War with Russia

Even as the company commander was reporting an attack on their position by unknown assailants, Vronsky was already raging to himself. “The fools! The oldest mistake and attempted cover-up in the book… A negligent discharge by a bored soldier with an itchy trigger finger, followed by return fire and a spurious contact report.”

“Stand by for the enemy to bug out,” he ordered quietly into his microphone.

The trouble was that the Forest Brothers would now try to escape away from the firing and that meant away from their ambush position. Hopefully though, they would run straight into the assault group, even now preparing to attack. The plan might have cooked off completely arse about face, but it should achieve the same result. Although, whatever happened next, Vronsky mused as he checked the safety catch on his AS Val assault rifle, there was a soldier and his officer who were never going to forget their monumental balls-up today. But that would come later. First he had to destroy this rats’ nest and capture this Englishman. He knew he could rely on his team to do the right thing, so right now, there was nothing to do but keep their heads down and wait for the attack.

And then it began.

Instead of catching them asleep as Vronsky had assumed, rounds launched from M19 60 millimeter American light mortars bought by the Latvian Army began to fall all around them, followed by long bursts from machine guns putting down deadly swathes of fire throughout the forest. And, in that moment, Vronsky realized that he had made the cardinal error of underestimating his enemy. The Forest Brothers, alert and wary as wolves, must have realized that it was almost inevitable the Russians would find them one day, so had planned their counter-camp-attack plans carefully.

While Vronsky had assumed that the bunker itself would be protected by trip wires and claymore mines, he had not anticipated the machine guns mounted on fixed tripods in the sustained fire role, so they could fire long and accurate bursts down pre-recce’d approaches to the camp, or the light mortars, already set up to fire on likely forming-up points for any attack. Even as his ambush plan went to hell in a handcart around him, the professional soldier in Vronsky acknowledged that these Forest Brothers were good; very good. They could even teach him and his men a trick or two. If they survived. But they were not going to survive. The odds were still too heavily stacked against them.

That comforting thought was brutally interrupted as mortar rounds crashed through the trees and exploded above him, sending splinters of wood from broken branches flying like deadly arrows through the air. Next moment, machine-gun rounds scythed a deadly rain of copper-jacketed, high-velocity steel all around him, while the diabolical symphony of explosions and flashing tracer cracking overhead deafened him and made it almost impossible to think. Had he been standing, or up on one knee, he would now be dead.

“Fuck,” he almost screamed to himself as he forced his body as deep into the loamy earth as possible. They had even scouted out this ambush position and set it up as a pre-registered defensive fire location for their mortars. There could be no doubt now: these guys were professionals and they’d rehearsed this response until it was faultless.

Vronsky now knew something else. Unless he moved fast he’d lose his quarry. This first response was fully planned, and that meant the next phase—their escape—would be equally well planned and rehearsed. The GPMGs would soon run out of ammunition or overheat and then the escape phase would start. However, he could do nothing but stay alive until the storm of fire had passed.

Then, just as suddenly as they had begun, the mortar rounds ceased and the machine-gun fire stopped. He lifted his head and looked left and right. As far as he could see there were no casualties, but he wouldn’t have expected any of his team to cry out if wounded anyway. Time to go.

“Prepare to move. Stand by to skirmish, then assault the camp on my order,” he spoke urgently into his radio, pausing to allow his men to ready themselves for the seventy-meter dash through the forest to the camp. “Move now!” Vronsky yelled.

He pulled himself up, his cramped, stiff limbs resisting, and dashed forward as his wingman put down fire from his AS Val assault rifle. As he did so he was aware, left and right, of two or three others moving with him; not enough though. Some of his men must be down already.

Then it was time to dive forward, roll into a firing position, take aim, spot no target but, nevertheless, fire off a couple of rounds at the forest camp; then quickly roll over and put more bursts of fire down as his wingman ran forward. As he prepared himself to dash forward again, he heard the unmistakable, high-pitched whine of a motocross bike in high gear.