The Sabot flew over the BMP.
In the confusion, Maxwell had not changed the ammo-select lever from HEAT, where it had been set for their last engagement, back to Sabot.
Both Dixon and Maxwell knew what had happened.
Dixon repeated the order to load HEAT. Wilard responded with 'HEAT up!' followed by Maxwell's cry of 'HEAT indexed-on the way!' The second round hit dead center. Its jet stream entered the target's side, cutting through the BMP, which blew up in a shower of sparks and flame, the explosion of on-board ammunition literally ripping it apart.
A thud followed by a wave of heat across Dixon's back rushed into his partially opened hatch. He looked up to see that the second BMP had fired an AT-4 antitank guided missile at them. It had hit the side slope of the turret. There was, however, no visible effect within the turret. Dixon yelled, 'Target-next BMP!'
The loader yelled out, 'HEAT loaded!'
The gunner, eye glued to his sight, reached up and made sure the ammo-select switch was on HEAT. He didn't trust himself anymore and wanted to be sure. Maxwell announced, 'HEAT indexed-identified!' to which Dixon yelled, 'Fire HEAT!'
The gunner's 'On the way' was followed by a second thud. As the tank recoiled from firing, Dixon turned to his left to see a third BMP sitting on the crest of the hill. When he heard the gunner yell, 'Target,' he grabbed the override, jerked the turret to the left and issued a new fire command without bothering to look back at the BMP just destroyed.
The BMP commander began to back down, firing his 30mm. cannon at Dixon in desperation. This did not deter Dixon, who continued to bring the turret around. Just as the gunner yelled out, 'Identified!' the side and turret of the BMP was lit up by a rapid series of small explosions and sparks. Then the BMP blew up.
Dixon popped his head up out of the turret and looked to his rear to see who had killed the BMP. Two Bradleys, their barrels still smoking, were coming up fast behind Dixon's tank. Behind them came an M-1. For the briefest of moments, Dixon felt relief. He was drained, mentally and physically. His body shook from excitement and the effects of adrenaline.
He looked at his watch. Only twenty minutes had passed since he had given the order to move. We made it, he thought. At least some of us made it.
Not many, however, did.
'The commitment of the second-echelon divisions by the Russian 17th Combined Arms Army into the 25th Armored Division's sector commenced shortly after twelve hundred hours. Penetrations along the FEBA were sealed of by local counterattacks and commitment of the division's reserve.'
Forty words organized into two sentences during the evening briefing to the corps commander summarized the battle that had consumed the 3rd of the 4th Armor.
What had happened that day, however, was no longer of any concern to the corps except that it had set the stage for the next phase of the battle.
The real emphasis of the evening briefing was on the options available to the corps as a result of the day's fighting. These options were simple: the corps could remain on the defense and allow the Soviets to attack again; it could order the divisions to conduct local counterattacks to restore the original front line; or it could begin the corps counteroffensive. For several minutes, Lieutenant General Weir discussed all three options with the operations officer and the intelligence officer. He played the devil's advocate, attacking each option from various angles. There was no clear consensus on what was the best option. The operations officer preferred to limit the next day's operations to local counterattacks by the divisions. He felt that the situation was not sufficiently favorable for commencement of the corps counteroffensive.
The intelligence officer was even more conservative. His people were still sifting through the glut of information, some of it contradictory, that they had received from various sources ranging from satellites to spot reports sent in by soldiers on the forward edge. He wanted more time to clarify Soviet dispositions and intentions.
In the end, however, only the corps commander's opinion mattered. As a commander, he and he alone was held responsible for the success or failure of his unit. For several minutes he sat staring at the map, slightly slouched down in his chair, his arms propped up on the table, the fingers of his hands intertwined. When he had decided, he turned to his operations officer. 'We attack. H-Hour will be twenty-one hundred hours tomorrow night.' Standing up, he faced his assembled staff. 'I'm tired of waiting for the Russians to decide what they're going to do and reacting to them.
From here on in, we are going to make him react to us. Does anyone have any questions?'
No one answered.
'Good! Remember, think north!'
Chapter 20
When you want to do battle, muster all your forces, not neglecting any of them; a battalion sometimes decides a battle.
Ed Martain's eyes darted from his instruments to the ground they were skimming along. His damaged F-15E shook and vibrated every time he attempted the simplest maneuver. Only by reducing speed could he reduce the vibrations. But to do so only meant that it would take them longer to make it back across the forward line of their own troops. For better or worse, he pushed his aircraft as far as he dared. In the backseat, Martain's wizzo sat tight-lipped. Most of his equipment was malfunctioning or simply out.
Whatever happened to him depended on Martain. There was nothing he could do except check their six, or rear, and pray.
The mission, like most of the others, had been hastily planned and came too soon after their last. At Bandar Abbas the ground crews were literally falling over from exhaustion as they tried to turn the squadron's aircraft around in preparation for the next strike.
Maintenance crews did their damnedest to keep a high number of planes on line, but they were fighting losing battle as scheduled maintenance services, postponed too many times, were finally beginning to take their toll. This, coupled with losses to ground fire, had brought Martain's squadron down to seven operational aircraft. The squadron had been slated to be replaced and pulled back to Egypt for rest and recovery, but the latest Soviet offensive had caused that plan to be shelved.
The current mission had been going fairly well until they neared the target. Coming in at one hundred feet to hit a supply dump, the flight of two aircraft making the run found themselves flying over a Soviet recon unit sitting in a wadi. The lead plane got through before the ground fire reached a high level of intensity or effectiveness, but Martain, in the trail aircraft, was not nearly as lucky. His plane caught the full force of the Soviet ground fire, which knocked out the right engine, tore great holes out of the wings and the control surfaces and screwed up most of the electronics. Fortunately, just before he entered the worst of the fire Martain had dumped his entire load of bombs, exacting a large measure of revenge but doing little else. The punishing ground fire could not be avoided. That they were still airborne was nothing short of a miracle.
'Hang in there, Frank, we'll make it. If I gotta hold this thing together with my bare hands we'll make it.' A sudden shudder shook the aircraft.
'I sure hope you do a better job holding on to this plane than you did holding on to that blonde back at Langley. '
Martain was thankful for the wizzo's effort to relieve the tension. He looked down at his left leg for a moment. He had been hit. Some dumb Commie dogface, firing wildly, and probably with his eyes closed, had drilled
