But the enemy had been weaker than this, and technically Brock had still been killed, though he had certainly proved that the right infantry tactics could cause unsupported armor serious grief.
You could harass and you could damage, but in the final analysis pure firepower tended to tilt the scales.
And this was no training exercise.
'Tell Colonel Fitzduane's team to let the enemy armor right through,' he said, 'and make smoke behind them.' He tapped at the airport layout. 'We'll let Second Brigade block them, and we'll hit them from the flanks with TOWs and the Sheridans. Sheepdog tactics. I want that hostile force to have only one way out, and that's into their own minefield. Give the Second Brigade all the artillery support we've got. Let the Kiowas loose. Get the air force in on the act, but tell them to be damn careful. Gunships only until we can sort out who is where.'
'Airborne, sir,' said Carlson.
Gannon had heard the 82 ^ nd referred to as no more than a speed bump when up against massed enemy armor. He had taken the remark ill.
If his division was a mere obstacle, it was a speed bump with real killing teeth.
Fitzduane hugged the ground as Carranza's armor rumbled past.
Stabs of flame and the deafening crack of their cannon punctuated the chattering of their coaxial machine guns.
The detritus of a bomb-blasted air defense position gave some visual cover.
Bodies and pieces of bodies completed the picture. A severed leg lay six inches in front of his eyes. He considered that he was learning more about the violent disassembly of the human form on this mission than he really wanted to know.
An armored thrust from beneath the ground. They had expected something – some kind of counterpunch – and had prepared a reserve, but the scale was disconcerting.
They had planned to bomb using penetrator weapons, which could deal with deeply buried bunkers up to forty feet or so, but had restricted their use after further consideration when the consequences of setting off the nerve agent had been considered. True, the two elements of the binary gas were stored separately, according to Rheiman, but who knew what changes Oshima had made in the last couple of days.
It had been a rational decision to forgo the penetrator bombs, but as the massed wedge of tanks had punched out of the hangar toward them, Fitzduane had second thoughts. Mere flesh and blood seemed woefully inadequate to counter this massed steel killing machine.
He wished the hell the airborne had Guntracks.
He had an enormous urge to flee very fast.
The armored vehicle wedge included vehicle-mounted guided-missile teams. Unless taken out, they would keep the Spectre gunships out of the way. Countering Oshima's surprise was going to be down to the infantry.
Brock was gritting his teeth with frustration. The Scouts were correctly positioned to take the armor from the flanks and rear, but he was under direct orders to do nothing. There was also the reality that they were down to only a handful of AT4s. Still, his two Sheridans were positioned off to the right, and they could have really stirred the pot.
Fitzduane put his Kevlar next to Brock's. The noise of engines, the squeal and rumble of tracks, and the constant gunfire made normal speech impossible. He bellowed, and Brock could just hear.
Fitzduane repeated his orders.
'WHERE THE ARMOR CAME UP, WE CAN GET DOWN!' he bawled. 'IF THEY CAN GET TANKS UP, WE CAN GET TANKS DOWN! AS SOON AS THE FUCKS ARE PAST, GET YOUR PET SHERIDANS AND LET'S DO IT. TELL THEM TO USE THE SIDE DOOR!'
Brock nodded and held out his hand for the RT. It was slapped into his hand. 'WHAT ABOUT THE TWO KIOWAS?' he shouted.
Fitzduane contemplated the vast hangar. It seemed big enough. 'WHY NOT!' he said.
The noise of roaring engines diminished as the last enemy armored vehicle squealed by. Fitzduane had counted forty-seven vehicles in all. He revised his total downward as two of the missile carriers exploded. Lased by Delta from the hangar roof, he conjectured accurately. Still not his war for the moment.
A row of 120mm mortar shells from division burst behind the advancing enemy armor, providing smoke cover for Fitzduane's strike force.
The Scouts poured automatic-weapons fire and 40mm grenades into the hangar. Muzzle flashes identified the opposition.
Laser beams flashed out and painted their targets, to be followed split seconds later by bursts of aimed fire.
The two Kiowas moved up and, hovering only a few feet off the ground, let loose ripple-fired antipersonnel rockets.
The terrorists inside the hangar consisted mainly of mechanics and logistics personnel who had been concentrating on helping the armor attack. They had given almost no thought to defending the hangar itself.
Many were cut down in the Scout's initial fusillade of fire. The Kiowas Hydra rockets killed most of the remainder.
The thirteen survivors ran and died as two Sheridan tanks burst through the side wall with machine guns blazing.
Scouts leapfrogged forward and secured the hangar. As they did so, Delta troopers rappelled down from the roof and reinforced Fitzduane's little army.
As he shook hands with the first one and smelled the bird droppings, Brock sniffed and made a face. 'What the fuck?' he said. 'We'll gas ‘em out.'
Ten seconds later, the shaped charge blew and the huge armored door that concealed the ramp in the floor fell away. The Sheridans fired into the cavern below and were joined by the two Kiowas, who were now firing their rockets from inside the hangar. A second shaped charge went off and blew open the steel grille covering a ventilation shaft. Powerful antipersonnel demolition charges were dropped down and exploded with such force that the whole floor shook.
While the Sheridans and half the Scouts roared down the ramp, Fitzduane, Lonsdale, Cochrane, and the balance of the command lowered themselves into the darkness.
The padre pushed another blade of rubble off the runway and then paused to wipe his forehead. He was streaming with sweat.
Driving a bulldozer was harder than it looked. Civilian vehicles might have air-conditioned cabs and soft seats, but the Airborne's equipment was strictly military specification and designed for ruggedness rather than comfort. Civilian ‘dozers did not get dropped.
Rounds spanged off his armored front, and he crouched down in his seat as he raised the blade slightly, gunned the engine and reversed.
Doubtless it was consoling for the engine, having the massive protection of the blade in front, but it was also a reminder that he, the human factor, was sitting up top exposed to the elements and a not inconsiderable amount of incoming fire.
The sky was crisscrossed with tracer, the solid flames of gunship fire, and the visual chaos of exploding missiles, artillery shells, mortar bombs, and other weaponry. Everywhere he looked through his night-vision goggles, he could see targets being painted with the troopers' laser beams, and he knew that the quick flash of a beam was being accompanied by bursts of aimed fire. Targets were being sought out and neutralized one by one.
He was conscious of the fact that his pastoral duties were now being created by that fire and he should probably hand over to someone else and go and provide succor to the wounded, but finding someone to delegate to was no small problem. Also, he was well aware that no matter how helpful a padre's words might be to a wounded trooper, the practical benefit of getting in reinforcements and being able to fly out the wounded could be even more
