Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Read online

  Other Books by William C. Dietz

  THE WINDS OF WAR SERIES

  Red Ice

  Red Flood

  Red Dragon

  Red Thunder

  AMERICA RISING SERIES

  Into The Guns

  Seek And Destroy

  Battle Hymn

  MUTANT FILES SERIES

  Deadeye

  Redzone

  Graveyard

  LEGION OF THE DAMNED SERIES

  Legion of the Damned

  The Final Battle

  By Blood Alone

  By Force of Arms

  For More Than Glory

  For Those Who Fell

  When All Seems Lost

  When Duty Calls

  A Fighting Chance

  Andromeda’s Fall

  Andromeda’s Choice

  Andromeda’s War

  RED THUNDER

  THE WINDS OF WAR

  WILLIAM C. DIETZ

  Wind’s End Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by William C. Dietz

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art by Damonza

  This book is dedicated to all of the Special Operations personnel in the United States Air Force, Army, Navy and Coast Guard.

  Thank you for your service.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Author’s Note

  About the Winds of War Series

  About William C. Dietz

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many thanks to Marjorie Dietz, my wife, best friend and editor.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Worms, Germany

  Like so many things in the European theatre of operations, the column of armored fighting vehicles had been assembled using what was available, rather than what would have been ideal. And without regard to nationality.

  Their orders were to hold the east end of a Russian ponton bridge until Allied reinforcements arrived to relieve them. And, if the friendlies failed to arrive quickly enough, the men and women of Task Force Romeo would die.

  Major Katie Quinn was acutely aware of how vulnerable her tiny command was, as she stood in the Stryker’s forward air guard hatch, and felt the cold rain drops pelt her face. It had been raining for the better part of a week. And, judging from the look of the lead gray sky, it wasn’t about to stop.

  The vic (vehicle) tilted sideways, and Quinn felt a series of jolts, as four of the Stryker’s run-flat tires rolled up and over a slab of broken concrete. The Allies and the Axis had been battling over Worms for more than a month.

  The city had been home to the Kingdom of Burundians back in the early 5th century, had been a Roman Catholic bishopric since 614, and was home to Worms Cathedral.

  During WWII the Germans maintained a strongpoint nearby. And when the Nazis refused to surrender, the Royal Airforce bombed Worms and destroyed 40 percent of the city.

  Nearly 80 years had passed since then, this was World War III, and this time roughly 75 percent of the city had been reduced to rubble as opposing armies surged back and forth across the Rhine River.

  Buildings both ancient and modern were little more than heaps of wreckage. Small fires burned here and there because many civilians had no place to go. There was no such thing as safety, and one hovel was as good as the next.

  As was common in many European cities the streets followed paths laid down hundreds, if not thousands, of years earlier, and were rarely straight. That made Worms the perfect place to set ambushes. But Russian forces had withdrawn to the east side of the Rhine and left the city unoccupied. Why? It didn’t make any sense. “Bravo-Six to Echo-Six. Over.”

  The voice was that of Staff Sergeant Atkins, 11th Infantry Brigade, who spoke with an accent usually referred to as “MLE,” or Multicultural London English. The noncom was in charge of two British FV510 Warrior Infantry Fighting Vehicles, their four crew members, and 14 soldiers, all of whom hailed from the 11th.

  Atkins had orders to scout ahead and Quinn was eager to hear his report. “This is Echo-Six actual. Go. Over.”

  “I’m at the west end of the floater,” Atkins reported. “It’s just upstream of the Nibelungenbrucke bridge. Both spans are down. Over.”

  That was consistent with the aerial photos Quinn had seen at the Quartier La Horie army base where Task Force Romeo had been conceived. “Roger that. Any sign of the enemy? Over.”

  “I can see a checkpoint at the east end of the bridge,” Atkins replied. “But it’s too far away to make out the details. Visibility is poor. Over.”

  “Launch a Black Hornet,” Quinn ordered. “And let me know what you see. Over.”

  Black Hornet nano drones had been developed for use by individual soldiers or squads of soldiers, but had proven to be useful for larger units as well. That’s why more than half-a-million of the tiny rotorcraft had been issued to Allied forces. And more were being made every day. “Roger, that,” Atkins replied. “Over.”

  “We’ll be there shortly,” Quinn told him. “Keep your head on a swivel. Over and out.”

  The column had turned onto KyffhauserstraBe (Kyffhauser road) by then. The normally busy street was empty, except for a stray dog, and a helter-skelter maze of shot-up military vehicles abandoned by both sides.

  As the Stryker took an offramp Quinn’s eyes were drawn to the makeshift cemetery located at the center of the traffic loop. Some of the homemade markers were white and bore names. Others were little more than branches thrust down into the soil. Civilians for the most part, since military units were likely to take their dead with them.

  The Stryker’s formal designation was “One-One.” But for some reason the American contingent referred to the truck as “Bambi.” Bambi rocked forward and back as the vic’s driver steered her over a series of curbs and onto the swath of green that paralleled the Rhine.

  Quinn could see the vehicle the Brits called “Old Blighty” parked up ahead. And that was the rig that Atkins was riding in. Quinn thumbed her mike. “This is Echo-Six. Echo-Seven will establish a defensive perimeter. Over and out.”

  Echo-Seven was 2nd Lieutenant Tom Hollis, a 90-day wonder, who entered the army with two years of college and a persistent skin condition. The current casualty rate for junior officers in the European theatre was 72 percent. That suggested that, like so many others, Hollis wasn’t likely to see his 21st birthday.

  Quinn knew that Hollis had no frigging idea of how to set a perimeter. But she also knew that Sergeant Riley, who was riding in One-Two, would show the lad how. And provide the boy with excellent a
dvice if she were killed. Because like it or not, Hollis was her XO (Executive Officer), and would assume command.

  Quinn was standing on a bench style seat just behind the crew compartment. She ducked down into the cargo area, paused to thank the two-person crew, and followed Sergeant Tyson out into the rain. Thank God for Gore-Tex. Engines roared, hydraulics whined, and clods of dirt flew—as the rest of the vics arrived, turned, and awaited further instructions.

  Besides the Strykers, Quinn’s command included two British Warrior Infantry Fighting Vehicles, one French Nexter, and a German Puma. It was armed with a EuroSpike missile launcher. And that made the Puma the heaviest weapon in Quinn’s arsenal, even if the missiles weren’t effective beyond 4,000 meters.

  Tyson led the soldiers under his command west to take up positions facing town. Quinn turned east and made her way toward the river. A water-filled mortar pit was located to her left. It was a good spot since a clutch of well-aimed tubes could inflict a lot of damage on any boat foolish enough to attack from upstream.

  There were fighting positions too, all partially filled with water, and surrounded by halos of litter. A beautiful spot when the sun was out—but a dismal shithole on that particular day.

  Quinn stopped next to a park bench and looked down on the Rhine. It had many names. The Rhenus (Latin), the Rein (German), the Reno (Spanish), and more.

  Quinn knew that the river originated in Switzerland, and flowed in a mostly northerly direction through Germany and the Netherlands, before joining the North Sea. The Rhine had always been important. First as the northern inner-frontier of the Roman Empire. Then as the vital waterway that carried goods north and south. And, after thousands of years the Rhine still had a role to play in human affairs.

  The normally well-behaved river was swollen with a week’s worth of rainwater and was carrying all manner of debris downstream. That included a blue Volkswagen which crashed into the temporary bridge, and was pinned there for a moment, before being sucked downriver.

  Quinn knew that army engineers referred to spans like the one in front of her as a “ponton,” rather than a “pontoon” bridge, because the nerds liked to distinguish between the structure (the ponton) and the floats that held it up (the pontoons).

  And the Russian ponton was a two-lane monster. Judging from what Quinn could see, sections of the span had been laid across the hulls of flat-decked boats which, when hooked together, could support trucks and tanks. “So that’s it?” Hollis inquired, as he joined her. “That’s what we came for?”

  “Yes,” Quinn replied. “That’s what we came for. The Allies put something similar in place during World War II. It was about a mile from here. And there were more at various locations along the Rhine.”

  “You know a lot of stuff,” Hollis observed.

  “I was stationed in Germany when the war began,” Quinn told him. “And I have a degree in European history. Look at the center of the span. What do you see?”

  Hollis stared. “The water is pushing it downstream.”

  “Exactly,” Quinn agreed. “And how much pressure can the bridge take before it breaks?”

  “I don’t know,” Hollis admitted.

  “And neither do the Russians,” Quinn countered. “I think that’s why they pulled back to the east side of the river. It was either that or run the risk of being trapped on this side if the bridge broke. Imagine what our planes and helicopters would have done to them.”

  Hollis looked at her worshipfully. “I never thought of that.”

  Quinn was thinking out loud. “The question is why did our people pull back? So far back that they had to send us.”

  “What’s the answer?” Hollis wanted to know.

  “I don’t know,” Quinn replied. “But, if I had to guess, I’d say that someone thought the Russians were going to cross in force, and decided to let them occupy Worms. Then it began to rain and the strategic situation changed. Now they want to cross over. Not that it matters to us. We have our orders.”

  The fear was plain to see on the young man’s face. “But if we cross over, and the bridge snaps, we’ll be trapped on the east side of the river!”

  “True,” Quinn allowed. “But that’s why they pay lieutenants the big bucks. Now remember … If you look scared the troops will see that and they’ll be scared too. So, suck it up. Do you read me?”

  Hollis stiffened. “Lima Charlie (loud and clear), ma’am.”

  “Good. Go make the rounds.”

  “What should I say?”

  “As little as possible. Your job is to listen. Because buried in all the bullshit there will be nuggets of information. Perhaps someone is ill. Or maybe a truck has hydraulic problems. Good noncoms will volunteer those things under normal conditions. But we barely know our NCOs. Do you understand?”

  Hollis said, “Yes ma’am,” and saluted before hurrying away. Quinn sighed. A salute on a battlefield could get her killed. But there was only so much she could download to the newbie at once.

  Atkins arrived a few seconds later. The noncom had been a rugby player in school. He was tall, rangy, and his expression was grim. “Here’s what the Hornet sent back, ma’am.”

  Quinn accepted the player. Rain drops dotted the screen; she wiped them away. “Did the Hornet make it back?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Quinn hit play. She saw the drone’s eye view of the ground falling away, a wide shot of the entrance to the ponton, and the bridge deck ahead. At that point the operator, whoever he or she might be, took the Hornet down to skim along inches above the deck. A strategy intended to make it less visible.

  Dirty metal blurred by. And there was the Russian checkpoint, complete with a T-14 Armata battle tank! The enemy’s latest and greatest heavy slugger. There had been procurement problems at first, but those had been solved, and the T-14s were replacing the still fearsome T-72s.

  No wonder Atkins looked so serious. The Armata’s 2A82 125 mm smoothbore cannon could destroy any one of Quinn’s vehicles with a single shot. And, according to her orders, Quinn was supposed to “… take control of the east end of the ponton bridge at Worms, Germany, and hold it until relieved.”

  Quinn felt slightly nauseous. The Armata hadn’t been present in the photos she’d seen. And the fact that it had been brought forward suggested that the Russians were prepared to cross back into Worms the moment it was safe to do so.

  Suddenly, as the Hornet neared the tank, the video snapped to black. Shot down most likely, by one of the Armata’s machineguns, or a Russian soldier. Quinn gave the player back. “Thanks. Who flew it?”

  “A lad named McKenzie,” Atkins replied.

  “Well, tell McKenzie he did a good job. I thought he was going to fly that Hornet right down the T-14’s cannon.”

  Atkins grinned. “I’ll tell him. So, what do you think?”

  “I think the tank is a problem,” Quinn replied honestly. “A big problem. Put the word out. I will meet with all of the sergeants plus Corporal Caron in the back of One-Three at 1800.”

  Atkins nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Quinn could see the curiosity in the noncom’s eyes. What could she do to counter the tank? The worst part was that Quinn didn’t know.

  After checking the perimeter, Quinn took her binoculars, and made her way over to the western terminus of the bridge. The span was still bowing north. And from that vantage point Quinn could see that the bridge was rippling up and down as well. A fact that would make the crossing all the more difficult.

  It had to be done though. Either that or simply give up and call it in. A bullet spanged off metal and flew away. The sound of a report followed. A sniper then. The Russians were watching her. But the range was extremely long and visibility was poor.

  Quinn raised her right fist, with her thumb protruding up between her index and middle fingers, for the sniper to see. That was the Russian gesture called the Shish, and was roughly analogous to giving someone the finger. Another bullet struck nearby as Quinn raised her bi
noculars.

  ***

  None of Quinn’s performance was lost on Sergeants Riley and Schultz, who had glasses of their own, and witnessed the act of defiance. “Your major is crazy,” the German said.

  “She isn’t my major,” Riley replied. “But I’ve heard of her.”

  “And what did you hear?” Schultz said from the side of his mouth, as the Russian sniper fired again.

  “They call her ‘The Ice Queen,’” Riley responded.

  “They should call her ‘Stupid,’” Schulz replied.

  “Maybe,” Riley agreed. “And maybe not. It’s too early to say.”

  ***

  Quinn steadied the binoculars. The tank was huge. And, because it sat astride both lanes of traffic, nothing could get past it. Not coming, and not going. Like a cork in a bottle. And Quinn couldn’t do a damned thing about it. Then it struck her. Maybe, just maybe, the tank was the answer. She smiled and turned.

  The sniper had the range by then. He took careful aim and fired. The bullet passed through the spot where Quinn had been one second earlier, hit a puddle, and threw a geyser of water up into the air.

  Quinn returned to One-One where she ate an MRE with Tyson and four members of his squad. They were in reasonably good spirits. But, Quinn thought, that’s because they don’t know what we’re going to do tonight.

  It was dark by the time Quinn made her way over to One-Three which, like the other vics, was blacked out. Light spilled onto the ground as Quinn and the noncoms entered. Hydraulics whined as the ramp came up. Hollis wanted to attend, but couldn’t because he was in charge of the night watch, and the 15 soldiers assigned to it.

  Quinn and her subordinates sat facing each other, knees touching. The air was thick with the combined odors of hydraulic fluid, unwashed bodies, and the lingering smell of someone’s MRE.

  The group included Sergeants Riley and Tyson, Staff Sergeant Atkins, Staff Sergeant Schultz, and Senior Corporal Caron. They stared at Quinn with a mix of anticipation and foreboding. “Welcome to the conference room,” Quinn said.

  It wasn’t much of a joke but produced some smiles nevertheless. “Okay, here’s the skinny,” Quinn told them. “A Russian T-14 tank is blocking the far end of the bridge. So, this is what we’re going to do. Staff Sergeant Schultz and his crew are going to roll onto the bridge, put the hammer down, and go halfway across before they fire both EuroSpike anti-armor missiles. By closing the distance quickly, it’s my hope we’ll be able to score two hits before the T-14 can fire.