FSTS-317/NATO Site 93
Classified Location
Edge of the 1K Zone
Fulda Gap, Western Germany
22 April, 1986
1000 Hours
"Get offa me," Stillwater snarled, pushing at Nancy with one hand. She looked down at him and shook her head. "I'm fine, just tripped."
Yeah, that was a lie, and everyone knew it. The son of a bitch shouldn't even be walking around. I looked away as he struggled to his feet, glaring at everyone looking at him. There were three M1A1 tanks idling in front of me, a gunner on the nifty-fifty keeping the barrel pointed at the 1K Zone. There were over fifty tanks at Atlas, complete with crews and support.
"Damndest thing," Agent Timmons said, watching Stillwater starting to limp along, heading downrange.
"I know, right?" I said, shaking my head. I took a drag off the cigarette before field stripping it.
"Think he'll make it down to where the engineers are rebuilding the bunkers?" Timmons asked.
I toed out the cherry and put the butt in my pocket, nodding. "Yeah, he will. You'd be surprise how quick he bounces back."
"I read the file," He said, "But I didn't believe it. Two weeks for a broken bone to heal, a week for a fracture?"
Stillwater stopped for a moment, putting one hand against the M1A1 Abrams next to him for a moment before shoving himself off and starting to stagger downrange.
"Well, we got their attention," I told him, pointing out across the 1K Zone. Tanks were rolling in, back a little ways. I lifted the binoculars and checked for a moment, sweeping across, counting them quickly and IDing any equipment I could see. Reactive armor, several different types of main gun, blocky Soviet look. My brain automatically computed the angles without trying, showing me that the deflection was all well and good for the older stuff, but the new 120mm would probably punch right through it like butter.
Well, in theory.
"That we did," Timmons chuckled.
"Stokes," I called out. The big Amazon jogged up, carrying her M-60 and her aid bag. According to the Geneva Convention she wasn't supposed to be carrying anythin heavier than an M-16, but being Special Weapons she'd already given up that protection.
"What's up?" Stokes asked, jingling to a stop.
"Get Stillwater, bring him back uprange. Tell him they're bringing up R-17 Elbrus launcher and I need him to ID the warheads," I told her, "He's better than I am at it."
"Roger that," She grinned. "Nancy will be glad when he's off his feet," she made a face, "Don't help that Fruit Bat keeps fluttering around and painting on him when nobody's around."
"Caught her mounting him last night. Told her to get off, she hissed at me like a cat," Timmons said. He shuddered, "Her eyes glow in the dark, green, and I know it sounds crazy, but I swear there were green fireflies around him."
"Ayup. She's had a claim on him since they were in the cradle," I told him. "It's... complicated."
"Specialist Nagle was watching, told me to mind my own business," He said.
"Ayup, like I said, complicated," I tried closing off the subject again with my tone and by looking through the binoculars again.
"How's it look?" Timmons asked.
"Six R-17's, attendant vehicles packing extra missiles, armored vehicles being parked behind the R-17's, those probably have high-value warheads in them," I told him, "The tanks are a mixed bag, some of the reactive armor doesn't look like it was designed for that model."
"What's your opinion?" He asked me.
"They're still rolling the new T80's off the lines, this is a mixed bag, but they're deploying T-80's to East Germany, which means they're reacting to the new M1A1's as well as building up armored forces," I told him, panning the binoculars, "I can see multiple sight systems, different types of reactive armor. Take that hexagonal pattern, that's not very common, but we started seeing it a year ago when that GRU officer brought in some tanks during Copper Window."
One thing I was noticing was that the tanks were not being driven with the practiced smoothness that I'd seen the tankers from 168th move their vehicles. While I watched one bumped another, swerved wildly, turned a sharp 90 degrees, and slammed into another one.
"That's why you shouldn't use dumbass conscripts, Ivan," I muttered, watching as the tank suddenly backed up and slammed into another one. I saw armor shard away and a track jump. The driver panicked and I watched the tank start to do tight donuts as the naked roadwheels tore into the grass.
"What?" Timmons asked. "Those are Soviet Army regulars."
"Yeah," I snorted, watching as the tanks swerved around the spinning one, two more colliding. "Christ, it's like monkeys fucking a football." I panned over to their concrete building, made with shitty cured non-rebar reinforced poured concrete. There was a guy in a Soviet uniform, with no markings, hustling over to the tank that was spinning and waving his arms.
"Just wait," I told Timmons. "Watch what's about to happen."
"What?" He asked.
"Just watch," I said. The unmarked guy had gotten the tank to stop and was yelling. After a minute someone climbed out. He moved in front of the unmarked guy that thought he was sneaky by not wearing any insignia.
"What..."
The GRU officer shot the tank driver in the head and began to walk away.
"Holy shit," Timmons said.
The GRU officer stalked back to the concrete building while two guys got out of the damaged tank, picked up the dead man, and carried him over to the tank. They slung him onto the front, then climbed up and back into the armored vehicle.
"Bet your file didn't mention that even the Soviet troops consider that guy a psychotic," I said, swinging back to watch the concrete building again. "He thinks it's World War Two."
"We don't know much about him, not as much as we'd like," Timmons admitted.
I watched him argue with my Soviet Army counterpart that normally manned the outpost across from us. I could tell the 'East German' soldier was angry. The big blond guy I was used to dealing with stood at least a head taller than the other man, but something the GRU guy said made the guy I was used to dealing with step back, holding his hands up and empty.
"I know a lot," I told Timmons, watching the other man make a gesture that was particularly insulting in Russia. "Stillwater and I have been putting together an intel packet on that son of a bitch for the last year."
"Did you forward it?" He asked.
I laughed at that as the GRU officer started strutting around, one hand on his pistol. I hated that son of a bitch so badly it was everything I could do to not lift up my rifle and put one through his head. Sure, it was over a thousand meters, and the drop would be serious, and I'd probably miss, but by all of Aine's strange gods I wanted to put a bullet in that psycho's skull.
"Nobody wants to hear the opinions of a couple of Army dipshits," I chuckled.
Timmons was silent for a long moment. "I'd like to."
"We know all of his personal details, and a little more, thanks to some angry little birdies who's tongues get a little loose when they get juiced up on Jack Daniels," I told him. "Sorry, but I still don't trust you yet."
Timmons nodded. "Can't blame ya. And thanks again for convincing Stillwater to not execute us all."
I shrugged. "De nada," I told him, lighting another cigarette. My chest still ached from that collapsed lung and I felt a twinge of jealousy toward Stillwater.
Timmons was still looking across the 1K Zone, scanning the vehicles coming in. He started smiling as the last of the vehicles rolled up and the Russians managed to get their tank lines as dress right dress as they could. I noticed the irregular gaps, the way some were slightly forward than the others. It looked sloppy as hell, nothing like what the 1/68th C-DATs had done. Their NCO's seemed satisfied as everyone got out of their tanks. Most sat on the back decks, some began setting up tents, and what I could tell were the officers went into the concrete building.
I saw the normal crew of the building leave and start to set up tents.
"Excellent," Timmons breathed. His sounded like someone who had just spotted the neighbor girl laying on her roof sunbathing in the nude and masturbating. I glanced at him and noticed he had a wolfish, almost eager look on his face. "Yes, yes, just like that, Comrades."
I took a step to the right.
Stillwater staggered up next to me. The boy looked like 12 miles of bad road. He'd lost weight in the last few days and his cheeks looked hollowed out and sunken, his eyes exhausted. "Watcha need, Bomber?" He growled.
"Here, check the R-17's, tell me what you see," I told him.
He scanned for a long minute, and I noticed the Creepy Uncle Timmons was paying attention. "Right now they're packing thermobaric high explosive, but the vehicles back there have extra plating, looks like that shitty radiation shielding those BMP's use. Those are probably low yield tacticals, if I'm right, probably the 45 kiloton garbage they've been fielding, which means they're not threatening us, they're threatening the cities behind us, since we're too far back." He threw his left arm around Nancy, leaning heavily on her. "Tanks are riding high on the road gear, which means if they are loaded, it ain't war shot and ain't much of it," He snorted. "I can see two loose road wheels, half of them the tracks are either over or under tensioned, and the crews are typical Soviet conscripts with almost zero fucking skills." He handed the binoculars back. "They try to roll on us, 1/68th will eat them for lunch."
"Can we go inside, gentlemen?" Timmons asked.
I nodded, and led the way. Stillwater was blowing hard, his lungs still sounding like crap, and I could hear him grinding his teeth from the pain. Boy was stubborn than a mule with the bit in its mouth, I swear to God. Nancy bitched at him as she helped him lay down on the cot, and Timmons stopped to wave the CO's and XO's of 54 Engineers, 3/27 EOD detachment, Delta Company 108th Military Intelligence, and 1/68th Armor in after us.
The bottle of Wild Turkey clinked when I set it down before hitting the exhaust fan. I lit a cigarette as each man came in, two grizzled Colonels that looked like they belonged in a Sergeant Rock comic, and a Lieutenant Colonel that looked jaded as hell. They each had their canteen cup in their hand, mostly full of coffee, and each poured a healthy belt of alcohol into it as they came in. One by one they sat down as Timmons stood next to the map of Atlas. Before the door closed I saw two of the CIA agents, both shit-tastic miserable in their suits after no showers or laundry for several days, stand on either side of the door. The other was with Foster, doing some weird shit, who knew what commo dwonks did when nobody was looking?
"All right, gentlemen, now that our guests of honor have arrived, it's time to put Phase B into effect," Timmons said, smiling. He steepled his fingers, his thumbs pressed together and then against his BDU's that he'd bummed and now wore. It was odd seeing him walking around with E-5 rank on his collar, but hey, he was CIA and I was just a dumb fucking hick.
"We have identified the majority of the unexploded artillery shells," He started. "These shells are rated as high explosive thermobaric, very dangerous, and too unstable to move," His grin got even wider. "So you will be using the M-82A1 anti-material rifles I have procured to destroy them." He paused for a moment, something I'd gotten used to.
"So why did we wait? And why not use explosives?" The CO of 3/27 asked.
Timmons nodded, "A good question. I want your men to get good with the M-82, and we're going to be swapping our the Rangers from Delta 108th MI out with your men to give them practice," Timmons said. "However, we aren't going to do them as fast as possible."
"We aren't?" The CO of 54th asked.
Timmons shook his head. "No. We will be detonating one artillery round every three to twelve minutes, as determined by a random die roll, on a schedule that covers the complete 24 hours in a day," He grinned. "As we have numbered every discovered round, I have also come up with an order list that they will be destroyed in."
I could see the confusion on the other men's faces, but it suddenly made sense to me.
Those rounds being blown up would be loud, we're talking 'jump out of your skin' loud, as they were blown up. They'd throw gravel and dirt into the air, as well as cause a plume of greasy black smoke and dust. That kind of time spread, with the exactly 5,368 unexploded eight-inch artillery shells scattered across Atlas, with an average of 7.5 minutes between each detonation, meant that 40,260 minutes of random detonations, for a total of 671 hours until it was all done, for a total of twenty-six days total that the artillery shells would be being detonated.
Which meant that for the next month there would be random explosions, loud enough to be heard for several miles, every eight minutes, give or take four minutes, twenty-four hours a day. Add into that that they would not be done in any order, so you couldn't really guess where the explosion was going to happen, and that made it worse.
"The fuel tanks have burnt out, but the asphalt is still smouldering. Every five to thirty minutes a bag of CS powder will be thrown into the burning pit. Which means from here on out everyone is masked and the armored vehicle will run under full NBC warfare protocol," Timmons grinned.
That would make the Russians edgy as shit as the smoke spread out across the area. The local Germans had been told that firefighting practice and demolition would be going on here, and most of the locals were now on a paid vacation to the Spanish and French Rivera courtesy of Uncle Sam and NATO, so we didn't have to worry about them.
That tankers were shaking their heads, and the EOD guys and the engineers were looking a bit confused, while the snake eater CO slowly got a big grin.
He'd twigged onto the fact that this was psy-ops.
"Gentlemen, you're excused. Open your orders packets and carry out your orders," Timmons grinned.
They turned and left, leaving the two of us in the office. The Ranger CO grabbed the bottle.
"Well?" He asked, looking at me. He sat down as I pulled out another bottle, this one Jack Daniels.
"It's audacious," I told him. "I know what you're doing."
He raised one eyebrow, "Amplify, Specialist," he encouraged.
Another fact filed away. He was too comfortable in uniform, too comfortable in military culture and language. Despite what someone might think, we had a pretty complex culture, full of slang, jokes, and taboo subjects.
"You're subjecting the Soviet tank and missile crews to stress," I told him. I stood up and began marking the plexi over the map of Atlas and their section. "We know that the Soviets don't spend as much time as we do at the range, that a conscript is lucky if he even fires his rifle at the range between leaving Basic Training and leaving the service. This means their tank and artillery crews do not get much practice either, which means they aren't like us, they don't spend their careers around constant explosions."
I looked at him and he just nodded, against steepling his fingers and resting his chin on them. The way the light caught his hippie glasses made his eyes vanish behind white mirrors.
"The Atlas crew, we're used to explosions. We tune them out for the most part, only noticing when one doesn't sound right. Half of us are still recovering our hearing, and for the most part should be resting. The tank crews and the engineers will be inside their vehicles, which have extensive noise baffling," I kept talking. I tapped where I'd marked the SCUD launchers, "The R-17 crews have to be outside the vehicles, by the missile systems, if they want to keep it warmed up for launch, and after a few days they'll start flinching bad every explosion. Within five days they'll be numb, the blasts still startling them. They won't be able to sleep, they'll get no relaxation, and it takes about five minutes for someone's limbic system to go back to normal after getting startled, and as soon as it resets, you'll be startling them again. They'll begin suffering adrenaline fatigue, headaches, stomach cramps, bowel issues, fraying temper, interrupted sleep cycles."
I turned and stared at him.
"Your pushing the tank crews, and pushing them hard. Soviet NBC systems aren't as good as ours. We can run on internal batteries for hours, but their's are juice jogs, meaning the tanks are going to have to run, which means the constant noise from the engines, in addition to the fact I've noticed that you have the 1/68 tank crews rev their engines at random times," I told him. "You're forcing them to man the tanks 24 hours a day, the CS will get on their skin, in their eyes, ears, noses, and lungs, it'll coat to inside of their vehicles and their food, which means they'll try to eat in the vehicles, which means they'll have to run commo, and since Soviet conscripts don't train to live for days in their vehicles like we do, mean they'll start suffering claustrophobia and agoraphobic reactions to the confinement, as well as operator identification syndrome."
I tapped the desk. "And 1/68th is going to treat this as a holiday while they sleep in their fucking tanks and either read porn mags and jerk off or sit there and smoke cigarettes and bullshit. The Soviets won't be able to tell that the Atlas crew isn't down there because of the Engineers are going to be masked and you'll keep us up here, or make us stay masked. Stillwater and I have bad lungs right now, as does Cromwell and Nagle, meaning they won't be able to spot us."
He smiled, leaning back in the chair and folding his hands over his stomach. "Very good, Specialist. I knew you'd figure it out. Well, some of it."
Fucking CIA.
"Just watch, Specialist, and you'll see how the CIA is supposed to work with the Armed Forces," he smiled. "How we're supposed to protect democracy."
He paused for a long moment.
"Together."