WWIII 3.Fort Suicide by Nick Ryan

Author:Nick Ryan [Nick Ryan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-07-28T22:00:00+00:00

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The lead Battalion of Russian T-90 tanks crashed across the Polish border and rumbled towards Szelment in three lines with about a hundred meters between each tank. As they descended the gentle slope and reached the wide pan of the valley, the formation became ragged as some tanks leaped eagerly ahead of the rest. Once the first tanks reached the outskirts of the village, a line of BMP-2 armored personnel carriers appeared. The APCs crested the skyline, seemed to pause for a heartbeat, and then followed the T-90s down the slope. In the strengthening light of the new dawning day the entire horizon became filled with surging Russian armor.

Suddenly the forest that had concealed the advance enemy force of tanks and APCs erupted with a howl of roaring noise and movement. More tanks and more enemy BMP-2s swarmed from the dense stand of woods in a tight column, snaking north once they cleared the tree line and making for a road that skirted the rim of the valley and ran directly towards the ruins of Becejty.

Guy Ponting watched the approaching storm of enemy armor and felt the insects of his fear crawl along the flesh of his arms. For a moment he stared, stunned and debilitated by sheer disbelief, as his mouth turned dry and a cold sweat of foreboding washed over him. RTO Skinner came splashing through the mud, carrying a hand-held radio. He was red-faced with panic and breathing hard. His eyes looked wild and hectic.

“Can’t raise Company HQ, Lieutenant. The line to Becejty is dead,” Skinner blurted. “I got on to Battalion but it’s a madhouse. From what I could make out on the radio, the Russians are attacking along a ten-mile wide front. A German Bundeswehr Company four clicks to our north just reported contact with a Russian Battalion of T-72s supported by motorized infantry.”

Ponting nodded grimly, trying to visualize the tactical situation. He was about to give Skinner a new radio message to relay when the skyline east of the COP suddenly lit up with a hellish glow of flickering red light.

“Take cover!” Sergeant Harley’s voice boomed.

A moment later the air overhead filled with the shriek of incoming artillery fire and the world turned ominously dark.

The first Russian artillery rounds landed on the forward-facing slope of the outpost, tearing apart the earthen rampart and showering the men in their trenches with clods of mud and flung rocks. One round left a crater ten yards wide in the soft dirt and shook the ground so that, to the men cowering deep in their trenches, it felt like the aftershock of an earthquake. The monstrous roar of the explosion filled the air with grey swirling smoke. Then the rounds began to fall like a relentless downpour of rain, pummeling the knoll with a succession of mighty hammer-blows.

One round landed on the tangled perimeter wall of C-wire and cleaved open a five-yard-wide breach in the flimsy barricade. Another exploded next to the Humvee, destroying the vehicle in an oily ball of fire.

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