WIP

 

Radovan knew he had to move.

A sense of urgency gnawed at his insides, coupled with a fluctuating sense of unease that reared its head every few seconds, or every time his vehicle bounced and bumped along the road. He kept his eyes closed for just a few more precious moments, shutting away the rest of the world and leaving him in a quiet, dark space where he could collect his thoughts. His knuckles whitened and his fingers curled around his rifle, tying him back to the physical world. The Notos hit another bump, and Radovan lifted slightly in his seat, helmet clinking against the roof of the armored personnel carrier. 

Radovan cracked open his eyes, knowing he couldn’t hide from the world anymore. 

Hell stared back. From the thin bulletproof slits that allowed the driver and commander to see the world in front of the vehicle, Radovan could take in the decrepit view. Ugly pillars of smoke rose dotted the horizon and landscape, burning fuel and oil from wrecked cars and trucks and armored fighting vehicles. Fires raged in the distance as forests burned, their smoke rising into the atmosphere to intermix with the gray overcast that hung over the world like a blanket.

Even in his metal coffin, Radovan could make out the sounds of war; distant artillery boomed and thundered as they poured rounds downrange, bursts of automatic weapons fire echoed through the trees, and the screams of jet engines roared overhead. The whining of the Notos’s engine was just another part of the grand symphony of bloodshed that reverberated all around him. 

Another bump brought Radovan back down. He looked over his shoulder to the back of the vehicle to find Corporal Sekulovski. 

“Corp, any word from 3rd Battalion?”

Sekulovski looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and his face was covered in soot, but he managed to look alert enough to make eye contact before he dropped to look down at his radio. He adjusted a knob and keyed the mic, and was rewarded with a loud hissing sound. He winced.

“Either nobody is on station or they’re jamming us, sir.” He responded.

Radovan grimaced. “Keep trying.”

He looked back towards the driver's seat.

“How much farther Valerieva?”  

Junior Sergeant Valerieva looked white as the snow that had melted a few months earlier. He did a double take, as if surprised there was someone left to talk to him, before clearing his throat and stammering out a response.

“Less than a klick, Lieutenant.” He answered hollowly. 

Radovan straightened back into his seat. Almost there. He looked out at the road ahead, hoping that the trees would soon part and everything would open up clear as day. It never did of course, Ruvelka was a rough and jagged land. It might as well have been created by running a massive rake through the soil, clumping up dirt into massive mountains and scattering thick forests everywhere. Over 170 million people called this land their home, and Radovan would never understand why.

Radovan’s small convoy eventually came upon their destination, a battalion TOC setup amid a small clearing of trees near what Radovan assumed had once been a car garage and repair shop. It was a run down affair; half the tents were barely standing, pallets of supplies were scattered everywhere, and the structures were separated by walkways of mud and pools of water. Awkwardly parked infantry fighting vehicles surrounded the perimeter in a loose ring of security, manned by riflemen with dirty uniforms and mud caked tracks.

Radovan was brought to the edge of the TOC, where he exited his Notos to approach a Staff Sergeant who was manning the entry control point. He waved Radovan and his cluster of vehicles through after a quick security check, for which Radovan was grateful for. Master Sergeant Paskalev took command of the rest of the detachment, barking orders for them to stage their vehicles as Radovan made his way to the command post. He wasn’t sure which structure it was; all of them looked run down and on the verge of collapse if a strong enough wind came through. He decided on the largest and most complete looking one and made his way towards it, mud sucking at his boots as he stepped.

Everything looked messy. Other Syaran soldiers ran this way and that, carrying ammunition, fuel, food, water, and various other items back and forth. Every one of them looked hurried, dashing between tents and prefab structures. Powerlines and hastily half-buried ethernet cables ran through the mud, which was everywhere. Earlier in March the melting snow had turned Ruvelkan soil a nightmare to move through, and just as the sun came out to bake it dry the April showers came in. By May the temperatures were warmer and the rain less frequent, but the constant movement of men and material had churned up too much of the earth for it to settle. 

As he walked Radovan couldn’t help but inhale various scents, cordite, fuel, exhaust, sweat, and the unmistakable and haunting smell of burnt flesh. This was what war was like, dirty, ugly, and brutal; nothing like the stories and sages of heroes that had so often adorned Syaran national history.

A private that looked too young to wear the uniform on his shoulders stopped him at the entrance of the tent, asking him who he was.

“Senior Lieutenant Kostović, Heavy Weapons Detail. Where’s Lt. Colonel Haroutunian?”

The private looked alarmed at Kostović’s question. “Dead. Got blown up three hours ago.”

Radovan blinked, then swallowed and tried to digest the information as calmly as possible. “Who’s in command now, Private?”

“Captain Andreev, he’s inside.”

Radovan nodded and thanked the junior rifleman before making his way inside. It was noticeably warmer inside, but hardly any more organized. Pallets and crates of what Radovan presumed were supplies were scattered about, some of them used as tables for laptops and communication equipment. At the center of the TOC was a separate platform that a map had been laid upon, and surrounding it were several figures. 

Radovan approached the display and was noticed by one of the Syaran officers. 

“Lieutenant Kostović?”

Radovan managed to recognize the voice and match it to a person. Captain Andreev, of whom Radovan had a passing familiarity with. 

Andreev was the HQ company commander; it wasn’t normal for him to be in charge. Radovan knew that meant something bad had happened, but it wasn’t the time or place for it. “Reporting as ordered, sir.” He said as he snapped to attention. Radovan was somewhat embarrassed to notice that his own uniform seemed a bit sharper and cleaner than the men around him, but he stuffed that thought aside.

“Requested?” Andreev repeated the word as if Radovan had spoken a different language. 

“Yes sir,” Radovan said, “Major Zorić at Brigade said 3rd Battalion needed fire support so they sent my mortar detachment.”

“Well shit, I’ll take it.” Andreev said with something that could be construed as a smile. “Must have been requested by Boseovski before he bit the dust.” He waved Radovan over to take a place next to him, which Radovan obliged.

“Where is the Major, sir?”

Andreev’s almost smile turned into a grimace. “Dead. Got wasted along with the battalion ‘cee oh’. Ruvelkan Phantom popped out and plastered the command vehicle while they were out and about.”

Radovan swore under his breath. “All-Mother preserve them.” He muttered.

Andreev snorted. “She better preserve us better than she preserved them. We’ll be scraping out what's left well into next week.”

Radovan shook his head. “A Phantom?”

Andreev nodded. “Fucking SAS. Popped out from behind the tree line and fired off a few rounds before dipping out. We thought that was it, but then two more swung by and hit Iota Company hard.”

“Where was the air defense team?”

“Napping. Nah, not really. They swung in so low the Pollux’s barely had time to swing around and fire. They nabbed one of them in the tail rotor and sent it spinning, it actually crashed behind our lines more or less intact. We were hoping to nab the pilot for questioning, but some of the boys from Iota who survived decided to take matters into their own hands and used her for bayonet practice.”

Radovan’s stomach tightened. “That’s fucked up.”

Andreev spit something out of his mouth and onto the dirt floor. “This whole situation is fucked.” He jabbed a finger at the map. “Look for yourself.”

Radovan looked over the map, taking note of the plastic figures meant to represent friendly and enemy units, while hastily drawn scribbles denoted further details. Radovan didn’t consider himself an expert tactician, but he knew enough to take in the basic premise.

The 3rd Battalion of the 422nd Mechanized Brigade, 42nd Mechanized Division, was strung out along a small river known as the Várpahadház. It was a minor tributary that only a Ruvelkan geography nerd would recognize, but it currently was the most vital terrain feature for 3rd Battalion. The previous day the Battalion had fought off several Ruvelkan infantry companies and seized control of the western bank of the river, then crossed it in the evening and assaulted Ruvelkan forces in the town of Kőskunhalas. 

During the night however a Ruvelkan infantry regiment had counter-attacked, and in the confused and chaotic fighting the battalion had been forced to abandon their still tenuous positions and retreat back across the Várpahadház. Lt. Colonel Haroutunian had been rallying his companies in the morning for a second river crossing when a flight of three Ruvelkan HH2 attack helicopters had swooped in and either by luck or intentionally blew up the command vehicle that both the CO and the XO had been in by happenstance. 

The bloodied and now leaderless Syarans were now scattered along the riverfront; badly mauled Iota Company was two kilometers upstream near the source of the river, Lake Püspölca. It had already been shattered and was barely combat effective, though it occupied a good position from which to keep up fire on Ruvelkan forces across the river. 

Kappa Company a kilometer to the east was holding position where the old bridge had been before the Ruvelkans had destroyed it. It was in fairly good shape despite the heavy fighting and still had 10 operational tanks from the Brigade’s armored battalion. But it was also facing the heaviest concentration of Ruvelkan forces and artillery across the river, meaning any attempted crossing would run into stiff resistance. 

Lambda Company further south was more or less intact, but had lost nearly half of its vehicles and was essentially just a light motorized force at this point. They also were facing the deepest and roughest part of the Várpahadház, and thus despite their relatively good shape could not be counted on to conduct a river crossing. The Ruvelkans seemed to know this, as one of the recon teams had reported a single Ruvelkan platoon on the other side of the river.

Radovan wasn’t high ranking enough to know the full scope of the major operation that was ongoing, but a friend of his at corps headquarters had told him that the big picture wasn’t looking great. 9th Army, Radovan’s formation, was trying to swing north-east as part of a pincer against the major Ruvelkan formation in this part of the front, Army Group Center. XIII Corps, which Radovan was part of, was struggling to advance in the face of heavy Ruvelkan resistance.

“I’m guessing the bridge is out.” Radovan ventured, nodding towards the center of the map where Iota Company was holding position. Andreev nodded.

“Yep, but we got a bridge layer from the engineers so we can at least cross it. Bigger issue is dealing with the defenders on the other side of the river. Recon says its an understrength infantry regiment. First and Third Battalions have peeled off some of their assets to the north and south of us, so the Colonel wants us to punch straight through here.