WW III 05 The Killing Ground by Nick Ryan

Author:Nick Ryan [Ryan, Nick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-09-27T23:00:00+00:00

The Mountaineers fanned out across the two northbound lanes of the highway and went forward cautiously. The air was thick with swarming flies and the stench of corruption was so nauseatingly foul that it was hard to draw breath. The litter-strewn blacktop had been spattered with dry blood, dead bodies and abandoned cars. McLane saw a small baby-sized shape lying face down in the gutter. He peered at it for several seconds before he realized, with relief, that it was an abandoned child’s doll.

A sudden shout from the far side of a concrete barrier brought his head snapping up and his soldiers on instant alert.

“Put your hands up, Russian bastards!” The voice was heavily accented. The speaker sounded young and nervous.

“We’re not Russians. We’re Americans.”

There was a moment of confused suspicious silence from the far side of the barricade before the voice called out again.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t give a shit,” McLane’s temper flared irritably. “I’m speaking fuckin’ American, god-damn it. Now put your gun down and quit jerkin’ me around.”

He strode boldly towards the roadblock. Behind the concrete barricade he saw three fresh-faced soldiers in what appeared to be standard Polish Army uniforms. They were pointing FB Beryl assault rifles at his chest. “I’m Lieutenant Simon McLane, 1st Platoon, Charlie Company, 2nd Battalion of the10th Mountain Division. Who are you?”

The three young Polish soldiers lowered their weapons. One of them spoke up. He looked to McLane like he was still too young to shave. He had dark nervous eyes and ginger hair sprouting from beneath the rim of his helmet.

“We’re Polish Engineer Corps,” the young sapper’s English was so heavily accented that McLane had trouble understanding. He seemed uncertain if he should salute the American officer. “We retreated north with the rest of the Army from our base in Kazun Nowy, northwest of Warsaw. We have orders to blow the bridge.”

“When?”

“At sunset.”

“You haven’t got that long. The Russians are right behind us,” McLane told the Polish sapper.

The young man gaped in shock and panic. “For certain?”

“Yes! For fuckin’ certain!” Exhaustion made McLane indignant. “There’s at least a Company of BMP-2s close behind us and probably a couple of hundred T-90 MBTs heading your way.” As if to verify his claims, the far-off rumble of Russian artillery sounded on the soft fluttering breeze. It was a noise like rolling thunder underlaid by a tenuous smaller sound that might have been diesel engines. “Where is your Sergeant?”

“He’s in the city, supervising the demolition of some smaller bridges across the river,” the young Polish soldier’s cheeks began to flush red as he suddenly realized the peril of his position. His gaze flicked nervously past McLane’s shoulder as though he might at any moment see the entire Russian Army appear on the southern skyline.

“And your Captain?”

“He is to the north,” the sapper turned and pointed into the far distance. “He’s at the Nogat.”

“The Nogat?”

“The Nogat River,” the young Polish sapper explained. “He is supervising the demolition of the bridge there.”

“There’s another bridge?”

“Of course,” the sapper said.

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