black smoke and rumbled into action. There were flashes in front of him as combat engineers started to blow the mines. The runway stretched out ahead of him. What did you need to put down a C130? Two thousand to three thousand feet, he recalled.
'ALL THE WAY, PADRE!' shouted Webster, pointing down the runway.
The padre grinned and gunned the heavy machine forward. The Lord hadn't been a paratrooper, but in his opinion, he should have been.
The steering wheel felt sticky and the instruments were splashed with something. His seat was wet, and the dampness was soaking into his fatigues. The padre suddenly realized that he was looking at and sitting in his predecessor's blood.
Carranza knew they could not stay in the command bunker if they were going to do any good.
He was getting reports in by landline from all over the airfield. Paratroops had landed in strength, but so far they appeared lightly armed. Further, the bombing had eased off. By now most of the aircraft would be out of ordnance and fuel. That was the weakness of fast movers for close-air support. They had almost no loiter time.
Now, before the enemy troops got organized, was the time to act. For the next twenty minutes or so there was a strike opportunity ready to be used. Now was the time to use the armored reserve.
Forty T53 tanks together with supporting infantry in armored personnel carriers were ready in the underground cavern hollowed out under the main hangar, the control tower, and the surrounding marshaling area.
So far, by some miracle, neither the hangar nor the control tower had been hit. Probably the hangar was considered of no military significance since the runway was blocked, and as for the control tower, his one thought was that the Americans were keeping it intact because they would want to make use of it after they had secured the airfield.
