Air Assault
A friend of mine, Chris Ono. who is an energetic World at War gamer and designer, recently posted a new scenario at Boardgamegeek. The scenario depicts an assault by Soviet paratroops. By coincidence, just such as assault is described in an early section of the upcoming World at War novel, The Rising. Here's a small excerpt.
Colonel Michael Balakirev gazed through the open loading door of the Hip Gorbach, at the lush German valley flowing below. The hulking craft’s blades roared overhead, making conversation with the other passengers—the twelve men of his air assault battalion’s headquarters— impossible, but headphones plugged into a small, bulkhead communication station behind the pilot’s seat permitted communications with the pilot, and that was all that mattered. The headphones spoke now.
“One minute.” He looked toward the pilot, who was waving a solitary digit, confirming his statement, and glanced at his watch. They were on schedule. The same transmission was echoed through the dozen Hind-24s and Hip transport helicopters carrying his battalion. The troops would be checking the action of their AK-74M assault rifles, and tightening boot laces—tripping on exit from a hovering chopper can lead to a broken nose at best, a broken neck at worst⎯and cinching helmet straps.
Balakirev checked the map taped to his thigh against the reality slipping below the helicopter. They were in a small valley east of Tanenhause. Ahead was a ridge that marked the end of the valley. Momentarily the helicopters would pop over the ridge and swoop into the valley below. The four Hind-24 gunships in the formation leading the way, searching for, and hopefully destroying, any anti-air defenses the Germans had deployed. Balakirev didn’t expect much resistance. Bombardment of the NATO lines had started 20 minutes ago, and the first motor rifle troops wouldn’t assault for forty more minutes. Most of West Germany didn’t realize they were embroiled in the Third World War, but Balakirev and his battalion of paratroopers from the 1st Airborne Division were about to change that misconception for the citizens on Tanenhause and the all-important bridge that crossed the river west of it.
Balakirev’s stomach sank as the pilot popped the Hip over the ridge. The Hinds were already at work; their rocket’s streaming into the buildings on the outskirts of Tanenhause. Houses, which Balakirev assumed by noting the lack of return fire, contained only sleeping families. He didn’t like that thought, but liked even less the idea of a single soldier under his command dying needlessly from a lucky shot fired by a brave civilian with a hunting rifle.
The Hip was low now. Low and fast. Balakirev scanned the faces of the men filling the web seats along the interior of the Hip. The headquarters detachment included radiomen, corpsmen, specialists, and a six-man security element. Many returned his gaze, but most were busy checking their equipment and weapons. To those whose eyes he caught he smiled reassuringly. Some returned the smile, some not. Through the door, he saw the other 24 helicopters of the transport regiment skimming the German fields at tree top level. The skimming didn’t last much longer.
He saw the pilot’s lips move as the words “LZ,” cracked in his headphones. The Warrant Officer in charge of the section heard the same and was on his feet before the helicopter settled, yelling at the men, “Go, go, go!”
The section leapt from the helicopter; immediately fanning out into a perimeter, aiming their weapons at the smoking ruins that had once been middle class homes and the tree line on the opposite side of the field. Balakirev jumped from the door, his boots hitting the soft ground solidly, and sprinted to the edge of the perimeter, just as firing broke out to the north. His radioman was already there, holding out the hand phone of the R-352 radio.
The radio operator, a stout, blond-haired, blue eyed young man from Kozova, a small town in the western Ukraine, shouted in his ear to be heard over the roar of the rising Hip. “Battalion net, sir.”
He took the handset, glancing up at the receding Hips. Their job done, they were headed back to the airfield. The Hinds were still working over the forlorn rubble formerly known as the city’s outskirts, but Balakirev knew that they too would soon leave, their ammunition depleted. Sliding the handset under his helmet he spoke. “Company commanders report.”
--------------------------------------------------------
Colonel Michael Balakirev gazed through the open loading door of the Hip Gorbach, at the lush German valley flowing below. The hulking craft’s blades roared overhead, making conversation with the other passengers—the twelve men of his air assault battalion’s headquarters— impossible, but headphones plugged into a small, bulkhead communication station behind the pilot’s seat permitted communications with the pilot, and that was all that mattered. The headphones spoke now.
“One minute.” He looked toward the pilot, who was waving a solitary digit, confirming his statement, and glanced at his watch. They were on schedule. The same transmission was echoed through the dozen Hind-24s and Hip transport helicopters carrying his battalion. The troops would be checking the action of their AK-74M assault rifles, and tightening boot laces—tripping on exit from a hovering chopper can lead to a broken nose at best, a broken neck at worst⎯and cinching helmet straps.
Balakirev checked the map taped to his thigh against the reality slipping below the helicopter. They were in a small valley east of Tanenhause. Ahead was a ridge that marked the end of the valley. Momentarily the helicopters would pop over the ridge and swoop into the valley below. The four Hind-24 gunships in the formation leading the way, searching for, and hopefully destroying, any anti-air defenses the Germans had deployed. Balakirev didn’t expect much resistance. Bombardment of the NATO lines had started 20 minutes ago, and the first motor rifle troops wouldn’t assault for forty more minutes. Most of West Germany didn’t realize they were embroiled in the Third World War, but Balakirev and his battalion of paratroopers from the 1st Airborne Division were about to change that misconception for the citizens on Tanenhause and the all-important bridge that crossed the river west of it.
Balakirev’s stomach sank as the pilot popped the Hip over the ridge. The Hinds were already at work; their rocket’s streaming into the buildings on the outskirts of Tanenhause. Houses, which Balakirev assumed by noting the lack of return fire, contained only sleeping families. He didn’t like that thought, but liked even less the idea of a single soldier under his command dying needlessly from a lucky shot fired by a brave civilian with a hunting rifle.
The Hip was low now. Low and fast. Balakirev scanned the faces of the men filling the web seats along the interior of the Hip. The headquarters detachment included radiomen, corpsmen, specialists, and a six-man security element. Many returned his gaze, but most were busy checking their equipment and weapons. To those whose eyes he caught he smiled reassuringly. Some returned the smile, some not. Through the door, he saw the other 24 helicopters of the transport regiment skimming the German fields at tree top level. The skimming didn’t last much longer.
He saw the pilot’s lips move as the words “LZ,” cracked in his headphones. The Warrant Officer in charge of the section heard the same and was on his feet before the helicopter settled, yelling at the men, “Go, go, go!”
The section leapt from the helicopter; immediately fanning out into a perimeter, aiming their weapons at the smoking ruins that had once been middle class homes and the tree line on the opposite side of the field. Balakirev jumped from the door, his boots hitting the soft ground solidly, and sprinted to the edge of the perimeter, just as firing broke out to the north. His radioman was already there, holding out the hand phone of the R-352 radio.
The radio operator, a stout, blond-haired, blue eyed young man from Kozova, a small town in the western Ukraine, shouted in his ear to be heard over the roar of the rising Hip. “Battalion net, sir.”
He took the handset, glancing up at the receding Hips. Their job done, they were headed back to the airfield. The Hinds were still working over the forlorn rubble formerly known as the city’s outskirts, but Balakirev knew that they too would soon leave, their ammunition depleted. Sliding the handset under his helmet he spoke. “Company commanders report.”
Comments