Firestorm: Red Thunder

Iron Division, A Squadron

HQ - Chieftain Mk. 7 (x1); 2nd Lieutenant K. Alexander, Officer Commanding

1 Troop - Chieftain Mk. 7 (x3); Sergeant S. Beckett, Commanding

2 Troop - Chieftain Mk. 7 (x3); Sergeant R. Adams, Commanding

Recce Troop - Scorpion CVR(T) (x4); Sergeant C. Montgomery, Commanding

Guided Weapons Troop - FV438 Swingfire (x2); Sergeant S. Cairns, Commanding

[See attached army list for full points values]

Sergeant Ross Adams paused to rub his strained eyes before returning them to the green glow of his commander's nightsight. No-one inside the Chieftain main battle tank dared say a word for fear of distraction; the Russians were expected at any moment. Their battlegroup had been ordered to take up more defensible positions in the early hours of the morning, so the decision from the OC had been to pull back across the branch of Leine river they had been tasked with protecting, taking up positions in the areas surrounding a local manor house.

Russian aircraft had already made apparent attempts on A Squadron. Ross, commander of 2 Troop, had narrowly avoided being flattened when multiple bombs struck the hamlet they were positioned near, reducing buildings in an instant to collapsed shells, and turning the open field just beyond it into a cratered moonscape. No-one had been hurt, and quite what the Russians were aiming at wasn’t clear, as empty farmland across the river had been struck, too. The battlegroup’s recce element was dispatched soon afterwards to chase off any potential enemy forward units, though Ross personally thought it unlikely they had hung around to watch the bombs fall.

Edinburgh, Ross’ command tank, was concealed alongside the other two tanks of 2 Troop amongst the smouldering ruins of the hamlet, overlooking the approach to a narrow stone road bridge that had escaped destruction. The bombs had actually done them a favour, ironically enough, and opened up better lines-of-sight across the river for his tanks.

They had been hunkered down for a little under half an hour when Ross finally caught sight of them, five grainy squat shapes rolling into view on his nightsight.

‘Contact!’ the Sergeant exclaimed in a hushed tone. ‘T-72s coming down the road, line abreast. They’re expecting trouble.’

Ross reached down and flicked to the squadron command net. ‘Hello Hotel-Zero-One, this is Alpha-Two-One, contact, contact, I have T-72s moving in strength towards my position, how copy, over.’

‘Hello Alpha-Two-One,’ the command net buzzed back almost immediately. ‘Understood. Wait for them to hit those mines, Ross. Over.’

Ross knew the plan. The sappers had heavily mined the approaches to the two bridges in the AOP after the battlegroup had pulled back, and the tanks of A Squadron were set up in ambush ready to pounce when the Russians rolled into the trap - or fired first. Ross hoped for the former. He switched to his troop command net and issued targets to his teams in preparation, before switching back to the crew channel.

‘Target,’ he said into his mic. ‘T-72 on left, nearest the wood, fin, on.’

‘Fin, lasing,’ was the reply from his gunner. A beat, and then: ‘On.’

‘Steady now, wait for my signal.’

The T-72s rumbled forward cautiously. The urge to fire as they crept closer to the bridgehead was almost unbearable. Ross was anticipating the first detonation of many anti-tank mines when the unthinkable happened. The few leading T-72s stopped. An eternity seemed to pass before anything happened; and when Ross saw five 125mm guns swing slowly towards him, his blood ran cold. He opened his mouth to bark the fire order when the first rounds struck - an awful cacophony of sound that threatened to shake the old Chieftain apart. They were still alive, though, and it was time for plan B. Ross repositioned himself in his seat and returned to his nightsight.

‘Fire!’

The Chieftain’s L11 gun replied, slamming back in its cradle. Ross clenched his teeth as the 120mm fin round found its mark, flames bursting from the T-72’s turret as its onboard ammunition began cooking off.

‘Target stopped! Next, T-72 on immediate right of previous, fin, on.’

‘Target, lasing – on!’

‘Fire!’

Boom. The second target blew apart more spectacularly than the last, lifting the entire turret from its ring in a massive detonation. Two other T-72s were slain before Ross could even give the targeting command, as his other teams – still in the fight – returned fire. The sergeant switched to his troop net.

‘All Alpha-Two callsigns, this is Alpha-Two-One. Continue engaging, and withdraw to secondary positions, copy, over.’

Ross received two affirmatives from his tanks, which meant they were still mobile.

‘Alright, let’s get the hell out of here.’ He switched back to his crew. ‘Driver, move to secondary, combat speed; gunner, continue engaging, target at your discretion.’

Ross was about to switch to the command net when he picked up movement on his nightsight: more T-72s moved through the gloom, the light from their burning comrades dancing across their hulls eerily in the green hue. There were flashes, and an instant later a bone-shaking series of explosions as finally the Russians took their toll. Ross felt his Chieftain lurch violently to a shuddering halt. A moment later and his driver came over the net – frantic – and complained he couldn’t get the tank moving. They’d been hit, and they were a sitting duck. He checked his periscopes for signs of his troop, but all he could see outside was smoke, dust and blazing fire. Options buzzed through his mind, but he knew what had to be done now. They had done their part, and now it was time to leave.

Ross began giving the order to bail out, but the words had only barely left his mouth when a final 125mm round buried itself in the command tank’s armour and detonated, wiping out 2 Troop of A Squadron for good.

2 Troop's effective defence of the battlegroup's right flank was a costly one in tanks and trained men, but the fighting there was but a small part of the overall battle. 1 Troop’s Chieftains had been tasked with defending the north-western road and the bridge beyond. As before, Royal Engineers had mined the road bridge hastily after the battlegroup had pulled back, and this would act as both lethal trap and signal that the Russians were on their doorstep. The three tanks of 1 Troop were set up carefully just behind the crest of a prominent hill; with a sparse wood to their front and an open country road to their left, his teams had a good firing position, their tanks hull down and camouflaged well – the most lethal vegetation in Northern Germany, the joke had been. Their exposed left flank was being screened by a unit of Scorpion CVR(T)s that had been attached to the squadron from command, which were currently aggressively patrolling somewhere out in the low light of the early morning.

The squadron command tank, Hotel-Zero-One, idled nearby to 1 Troop, sheltered at the base of the shallow rise in terrain. The 2nd Lieutenant in charge was listening intently to radio traffic, all slow orders and repeated requests for reinforcement. Get in line, was the 2nd Lieutenant’s thoughts. He had already put in for the guided weapons troop to be loaned from command, as his tanks were thin on the ground, and all the mines in the world wouldn’t slow down a Russian armoured column for long. They had already lost their mechanised company to C Squadron further down the line, though he had to remind himself that those boys didn’t have the luxury of good defensive terrain that he had. In any case, the Swingfires were on their way, he had been assured, and a plan put in place with each of his troop commanders should Ivan attempt a crossing. His recce element of Scorpions was ordered back to better cover the left flank with 1 Troop, and were expected back by dawn. He was about to risk a yawn when his radio burst to life.

‘Hello Hotel-Zero-One, this is Alpha-Two-One, contact, contact, I have T-72s moving in strength towards my position, how copy, over.’

Unbeknown to 1 Troop and its HQ, Soviet BMPs had sneaked up to the river’s edge opposite them under cover of dark, and had begun wading across. In front of them was a wood of tall trees, helping to mask their early morning swim. Just as the first two Soviet vehicles hit dry land, all hell broke loose. The darkness downstream lit up with the explosions of cannon fire, as T-72s and Chieftains exchanged rounds across the water. The fighting attracted the attention of more than just the BMPs, who were about to have more immediate concerns pressed upon them.

‘Hello Hotel-Zero-One, this is Romeo-One-One, contact, contact, I have sight of multiple Soviet amphibious vehicles crossing at area one-dash-three charlie, permission to engage, over.’

The squadron’s reconnaissance element had returned from patrol just in time, catching the Russian IFVs with their pants down as they emerged from the cold river. A salvo of 76mm HEAT rounds were pumped into the exposed BMPs, setting them ablaze and sending their infantry complements scrambling from their burning vehicles, and into the trees at the bank of the water. The Scorpions manoeuvred into a better flanking position, continuing to harass the dismounted infantry as they took cover in the wood, but soon they came under a hail of automatic cannon fire from across the river; the curve of the road bridge provided scant cover as the rounds impacted all around them.

The recce troop leader was about to order his tracks to fall back down the road when a massive explosion silenced their assailant. The guided weapons troop had earned themselves a crate of beer, it seemed.

The fighting had lasted a little less than an hour. In the light of a clear dawn sky, Soviet armour was seen falling back to lick their wounds, and the badly shaken remnants of the Russian motor platoon cleared from the woods they had fled into.

The Swingfires of the guided weapons troop had arrived in the nick of time, accounting for a unit of Shilka anti-air vehicles at extreme range, while the Chieftains of 1 Troop successfully engaged a Soviet recce element in the fields across the Leine.

They had checked the Russian advance for now, but it had come at a price. 2 Troop had been annihilated completely, taking with it years of experience and talent. The Red Army could afford to replace its men and materiel; the British Army could not.

Shortly after the squadron consolidated its position, orders came down from above. The bridges were to be blown, and all teams pulled back towards a secondary defensive line nearer to Hanover proper. NORTHAG, it seemed, was not fairing well.

The first day of the Third World War had just begun.