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  Ott asked, “How did they cross into Poland already without anyone knowing about it? It’s not as if you can hide the Russian army.”

  Grant said, “No idea. We’re on alert status as of right now. Our bosses want us to grab the regiment and get on the move. We have to pull everyone we can muster from the battalions and line companies, man every tank that can drive with whoever is qualified.”

  “To do what, exactly?” asked Kellogg.

  “We’ll form a hasty blocking position, and the bosses will join us and take over command.”

  “Sir, we don’t have the actual tankers,” said Kellogg. The main body of their unit, the 37th Armored Regiment, was still in the States. None of the maintainers had ever considered the possibility they might actually have to maneuver the line elements in the regiment, their M1A2 Abrams main battle tanks, in battle.

  “I understand and the brigadier does, too. But we don’t have time to wait till the main body arrives. The rest of the BCT is not scheduled to depart the States until after the first of the year. It’s us and our German brothers or no one.”

  Chandler spoke in an incredulous tone now. “Sir . . . this makes you . . . regimental commander?” Maintenance men, even those with a tank background, were not tank regimental commanders.

  “Just for a few hours. I want to talk to the men in ten minutes. Then I want tanks staged within the hour.”

  The consternation was visible on Grant’s face as he surveyed the small group of senior leaders. He knew as well as the others assembled here that not one of their men was a fully trained 19K, the military occupational specialty of armored crewmen. The Americans here at Grafenwöhr were mostly 91As and 45Es, system maintainers and turret mechanics.

  “Gentlemen, I know what you are thinking, but almost all of our 91As have been to basic driving school. Hell, most of them get more driving time than the actual tank drivers. And we are all proficient in gunnery.”

  Wolfram spoke up now. “But what happens if they make it into Germany before the rest of the regiment’s tankers make it in, sir?”

  “We do as ordered: we are tankers and we execute the move until directed otherwise.”

  Chandler said, “Sir, we’ll need to get you some headquarters vehicles and communications equipment for command and control.”

  “Yes, get me the headquarters vics. Everything we have for radio communications. The satellites are all out and I want long haul comms to talk to the battalions.”

  “Three tank battalions!” interjected Major Blaz Ott. “We are under your command, sir.”

  * * *

  • • •

  CENTRAL IRAN

  25 DECEMBER

  Colonel General Boris Lazar was so used to the noise, the dust, the vibration, and the constant rubbing against sharp and unyielding surfaces that came along with riding in the turret of a tank that he didn’t notice any of it anymore. He just looked out at the long line of sand-colored armored vehicles in front of him, rumbling down the Hamadan-Bijar Road, some six kilometers northwest of the city of Zanjan, and listened in to the radio chatter in his headset.

  Lazar had a headquarters vehicle, but he wanted to ride in a T-90 tank for this part of the journey. He could still get information over the radio and was in constant contact with his second-in-command, Colonel Dmitry Kir, who was buttoned up in the HQ vehicle only fifty meters behind him.

  The command vehicle was one of only a few of the new Bumerang APCs in his force. Sabaneyev had scored the majority of the Bumerangs, while Lazar’s main troop carrier was the venerable but trusted BTR-82A. Lazar had spent over thirty years in variants of the BTR and he had no great desire to work with anything else, but the communications suite in the Bumerang HQ vehicles was second to none, so he’d begrudgingly added five of the latest-generation APCs to his force.

  Sabaneyev could have the majority of the new shit: the Bumerangs and the T-14s. Lazar was an old-timer and he’d fight his war with the tried-and-true.

  Lazar knew he had his work cut out for him, even here in friendly territory. He had to move his entire combat force, his entire headquarters and supply force, over nearly 1,300 kilometers of unfamiliar terrain. He’d never been to Iran, and even though the politicians in Moscow and the politicians in Tehran had worked out this movement of thousands of Russian troops and one hundred pieces of armor across the north-south axis of Iran, it was still one hell of an endeavor.

  Lazar’s force moved with a large mass of Iranian armor and troops, not because they needed protection, but rather because to the lenses of the satellites still operational over the Middle East this was supposed to look like a joint training exercise between the two nations. Lazar’s force racing alone down toward the southern coastline would be looked at quite differently from the joint force heading south, at least for a day or two, and that was all Colonel Borbikov determined they would need to make Lazar’s mission a fait accompli.

  Thirty-two hours of travel would put Lazar at port before the Americans figured out what he was doing—that had been Borbikov’s bet. A Russian-Iranian training exercise thousands of kilometers from either the Asian or the European theater would be the least of their worries.

  Until the moment when Lazar and his force set sail for the Horn of Africa, when he would would suddenly turn into their greatest worry of all.

  CHAPTER 33

  THE PENTAGON

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  25 DECEMBER

  Connolly and Griggs worked through Christmas morning sitting at their desks, searching for information about what the hell was going on in Central Europe.

  Intelligence had been all but nonexistent in the first few hours; the two men spent as much time flipping through the news channels on the TV in the bullpen as they did querying DIA, CIA, and NSA networks.

  Griggs pointed out he could pull up more real-time info about what was happening in East Timor or Paraguay than he could about the goings-on in Europe.

  About one a.m. Pentagon time a shortwave radio operator near Kraków was picked up reporting Russian armor moving north of the city. This would have been the first solid nugget of a land invasion, if not for the fact that shortwave operators in Tallinn, Estonia; Dagda, Latvia; and Rudamina, Lithuania, also reported that the Russians were pouring over the border. No one knew if one or all of the reports were part of a Russian disinformation campaign or not, but no one believed the story of a thousand-mile-wide Russian invasion when no great buildup of forces near the borders had been detected.

  Griggs brought Connolly his sixth cup of coffee around eleven a.m. He sat down next to the Marine and said, “If this was a real invasion of Europe, there is no way General Lazar wouldn’t be running it. He’s spent his whole life preparing for just this thing.”

  Connolly said, “I don’t get it, either. Unless they are trying to pull a Patton with him.”

  Griggs understood the reference. George Patton was America’s most storied general during the later part of World War II. The U.S. sent him to England, ostensibly to train his force for the upcoming Normandy invasion, but it was all a ruse. When the invasion came, he was very publicly still in England, causing many Germans to believe nothing important was happening on the Normandy coast.

  The major said, “That would be a shrewd move, but I don’t buy it. Even if they didn’t use him in the attack on NATO, moving him out of Russia at a time when Russia must know it’s in danger of a counterstrike just seems crazy. If Sabaneyev is sending a massive invasion force to Europe, Russia is exposed.”

  Connolly spun around to face his colleague. “But what if there is no invasion force that we missed? NATO has spent seventy years watching out for and preparing for the red tide pouring over into Western Europe. But something much smaller than a total Russian mobilization could punch through, especially if the Russians sowed enough confusion with satellite and communications interruptions.”

 
Griggs thought it over. “Holy shit, Dan! A raid. An operational raid!”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Several hundred pieces of frontline armor racing into Europe could punch a hole, especially at Christmas, when NATO’s guard is down, and especially when NATO can’t see or hear what’s happening.”

  “But . . . but why?” Griggs asked. “They want to race around Europe blowing shit up just to show they can? What are they going to do, take Berlin and turn it into an enclave?”

  “I have no idea,” Connolly said. “You want to call Nik over at NSA and ask him if he wouldn’t mind poking around at the exercises in Iran?”

  Griggs whistled. “You don’t think he’s got enough going on with the invasion of Europe and the impending invasion of Taiwan?”

  “Think about it. He’s been working on the Taiwan thing for four months. As for the European attack, there isn’t enough intel coming through for him to evaluate. The satellites over Iran are working fine. Give him a call.”

  Griggs nodded. “Okay, can’t hurt.”

  * * *

  • • •

  HOF, GERMANY

  25 DECEMBER

  A twenty-one-year-old from Utah was the first American to see the Russian invasion, although it had begun sixteen hours earlier.

  Three feet of snow blown into drifts made trudging through the heavy woods north of the hamlet of Hof difficult to nearly impossible for the lone reconnaissance scout, but he’d been ordered forward to take a look into the distance.

  A team driving in three cavalry scout vehicles—Humvees with .50-cal mounted machine guns—had parked well inside the trees, enshrouded by the evening’s darkness and low clouds.

  The young man from Utah fell more than once on the thirty-yard journey to the edge of the wood line, and each time he felt the embarrassment of knowing his mates and his sergeant were probably watching him.

  He crunched through the snow, then finally dropped to his knees on a spot of ground with only a foot of accumulation, and began scanning with his NVGs along the autobahn in the distance. He saw nothing at first, but then his trained eyes picked up the faint outline of a row of vehicles proceeding at a steady pace to the southwest.

  He’d watched civilian traffic all afternoon and evening long without alarm, but the unique aspect of this particular line of large vehicles was that none of them had their lights on.

  He waited for them to come a little closer; then through the clear and frigid nighttime air he began to make out the individual shapes. Scout cars; long, fat, and low armored fighting vehicles he could not identify.

  And then he saw the tanks.

  A lot of tanks.

  He launched to his feet, spun, and lumbered back to his Humvee as quickly as possible, where his sergeant first class was standing by the front passenger door.

  “Armor and heavy recon vics, Sergeant. Definitely Russian. No lights. Heading southwest.”

  A radio call immediately went to Lieutenant Colonel Tom Grant, a kilometer behind with the tanks in their hasty blocking position.

  * * *

  • • •

  Before setting off from Grafenwöhr, Grant had been able to field forty tanks per battalion for a total of eighty M1A2 SEP Abrams tanks and a sizable reconnaissance troop of dozens of Humvees and dozens of Stryker armored fighting vehicles.

  This made Lieutenant Colonel Tom Grant, a U.S. Army logistics officer, the commander of the 37th Armored Regiment, composite.

  And German major Blaz Ott was now technically the commander of the 203rd Panzer Battalion. He commanded forty-four Leopard 2s, Germany’s heaviest and mightiest tank. At the height of the Cold War the German army had fielded over two thousand Leopards, but they now had fewer than two hundred fifty. Still, the Leopard 2 was a marvel of German precision engineering and a force to be reckoned with.

  The good news for Grant and Ott was that they both had plenty of munitions. Because both the U.S. European Command and German Bundeswehr HQ had been planning heavy participation in the upcoming live-fire portion of Exercise Broadsword, all the vehicles were well stocked with tank rounds, machine-gun rounds, and rockets.

  Grant was looking at a map spread out on the hood of his Humvee when he took the call letting him know the Russians had been spotted. He and his XO, Captain Brad Spillane, quickly found the location and checked the direction of the road.

  Grant said, “They’re coming this way. We’ve got ten minutes to figure out how we’re handling this, but America’s war with Russia is going to start right here.”

  Grant had put the most experienced men into his operations and headquarters element, guys who were about to retire or had already served in command and had just been awaiting their orders for their next assignment. That left tank commanders who were less than the best he had, but if he didn’t have the best directing the battle, things could be worse. Way worse.

  The headquarters section, led by Captain Spillane, a former tank company commander, consisted of several radio Humvees, a command-and-control vehicle, and several camouflage command tents.

  And it was from this perch that Tom Grant thought he could best command and control the battle.

  The ambush Grant and Ott set up for the Russians was mostly linear, focused on what they estimated was the enemy’s most likely direction of travel. By positioning themselves on a ridge overlooking German routes 9 and 72, they had hedged their bets pretty well. A separate force with only eight tanks was dispatched to cover the intersection of routes 93 and 72. It wasn’t enough to do much damage, but he and Ott had decided at the last minute not to split their forces in half and instead to weight their western ambush, as it was the most likely avenue of approach.

  * * *

  • • •

  3RD AVIATION BRIGADE, REGIMENTAL HQ

  ANSBACH ARMY AIRFIELD

  KATTERBACH KASERNE, GERMANY

  25 DECEMBER

  The landline to the 1-3 Attack Reconnaissance Battalion pilot ready room rang a second, a third, then a fourth time, but Army 1st Lieutenant Sandra Glisson found herself reluctant to put the PlayStation 4 controller down to answer it.

  The battalion’s classroom doubled as a lounge and was all but vacant on Christmas Day. Almost all the officers were out on leave except those here in the ready room: the two playing video games, the one filling out his flight logs with tunes from his iPhone blaring in his earbuds, and the one sleeping on the couch in front of the big-screen TV—which, while on, hadn’t broadcast anything but a blue screen all day.

  The regimental commander had left two gunships and their crews on ready alert status. He was brand-new and made a point of mentioning that his motto was “Train as you fight.” But to the officers on watch, it was more top-brass bullshit. The G2 briefed everyone that Poland’s alert status was “high,” so they all needed to ensure their recall info was sound; then the regiment’s intelligence officer, executive officer, and commander all took off on vacation back to the U.S.

  “I’ve got your ass now!” shouted First Lieutenant Allen Thomas over the noise of the ringing phone and the video game. “You might as well grab that phone—you’re dead either way!”

  “Pause the game and I will!” replied Glisson.

  Thomas kept playing, so Glisson reluctantly stood up, continuing to work her controller as she walked toward the phone.

  The support battalion platoon leader finally paused the game, so Lieutenant Glisson dropped the controller on the sofa and snatched the phone off the cradle.

  Thomas then unpaused the game with a laugh and resumed playing.

  Glisson saw this as she spoke with an eye roll. “Hello?”

  A voice boomed on the other line. “Fucking ‘Hello’? Is that how you answer the ready room phone? Who the fuck is this?”

  She recognized the voice of Major Cussard; she’d forgotten he was even on duty. “I’m sorry
, sir. This is First Lieutenant Sandra Glisson, 1st Battalion.”

  The phone hissed and clicked, but she could make out the major’s words well enough. “Listen up, Glisson! The attack weapons team just got activated. You’re to grab your wingman and launch immediately. I’ll brief you on your company’s internal when you are up on comms.”

  “Sir . . . ,” said Sandra incredulously, “is this a joke?”

  “Does it sound like I’m fucking joking, Lieutenant? Get your ass to your aircraft—now!”

  There was a pause as Sandra looked at Lieutenant Thomas.

  “Why are you still on the phone?” screamed Major Cussard.

  Sandra hung up and stared at the three men in the room.

  And then: “We’re launching!” She slammed her hand against a button on the wall, activating red “whoopie” lights across the battalion’s building.

  The two aviators on the couch jumped to their feet but just stood there staring at her in bewilderment.

  “Does it look like I’m fucking joking? This is not a drill! Get your ass to your aircraft now!” she yelled.

  * * *

  • • •

  Three minutes later, two officers ran through their checklist in Apache aircraft number 42, right next to Sandra’s own Apache gunship, number 41. Sandra’s weapons officer hadn’t shown up yet, but she’d climbed into the front seat of her aircraft. In her haste she had forgotten her coat, and the freezing German winter air chilled her as she worked.

  Red and white rotating lights flashed on the helicopters as they powered up, illuminating the night and adding to the sense of urgency. The ground crewmen scurried around both of the fifty-eight-foot helicopters, checking systems and pulling tie-downs off the rotors and control surfaces. Three ammunition dollies screeched to a halt as a pair of handlers prepared to strap missile and gun pods onto the aircraft.