[i]This is something I wrote the other day. Background information: The Fulda Gap region is located East of the town of Fulda in Eastern Germany and is of tactical significance because the terrain in the area offers relatively easy access for heavy armor from the East in the event of an invasion. This story details the flashpoint in a fictional global conflict between the European Union FORce, made up of the remnants of NATO after the United States' political collapse in 2010, and the New Eastern Bloc, made up of former Soviet countries and Russian ultranationalists.
The conflict is set sometime in 2012.[/i]
It was a great day to fly. The sky was a deep blue, without a cloud in sight. The sun was bright, and the green fields of East Germany stretched out for miles below them. European Union Force Warrant Officer Fisk Zinnemann allowed himself a moment to reflect. He decided he quite liked Germany, from its climate to its scenery. The Fulda Gap region was especially beautiful, the woods and countryside providing a nice change from the maze of suburbs and cityscape that was his native Southern Ontario. The people in the small towns here were friendly, the bars were great, and the women – he smiled to himself – had made him seriously consider extending his tour of duty.
Seized by an impulse, Fisk pulled up on the collective, pitched the nose of the Apache forward until it was perpendicular with the ground, and watched the rapid countdown on the altimeter as all 8,000 pounds of metal and Plexiglas dropped out of the sky like a stone. He felt the negative Gs push him back against his seat. The turbulence that rattled the cockpit only intensified the rush. W.O. Sohl, his gunner, yelled something unintelligible. At the last possible second, Fisk yanked back on the control stick and the chopper slowed to skim the tops of the trees. Zinnemann eased the aircraft into a hover over a clearing. He glanced at the digital altitude readout on the monitor – fifteen meters.
Sohl swore. “I wish you’d warn me before you did that.”
The pilot only laughed and gently guided the chopper below the tree line.
Zinnemann heard a burst of static over his headset. [i]Right on time[/i].
“Base Plate to Dagger One Three.”
Fisk grinned. “This is Three. Go ahead, Dagger.”
The voice of the battalion C.O. sounded weary. “That’s a twenty-five million dollar piece of equipment you’re handling there, Zinnemann. If you crash it pulling unnecessary acrobatics, you’re paying the bill.”
“Don’t worry about it, Major. I’ve got it all under control.”
“Riight.”
The transmission ended. Xsander looked back over his shoulder, grinning. Fisk shrugged. He had raised the chopper above the tree line when Sohl turned back to the console. The gunner stiffened.
“Xsander? What’s up?”
“Trouble.” The voice had lost all traces of humor.
Zinnemann automatically glanced at the MMW radar display. A long line of blips with designations representing tracked vehicles had appeared a little over seven klicks to the southwest, and they were mobile, moving in the direction of Fulda. The Longbow radar dome did not identify them as friendly.
A surge of adrenaline rushed through his system.
[i]Oh, man. This is for real.[/i]
“Dude, arm the Hellfires.” Fisk reached up to adjust his mouthpiece. “Alpha Papa Whiskey to Base Plate.”
“Base Plate receiving. Report, over.”
Fisk spoke clearly, making an effort to keep his cool.“We have detected over one hundred unknown tracked vehicles in the AO along the Czech border near Annaberg-Buchholz, heading Three-Zero-Zero. They’re not German, and they’re not ours. Over.”
“Base Plate to Air Patrol West, repeat your last, over.”
“I said we’ve got a goddamn Czech invasion on our hands.” He growled, losing his patience.
There was a long silence on the other end of the connection. Finally, the voice of the operator came back on the line, sounding shaken. “Papa Whiskey, the German border outpost near Annaberg-Buchholz has missed their last radio check and is not responding to German command.”
[i]Shit.[/i] “Requesting permission to engage radar contacts, over.”
“Request denied, Patrol. You are NOT to engage the vehicles unless cleared to do so.” Another pause. “You are to conduct a visual recon in order to positively identify the radar contacts, how copy?”
Zinnemann held his frustration in check. At least this would get him in range. “Solid Copy. Patrol out.”
Xsander broke the ensuing silence while the Apache cruised over the fields. “What the fuck, man? I didn’t think this would actually happen.”
[i]Conflict was an eventuality, really[/i]. “The NEB’s been giving us grief for some time now.” Fisk checked the radar again: Three klicks. “Can’t people just get along? God damn.” [i]Still, I have to admit that he’s right.[/i] Nobody expected the New Eastern Bloc to make the first move.
The AH-64D reached a ridgeline within a kilometer of the Czech positions. Zinnemann put it into a hover below the crest of the hill, out of sight of the advancing armored line. “Xsander, you ready?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
The pilot guided the chopper smoothly over the ridge. The green fields stretched out before them, dotted with armored vehicles.
“Base Plate, this is Papa Whiskey.”
“Receiving. Report.”
“I have positive visual ID on a battalion-sized element of Czech armored vehicles. I see T-72s and BVP-2s, how copy?”
“Solid-” Command’s transmission was drowned out by a shrill warning alarm that filled the cockpit. The tone was unmistakable. Someone had them in a radar lock.
Xsander looked over his shoulder. “Shit. Shit. They saw us!”
As if in slow motion, Zinnemann watched a trail of smoke rise from one of the vehicles and arc in their direction.
What happened next was reflexive. Fisk hit the switch to deploy countermeasures and simultaneously banked violently to the right. A cloud of radar-reflective chaff exploded from the attack helicopter and hung in the air. The missile continued undeterred in the direction of the chopper. There was no time to think. Zinnemann deployed flares again and turned on the radar-jammer as a last resort.
Miraculously, the missile changed course. Fisk watched as it streaked past the cockpit and spiraled harmlessly into the hill. There was little time for his mind to process a sense of relief, however. Twin streams of angry green tracers slashed through the air toward them. Zinnemann threw the collective wide and the chopper jumped into the air, narrowly avoiding the triple-A shells. He pitched the Apache backward and lowered it behind the ridge again.
“Base plate to Air Patrol, come in, over!”
“Air Patrol to Base Plate, the bastards fired on us! They’ve got Russian support, the Czech Military doesn’t use the Tunguska! What the fuck do I do now?”
After a short silence, the Battalion C.O.’s voice was heard over the radio. "Dagger One Three, you have clearance to engage the armored vehicles. We’re sending help your way.”
“Copy that! Be advised: they have SA-19 Grison Triple-A support!”
“Acknowledged.”
Sohl let out a low growl. “I don’t know about you, but I’m pissed now.”
“You’re weapons free, bro. Fuck ‘em up.”
[i]One thing I love about the Longbow targeting computer[/i], he reflected as the first few Hellfire missiles arced high over the ridgeline, [i]is how it does all the work for us[/i]. The Apache had already designated the AA units as the greatest threats and established a lock. All Xsander had to do now was to pull the trigger.
Six missiles later, all the enemy Anti-Aircraft vehicles within range had been destroyed. Columns of thick black smoke rose high above the burning hulks that now dotted the field. Fisk brought the helicopter once more over the crest of the ridge. Xsander’s manner was leisurely as he designated his new targets. Ten AGM-114 Longbow Hellfires were released.
They all found their marks.
It had begun.
I like it, are you planning on writing some more? :)
I like it.
I think it would make a cool part of an action (well, at least partially action-oriented) movie script.
I don't think you did enough research before writing this. It is well written but inaccurate as hell.
I like it. Please continue.
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