THIRTY-FIVE
Sergeant Nathan Vatz had left six of the Canadian hunters in charge of the roadblock team, and they had done a remarkably fine job organizing and positioning the men.
Once the Russian engineers pulled up in front of the obstacle and got out to inspect the area, they received some immediate Canadian hospitality.
From the piles of snow lining the embankment there suddenly emerged more than two hundred local boys, armed with shotguns, 22s, and grenades given to them by Vatz’s team. These rural boys had about as much heart and attitude as any men on earth.
This was their land. Their country.
The grandfathers of these invading Russians had fought in Afghanistan in the 1980s, and now their descendants would be taught the same lesson — that sheer numbers and technological superiority will still not triumph over a foe trying to protect his home. Never underestimate sheer force of will and the heart and courage to win.
Vatz stared through his binoculars from his position about a half kilometer west atop the roof of a small gas station, watching as the Canadians brought down about fifty Russians, killing many of them at point-blank range. It was like medieval carnage out there.
Grenades dropped into open hatches.
Buckshot blasted into red-nosed faces.
And Vatz could almost hear “O Canada,” the national anthem, playing in his ears as several BMPs lit up, smoke and flames pouring from their hatches.
But then some of the other Spetsnaz vehicles behind the engineering team made their move. The drivers floored it, rolling hard and fast to plow through the long piles of cars.
As they approached, their gun tubes flashed and boomed, sending 100 mm HE-FRAG (high explosive fragmentation) rounds at the roadblock. Pieces of flaming derby car debris sailed into the sky, taking flight like NASCAR racers forced into the wall and tumbling wildly.
The BMP gunners opened up with their machine guns, chewing into those patriotic and ferocious hunters, the drivers continuing on at top speed — doing exactly what Vatz expected they would when faced with the ambush.
And they were in for an even bigger surprise.
“You seeing this?” Beethoven asked him. “I think they got six, maybe seven BMPs! Those boys are hardcore!”
“They’re doing one hell of a job, but it’s a one-way trip. They knew it. You could see it in their eyes when we left. But that’s what they wanted.” Vatz got on the radio, told his pair of snipers posted on the rooftops nearby to lend a hand.
The cracks of thunder commenced. And for some of the Russians, God was a bullet.
Hallelujah.
Vatz checked in with Black Bear, who had taken the other half of Berserker team to the neighborhoods to join Zodiac team in flushing out the remaining snipers — no small task — and they most certainly needed more time, which was being bought by Vatz and his group of hell raisers.
The majority of the local force had been given to Vatz to delay the oncoming battalion, though a handful of residents were scattered throughout the town and remained within their homes, all at the ready.
It was, of course, imperative that Vatz’s team remain alive so they could be the eyes and ears of the 10th Mountain Division as their first elements arrived. Soon. He hoped.
“All right, here we go,” said Vatz, resuming his surveillance. “Suicide run.”
The first few BMPs had blown a pretty deep hole in the obstacle, with only about ten cars left in their way. Two drove up side-by-side and began ramming the pile.
Impatience was a beautiful thing, and the Russians behind exhibited that perfectly. They made the obvious choice of taking the paths of least resistance on either side of the road, unwilling to wait for the first two vehicles to open the lane. Those frustrated drivers assumed that the snow couldn’t be very deep, that their vehicles would make it across that terrain and they could return to the road behind the stretch of cars. Why blow through all those vehicles when you could go around them?
If the Russian engineers had survived, they would have cautioned those drivers not to veer around any enemy obstacle.
But the engineers were dead. And the recon troops inside those lead BMPs would join them for shots of vodka in the afterlife.
Two BMPs had broken off from the convoy, one heading left around the pile of cars, one heading right.
“Just like you said, Vatz,” muttered Beethoven. “Just like you said.”
Vatz tensed.
And almost in unison explosions lifted beneath both vehicles, destroying the forward wheels and tracks and stopping them as the clouds of fire obscured the area.
All right, the secret was out: both sides of the obstacle were mined. But this was no ordinary minefield.
The next two BMPs trundled up, started to swing wider around their burning counterparts, wider and wider, believing they could arc so far around that they would avoid the field.
Those Russian drivers didn’t realize that the mines were communicating with each other and literally hopping into alternate positions to repair the first two breaches and keep the enemy within the kill zone, no matter how far they drifted off. Each mine was capable of two-sided mobility and able to maneuver up to ten meters with each hop. They were all being carefully monitored by one of the weapons sergeants on Vatz’s team, who sat in the back of a pickup truck parked below, reading data on the computer.
If the enemy managed to jam the signals between each mine, the system would enter autonomous response mode and maintain minefield integrity for several more hours.
Either way, the Russians had stumbled upon a convoy’s worst nightmare: a self-healing minefield that could only be breached by a continuous number of suicide runs and the unloading of a significant cache of ordnance.
ODA 888 and their crew of Canadians could never wipe out an entire Spetsnaz battalion. Not this gentle few. But they sure as hell would delay them.
“Now we’ve really stirred up the hornet’s nest,” said Beethoven.
“Yeah, that’s the scary part.” Vatz keyed his mike. “This is Bali, everybody get ready to move.”
A series of explosions rose on both sides of the obstacle, as all of the BMPs that had moved in began rolling backward, away from the fields to fire their main guns into the ground.
Showers of rock, snow, and dirt whipped into clouds that began to blanket the entire area, the rounds themselves bursting into brilliant fireballs that flashed like heat lightning within the clouds.
Vatz sniffed and crinkled his nose over all that ordnance going off, a smell that reminded him of Moscow.
There were fifty mines on either side of the cars, and it would take those Russians a while to detonate them all, so long as the mines kept shifting to repair breaches.
Meanwhile, the entire battalion would come to a halt. While they were most likely prepared to engage in conventional minefield breaching operations by using mine plows and MICLICs (mine clearing line charges) attached to long ropes and fired over the minefield to create a breaching lane, these measures were ineffective against the team’s high-tech surprise.
The Spetsnaz officers riding out there had to be mighty upset. Vatz smiled as he imagined them growing flush and cursing at their subordinates.
“All right, this is it. Time to fall back to our secondary position,” he told his men. “Move out!”
“Your NEST team in Edmonton has narrowed their search to the legislature building,” said General Amadou de Bankole. “But my Enforcers Corps commanders tell me that another Spetsnaz battalion is heading up from Red Deer — and they will roll directly into the downtown area.”
“I understand, General,” said Becerra. “And let me emphasize that we truly appreciate all of the assistance
