Cold Allies
“It was a huge sound, the noise God might have made rending the sky in two.
“Major Shcheribitsky!” Lt. General Baranyk shouted, emerging from his BRDM scout just as the dun grass before him blossomed into fire. A heartbeat later, tardy as thunder to remote lightning, came the dull boom-booms of the strikes.
“Major Shcheribitsky! What is our position?”
But the major was already out of his tank, shouting into his radiophone.
The spread of Ukrainian vehicles, fragile dots on the ocean of grass, was caught in a tempest of red and black, a sudden fall hailstorm of flame and deep-throated sound.
No. This can’t be, Baranyk thought. Everything was out of position. The Arab National Army should be east of him someplace, sandwiched between his own regiment and General Ilschenko’s. Baranyk should be flanking the enemy, not riding directly into their line of fire.
Baranyk’s BTR-80 personnel carriers were still loaded, the majority of the infantry providing convenient cannon fodder.
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