A hero is one who knows how to hang on one minute longer.
—NOVALIS, GERMAN POET
HIGHWAY M07,
WEST OF SARNY, UKRAINE
THE NEXT DAY
The muffled thump of distant mortars and the faint rattle of machine-gun fire echoed across open fields, clearings, and small thickets of trees. Columns of oily black smoke curled above the wreckage of armored cars and downed Kamov-60 scout helicopters. Gray and white trails crisscrossing the clear blue afternoon sky marked the firing of surface-to-air missiles at fleeting targets of opportunity—reconnaissance drones and other low-flying aircraft.
Not far off the main highway, a clump of wheeled and tracked vehicles sheltered beneath camouflage netting. Slender whip antennas poked discreetly through the camouflage. Heavy T-90 tanks, mobile SAM launchers, and other armored vehicles ringed the forward command post.
A BMP-3 turned off the road and clanked into cover. Its twin rear hatches popped open. Two Spetsnaz bodyguards jumped out, weapons ready. Behind them, Lieutenant General Mikhail Polivanov, commander of the 20th Guards Army, emerged. Seeing him, the little cluster of high-ranking Russian officers standing around a map table stiffened to attention and saluted.
Polivanov, tall and barrel-chested, strode cheerfully toward his waiting field commanders and staff. “So, gentlemen, is it true? The Poles have stopped running?” he asked, rubbing his hands together.
His operations chief, a major general, nodded. “It seems so, sir.” He led the way to the map table. “Our reconnaissance units report contact with elements of Polish armor and infantry forces several kilometers west of here.” He pointed at the map.
Frowning in concentration, Polivanov bent forward, studying the terrain it showed. Even after almost three days of rapid and unopposed movement, the bulk of his tanks and troops were still two hundred kilometers east of the Polish frontier. His army’s scouts had first bumped into Polish recon units earlier that morning—lured into an ambush that had cost him a handful of wheeled BTRs and Tigr 4x4s. But since then the Poles had been steadily falling back, not bothering to make a fight of it even when the ground favored a defense.
“What is their estimated strength?” he asked.
His operations chief spread his hands. “That is difficult to say, sir. The Poles appear to be well dug in and camouflaged. Getting close enough to their positions to make an accurate count is difficult. Casualties among our scouts have been heavy. But our best estimate is that we face at least two battalions of tanks—including some of their German-manufactured Leopard 2s—and perhaps another battalion or so of mechanized infantry.”
Polivanov grinned at him. “That is good news, Eduard! Very good news!”
The other man stared back. “Sir?”
Polivanov clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, man. Don’t you see? If the Poles are digging in that solidly, and if they’re present in those numbers, then they’ve decided to make a first stand here. I was half afraid they’d keep dancing about in front of us, wheeling in and out to skirmish with our columns like Cossacks.” He shook his head. “But that’s at least a full brigade out there, according to your scouts. And no one plays hit-and-run games with that many troops.”
“The Poles could still be trying to delay us,” his operations chief warned. “If we deploy for a deliberate attack, we give them time to assemble more troops against us. But if we try to rush them now, without adequate preparation, this blocking force is strong enough to give us a real bloody nose.”
“Indeed it is,” Polivanov agreed, still smiling. “Which means my Polish counterpart has just made his first serious mistake.” Seeing the bewildered looks on their faces, he explained. “Our primary objective is the destruction of Poland’s armed forces, gentlemen. It is not the occupation of Polish territory for territory’s sake. Once we eliminate their soldiers, everything else is ours.”
He laid his hand on the map. “If they fight us here with only a brigade, we will destroy that brigade. And then we’ll advance west against an enemy made that much weaker—an enemy already demoralized by defeat. If, instead, the Poles send more troops to oppose us, they make our task later that much easier.” He shook his head. “No, gentlemen, we will do this properly. Our foes may think they have experience of war. But who have they fought lately? Only a handful of half-naked savages in Iraq or Afghanistan!”
Heads nodded at that. The Poles made much of their combat record against Islamist extremists in those two desolate, faraway countries. But those had been police actions fought alongside the Americans and other NATO allies—low-level counterinsurgency campaigns waged against ill-equipped guerrillas and terrorists. The lessons learned from those little wars would be of no use in understanding what it took to stand up against masses of Russian main battle tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, and artillery.
Polivanov’s smile grew broader. “We will teach these amateurs what modern war is really like. No matter how deep they dig in, we will first pulverize them with fire and then obliterate them with shock action.”
“We could hit the Poles with air strikes first,” his operations chief suggested. “If the air force cut the roads behind them with bombs, they would be trapped and unable to reinforce or to flee. And then another wave of our fighter-bombers could smash their defenses from the air as we advance.”
For the first time, Polivanov’s smile faded slightly. “Moscow does not want to commit the air force to further offensive action—not while our flying comrades are still trying to figure out what went wrong last night.” He shrugged. “They’ve sworn they’ll keep Polish combat aircraft off our backs, but, for now, this war is all ours.”
“So we bring up the guns,” another of his officers realized.
“That’s right, Iosif,” Polivanov agreed. “And our rocket batteries.” He looked around the circle of his subordinates. “Shake out your leading tank and motor-rifle brigades into combat formations on either side of the highway, gentlemen. And bring up the artillery. I want the guns up far enough to pound every square meter the Poles hold.” He traced deployment zones on the map. “Once everything is set, we’ll blow the hell out of them with a massive barrage and then send the tanks and infantry forward to finish the job.”
His operations chief checked his watch. “That will take some hours, sir. Siting the artillery could take until dark. Perhaps even longer.”
“It can’t be helped,” Polivanov said. He shrugged again. “If I have to trade time for more dead Poles, I’ll do it gladly.”
Several hundred meters in front of their prepared defenses, a small band of Polish soldiers crouched beside the burned-out wreck of a Russian BTR-80. They were here to guard their commander, who had insisted on coming forward himself to see what the Russians were doing.
Major General Milosz Domanski lay propped up on his elbows among the rows of tread- and tire-flattened stalks of corn, studying his enemy’s movements through binoculars. Thick clouds of dust hung over the distant woods, fields, and little villages, gradually spreading north and south as columns of Russian tanks and BMP infantry fighting vehicles deployed off the highway. He narrowed his eyes. From the amount of dust they were churning up, he would guess the Russians were swinging at least three full brigades into attack formations.
Another officer wriggled forward to join him. “We have new reports from those Iron Wolf scouts, sir.”
“And?”
“Captain Schofield says the enemy is deploying large groups of self-propelled guns, towed howitzers, and Grad rocket launchers close behind their motor-rifle troops. He counts more than two hundred artillery pieces, so far—with more coming up the highway all the time.”
Domanski grinned. “The Russians are buying it. Polivanov is setting up for a deliberate attack.”
“And wasting all that precious fuel?” his subordinate mused. Main battle tanks like the T-72s and T-90s burned through more than two liters of diesel fuel for every kilometer they drove—and a lot more when moving off-road. The T-80s still in the Russian inventory were even bigger fuel hogs.
“It’s not just the fuel, or even the added wear and tear on their tank treads and engines,” Domanski said. He lowered his binoculars. “Polivanov is following doctrine to the letter. Which means he’s going to hammer us with his guns first.”
“Two-hundred-plus artillery pieces firing six to eight high-explosive rounds a minute is going to make this a very uncomfortable place, General,” the younger officer murmured.
Domanski nodded. “So it will, Krystian.” He clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “All the more reason to follow our plan, eh? Let the Russians blow the hell out of a few square kilometers of empty Ukrainian soil while we watch the fireworks from a good safe distance back down the road.”
“Not entirely empty soil,” the other man reminded him. “Once the shelling starts, our screening forces are going to take casualties.”
The Polish general sighed. That was true enough. Although his Russian opposite number might be acting as though he were a prisoner of his nation’s military doctrine right now, he wasn’t an idiot. The Russians would keep probing his defenses right up to the last possible moment. And if their recon troops penetrated far enough to see that the Poles had pulled back, Polivanov would call off his planned barrage—saving all those thousands of precious shells for another battle.
To keep the enemy in the dark, a few of his troops—elements of the 1st “Varsovian” Armored Brigade and the 21st Podhale Rifles Brigade—would have to hold their ground, continuing to destroy or drive off Russian scouting parties with tank and guided-missile fire. But no matter how well dispersed they were or how fast they retreated when the time came, some of those Leopard 2 tanks and KTO Wolverine armored personnel carriers were going to take hits. Which meant a number of young Poles under his command were going to die tonight.
Domanski’s mouth tightened. So be it. But that was all the more reason to make sure the Russians paid even more dearly for their “victory.”