Unfinished short story

 

“Platoon, dismount!”

40 pairs of boots dropped more or less in unison as the soldiers piled out of their armored vehicles, many of them moving to take up positions around their transports. In the pre-dawn light they moved like shadows against the dim backdrop, treading the line between night and day. Thanks to the still receding winter and lack of sunlight the air was cold; exhales produced small puffs and gloved hands tightly clasped weapons grips and handles. They were all cold, but most of them were used to it by now.

Senior Lieutenant Ārvaldis Krievs was no exception. He had grown up even farther north in the state of Denebola, where the winters were long and harsh, even for a northern country like Jedoria. There the wide open tundras and taigas spanned for hundreds of kilometers in each direction. As he gazed out across the flatlands on either side of the two-lane road they were on, he was reminded of home. Patches of snow were still visible on the ground, and with no sunlight to reflect off them they seemed to blend into the ground. The light mist that hung across the horizon did little to make distinguishing the terrain any easier. 

He didn’t like this flat open area, even if it reminded him of his childhood. They were too open here, too exposed. As he scanned the distance for any sign of hostiles, he forced himself to think clearly, and not imagine things that weren’t there. Intelligence had said the enemy had dug in 2 klicks to the west. The platoon was to advance in a standard skirmish line until they encountered the enemy, then overwhelm the hardpoints to secure the area. He had gone over the plan countless times in his head but still did not like it. He had only a vague estimation of the enemies size and capabilities. He had fire support of questionable reliability. The tanks he was supposed to be supporting were no where to be seen. How was he supposed to implement the combined arms tactics he had learned at the academy when there was no one else besides his motorized riflemen?

Quietly he reprimanded himself. Being able to accomplish the mission under arduous circumstances was the hallmark of a good officer. Krievs knew he was not the best officer in the Jedorian People’s Army, but he was determined to show the company and battalion commander that he was their most reliable Lieutenant. He would show them all, he told himself, as his section leaders gathered around him. He spoke with a firm tone, ignoring the tendrils of smoke that emanated from his lips every time his warm breath touched the cold air. “Standard skirmish line, Sections 1, 2, and 3 up front, 4 in the rear ready to maneuver. Keep your eyes and ears open, wheels will follow 50 meters behind. Be ready to call out targets to the bonnagrouppa as needed. If shit hits the fan, we have the battalions mortar battery frequency.”

His section leaders chorused a response that indicated they understood their orders, then returned to their troops to dispense the information. Within a minute the platoon was ready to move. With arm signals, Krievs ordered his front sections forward, with himself and his radio operator staying between his forward sections and the reserve. Behind the platoon, their four vehicles wheeled off the road and followed suit at a snail's pace. Some of the men may have complained about walking when they still had their vehicles, but Krievs had seen what the enemies guided missiles could do to the light skinned personnel carriers. He was not about to lose an entire section for the sake of comfort. Of course, as he considered it, being dismounted carried it’s own risks. Out in the open without the protection of their armored personnel carriers, they were vulnerable to sniper fire. 

Krievs dismissed such thoughts. He could deal with snipers. Anti-armor teams were harder. Besides, a sniper could only take out one soldier at a time. A fully loaded personnel carrier could be destroyed at once and kill everyone on board. Krievs shook his head. It seemed callous to weigh the lives of his men in such an ergonomic terms, but it was a genuine way of looking at it. As the platoon steadily advanced over the kilometer between themselves and where the enemy was supposed to be, Krievs focused on planning how he would react to various scenarios of enemy contact, while trusting his forward sections to keep their eyes and ears open.

“Lead,” His radio operator suddenly said, “call from overwatch.”

Krievs nodded and took the hand mic from the radio pack. Still moving, he said quietly into the mic, afraid that if he spoke too loud he might ruin the element of surprise and put his men in danger.

“This is Marauder 3-1, go ahead.”

“Marauder 3-1, this is Marauder Actual, report status.”

“Marauder 3-1 is advancing towards enemy positions, less than 1 klick out.”

“Solid aff Marauder 3-1, relay when you have engaged the enemy. Out.”

“Understood, Marauder 3-1 out.”

Krievs handed the hand mic back to his radio man, his connection with the rest of the company once more closed. He adjusted his grip on his rifle, noting how he could feel cold steel (the hedgehog) underneath his glover. The sound of wet grass and crunching of snow could be heard from underneath his boots. In the distance he could hear the steady clattering of machine gun fire, the bursts of autocannons, even the booms and screams of rockets and shells. There was a battle erupting in the distance, one that would soon be joined by the men of 1st platoon, 3rd Company.

It was Spring of 2006, March 8th to be exact, and Jedoria was engulfed in civil war. Just under two years ago, segments of the Jedorian population, enraged by the erosion of their civil liberties and declining economic opportunities, had risen up against the Socialist Republic, in an event known as the Uprising. Millions of Jedorians had rallied to their cause, causing open warfare to break out across the entire country. Now that some time had passed, the front lines had settled somewhat, but in addition, the fate of the country now hung in the balance. 

The state of Satalice had been turned into a battleground between the rebels and the Socialists. The Socialists need to control Satalice to put pressure on the rebels from two fronts; on in the west and one in the north, while the rebels needed to eliminate the Socialist presence from southern Jedoria. In Spring of 2005, the Radstadt Offensive had been undertaken by the Jedorian Revolutionary Defense Forces; striking from Bessarabia into Radstadt and Rasalhague, and into Satalice from Arstotzka. The Socialists had succeeded in linking together their two forces by seizing control of the coastline of the Vortish Channel.

But the 3rd Mechanized Army had been badly overstretched trying to control the coastline and pressuring the Satalice interior. The 38th Motor Rifle Division, tasked with holding open the coastal corridor for supplies to flow from the Socialist Heartland to the Arstotzka Front, was overwhelmed by a rebel counteroffensive during the winter. The lifeline between Arstotzka and the rest of the Socialist Republic had been severed, and now the entire southern strategy was at risk.

There was no other way to reliably supply the Arstotzka Front except by land; the Revolutionary Air Force lacked the airlift capabilities to support a force as big as the Front, the People’s Navy had only a flotilla of ships in the Musjura Sea, and rebel strike teams had closed the Luminovian canal to traffic, so seaborne methods were no longer optional. The only way to keep Arstotzka supplied was by land, and so the coastal corridor needed to remain open at all costs. If it was closed, Arstotzka would soon be forced to surrender, and eventually the entire southern front would collapse, and the rebels would have the initiative.

Krievs tried not to let the weight of what his platoon was helping to accomplish burden him too much. He needed to focus, now more than ever. 

The bursts of automatic weapons fire was more clarifying than anything he could have asked for.

“Contact contact contact!”

“Enemy hardpoints, 500 meters!”

The forward sections began screaming out reports of hostiles ahead, punctuated by the rattling of machine guns that kicked up clods of dirt and grass as they impacted near the platoon. As was standard, every members of the unit had dropped to the ground when the shooting started to minimize their presence as much as possible. Section leaders began barking out orders to return fire, but in response there was only a spattering of random bursts from the platoon. The volume of enemy fire was steadily increasing, as evident by the growing number of ricochets and that were kicked up clumps of dirt and ice. 

Krievs grabbed his own radio set to the platoon frequency and began issuing orders, doing his best to keep his head down.

“Victors 1 and 2, displace to my radial, 90 degrees, 200 marks, prosecute!”

100 meters to his rear, two of their armored personnel carriers began moving to the right flank of the platoon, their heavy machine guns swiveling so they faced in the general direction of the enemy. As their wheels turned, Krievs dispatched additional orders: “Reserve, displace to my radial 270, mark 100.” The 4th Section leader confirmed, and began moving to the left of the platoon. Krievs’s plan was simple; outflank the hardpoint and drown it out with fire from his heavy weapons section and his personnel carriers. 

His forward sections were returning fire in a more consistent manner now; light machine guns peppered the enemy positions with short bursts while riflemen attempted to pinpoint the exact location of the enemy gunners. There was now a steady trade of fire between the two sides, rebels and socialists, machine guns clammering away. 

Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed a hold of his radio operator’s hand mic. “Marauder Actual this is Marauder 3-1, be advised we are prosecuting on enemy hardpoint at Grid 60315-U!”

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“3MRR-45th MRD has reached the outskirts of Mazpakas, and has engaged enemy forces composed primarily of motorized infantry. 2TR-60TD has screened enemy forces south of Maznam.”

“Status on 2MRR?” 

“Advance guard has yet to report in, lead.”

Operation Antlion was the code name for the Jedorian People’s Army offensive in what was being called the Coastal Corridor; the space between Socialist forces in Rasalhague and their isolated comrades in the Arstotzka Front. The JPA’s senior leadership was well aware that without a proper supply line, the Arstotzka Front would run out of supplies of ammunition and fuel and eventually be rendered combat ineffective and be forced to surrender. Already there was shortages of crucial munitions like tank rounds and artillery shells.  Central Command estimated that if a steady supply line was not established, the Arstotzka Front would run out of supplies and ammunition within 6 months.

Antlion was the brainchild of Lt. General Renijs Zeidmanis, who was given command of the operational grouping required to carry it out. Antlion was a three division offensive by the 45th Motor Rifle Division and 60th Tank Division from the Radstadt sector, and the 31st Motor Rifle Division of the Arstotzka Front. Zeidmanis originally wanted four divisions, but Central Command insisted that manpower was needed elsewhere. The Siege of Dranga, the focal point of the Satalice Campaign, was not going well. Winter counter offensive by the rebels had broken the encirclement of the city, and now the JPA was trying to regain control of the territory around the city. In neighboring Radstadt, the 4th Guards Tank Army was engaged in a major campaign against the rebel forces in that state. 

There was a growing sense among the staff officers of Operational Group Antlion that success at the strategic level hinged almost entirely on a handful of operations; Antlion being chief among them. Thus it did little to relieve their worry as Lt. General Zeidmanis paced nervously around their operations center, hands fidgeting all the while. The Socialist General had up until three months ago spent the entire war in the administrative sector, training the next generation of JPA recruits. His work had left a lot to be desired; there were constant complaints from front line officers that their new recruits and replacements were of low quality and suffered from poor morale. 

But none of them could blame the General entirely. Although it was never admitted out loud, in private and in the recesses of many minds, it was understood that the war was not going well. The Socialists had on paper numerous advantages; superior industry, surplus of material, and a steady supply of fresh forces to commit to battle. But it was not at all the complete picture. Much of the Socialist Republic’s vaunted industrial base had been forcibly refocused on the war effort, which it had not taken to with much efficiency.  It’s surplus of material didn’t account for much because it wasn’t be used properly. The JPA had spent it’s entire history planning and training on conducting warfare through mass maneuvers of combined arms divisions, which was nothing like the war they were currently fighting. And the vast majority of the soldiers and personnel of the Socialist forces were plagued with low morale and motivation. None of the Socialists theoretical advantages had panned out well. 

Major Heindrihs Zunda knew all of this and then some. As chief communication officer for the operational group, Zunda was responsible for relaying all vital information from the forces in the field to the Generals ears. Previously he had served with the chief of staff for the 53rd Motor Rifle Division before it had been decimated in the winter counter offensives. With a grimace Zunda recalled sitting at his station, listening to the steady stream of increasingly bad news as the division was overrun, dozens of tactical rebel groupings infiltrating the division’s defensive line and routing company after company with disturbingly accurate artillery fire. That seemed to be one of two fates divisions suffered during the war; either they were rapidly overwhelmed as the JPA’s top heavy command system failed to properly understood the tactical situation, or they were slowly whittled away over the course of a campaign, as the JPA’s logistical and replenishment system focused on the divisional level and above.

Things were not going well. So much rested on Antlion succeeding, and so it irked Zunda to see that it’s success was so heavily dependent on a man that scarcely looked capable of leading an army. Zunda told himself that it was perhaps too early to judge the man, but as the general approached his station he silently steeled himself for another stupid question.

“Any news on the advance guard yet?” He asked, beady eyes searching Zunda’s face, as though checking to make sure the staff officer wasn’t deceiving him. 

“Neg lead, no further information.”