Firestorm: Red Thunder

Major Yuskov watched the sun dip over the horizon as his column slowed to a halt; sunrises, he thought to himself, another thing the Bastard West takes from us. He carried hatred in his heart and fire in his belly, tempered over the years into dedication to the cause of the Soviet Union, and he was relishing the promise of his first taste of real combat.

"We stop here," he spoke into his mouthpiece. "Get some sleep, something to eat, but be ready to move." He knew his men would enjoy the rest. They needed it.

Yuskov had been trusted by his superiors to secure a breakthrough, and he had a dozen and a half T-72, APCs and air defence tractors under his direct control, ready to assault the suspected British positions defending the approaches to Hannover. He knew that similar operations were planned at a number of strategic points in the area, hoping to bypass the NATO defences and push on into the west. As darkness settled in, Yuskov could see his men preparing for the operation ahead: ration packs were opened, weapons were serviced, stories and vodka swapped. Spirts were high amongst his troops, and they were ready to move at a moment's notice. After a few hours, the order was given.

Yuskov smiled as the muster point exploded into life as preparations were made, years of training overcoming any fear and uncertainty, and within minutes a thick oily haze of diesel fumes hung in the still night air. He breathed in the familiar taste as his column rolled forward and fanned out into an abreast formation, like the cavalrymen of old.

"First company, with me!" He shouted, excitedly. "Second company on my right with the BMP-2s, infantry and Shilkas on my left."

Tank turrets swung left and right, searching for targets, while his AA cover searched the skies, knowing that darkness and dull weather wouldn't dissuade the NATO aircraft from a strike. As Yuskov's units moved forwards they picked up the pace, from a crawl, to walking pace, then flat out, as fast as they dared drive through the darkness. Any obstacle represented an enemy position, and Yuskov's plan was to bypass them as quickly as possible, hoping that surprise and poor visibility would keep his men alive.

To his right, second company raced ahead with a pair of BMP-2s from the reconnaissance company, while on his left flank a group of BMP-1s carried his supporting infantry forwards, accompanied by two Shilkas. Suddenly Yuskov and first company found themselves in a cornfield, braking hard and swerving left towards a fording point in the river. A couple of his tanks made it across the stream, but the rest stopped hard, caught on the soft mud and crumbling rocks. Yuskov was on the ground before his tank was stationary.

"Dig them out!" He shouted, grabbing a shovel and pulling mud out of drive gear. "Get moving!"

Yuskov could hear a cacophony of noise from his left, autocannon and heavy gun fire, followed by the return fire of rockets and recoilless guns, and a deafening explosion. He knew his infantry were under attack, but he was powerless to help while he dug his tank out of the mud and rocks and sand. Determined to get things moving, Yuskov stood to assess the progress; as he did so he was aware of a thunderous rumbling overhead, like that of a freight train or a bad weather front.

"Get dow-" he yelled as he was thrown from his feet.

Yuskov landed in the shallow river and dipping under the surface for the longest three seconds of his life. As he emerged, coughing and roaring, his world was transformed into a hell of burning metal and screaming men. Struggling to get upright, he pulled himself from the soft mud of the river bed and struggled to the bank.

"To me!" He yelled to anyone who was listening. "Take cover! Hold this position!"

Yuskov ducked behind the flank of a burning T-72, frantically taking stock of the situation. His tanks were wrecked, most of his crew dead and the few survivors cowering behind anything they big enough to offer protection from the British machine-gun fire that peppered his position. His right flank was silent, second company surely having exploited the broken NATO front line, though he had no way of being sure. Over to his left he could hear the sound of an infantry assault, punctuated by more explosions. Things, he surmised, were not going well.

After an eternity, the gunfire tapered off, the shouting died down and the explosions ceased. He could hear cheering, but not what was being said as orders were shouted back and forth through the quiet night air.

"Sdacha?" he heard someone shout from beyond his personal hell, butchering the pronunciation as only a capitalist could.

"Surrender?" he muttered to himself, grimacing at the sense of entitlement. Pigs. They would have no such satisfaction.

Yuskov unbuckled his holster, extracted his service weapon, and slowly, deliberately, raised it.