Major Kirov watched through his periscope as his three lead tanks reached the edge of the runway nearest the Operations Building. Four others had gone across the runway to the east. Two had been knocked out by wire-guided missiles, but two had managed to reach revetments, where Kirov had told them to stay and wait for the final pincer across the apron, once the alleys were forced. Kirov and five more tanks were back fifty meters, keeping up heavy suppressive fire on the positions being maintained on the roof of the Operations Building.

I began my advance from the end of the runway with two tank companies, thought Kirov, and a company of motorized infantry. In an advance of 650 meters, I have lost all of the BTRs, and the infantry has to dismount into this fury of fire. I would tell them to withdraw, but where could they go? Most were now taking what protection they could behind the tanks or the knocked-out BTRs, waiting for the battle to end.

And I have lost nine main battle tanks. Four disappeared in the first fifty meters of advance, blown away by a salvo of enormous shells that hit just as the last tanks crawled from their dugout positions and advanced onto the runway. One tank was damaged and another destroyed in the lighter shelling that followed, and three were lost to those damned wire-guided missiles. Kirov felt sadness fusing into anger. He didn’t officially command these men; he didn’t even like them, but they were fighting well against everything the Americans could throw, and Kirov wanted them to win.

Kirov spotted three small, tracked vehicles as they climbed up onto the west end of runway 11/29, behind his lead elements. He recognized them as American Sheridans by their squat shape and their big-bore, stubby gun launchers, and he felt a thrill of fear. He remembered the light tanks he had seen earlier way down the runway toward Asimov. How could the Americans have got Sheridans into the air base? How many were they?

Kirov shouted a warning to the lead elements over the tank net radio, then called his own group and gave them the firing bearing. He doubted the lead tanks would hear over their own excited chatter. He squeezed the grip on his control column and took control of the turret and the gun from the gunner. The range computed at just over 400 meters, point-blank for everyone. The gun had just been fired, so he had to wait precious seconds for the automatic loader to chamber the next round. He watched as the three Sheridans fired together, and cursed as two of his three lead tanks burst into flame. The “Loaded” light in his periscope sight lit up, and he pressed the trigger. The gun bucked and the nearest Sheridan stopped dead, its turret gone. The other two Sheridans immediately reversed and dropped back over the edge of the runway out of sight. “Shit!” shouted Kirov into the microphone. “They have fighting positions off the runway! White Two and Three, turn and go after them! Green Platoon, speed your advance!” White Platoon was Kirov and the two tanks to his left, Green the three tanks on his right.

“Leader, this is White Two. White Two and Three turning to engage.”

“I will follow you. Get off the runway!”

“Green Platoon accelerating, Leader.”

Damn! We had the Americans in the crushing jaws of my tanks, cursed Kirov to himself. Now we will have to deal with the Sheridans first.