Guidance

Once again, two drones—always just two at a time. The first drone had missed; Parker had miraculously dodged it on his own. But the second drone had indeed been shot down by Gao Fei, which meant Gao Fei had pulled off three miracles in a single day. Doing it once could be chalked up to blind luck. Managing it twice might be called astronomical luck. When the exact same thing happened three times in a row, though, luck had nothing to do with it. No one knew how Gao Fei managed it, but knowing he could was what mattered. Sokholov fired a round at Parker, who had just narrowly escaped death. Naturally, he didn't shoot Parker directly, but slammed a bullet into the dirt right beside the dugout where Parker was hunkered down. "Get out here! Back to your position!" If he wasn't dead, work him till he was. Reality had proven Parker served his intended purpose. Since he was useful, they would keep using him. Trembling, Parker crawled out of the dugout. With heavy, helpless steps, he walked along the trench, then suddenly looked up at the sky and flipped it the middle finger. Survivor's syndrome—feeling like he could take on God Himself. Parker returned to a spot four or five meters from Gao Fei. Glancing over at Gao Fei, who was still staring up at the sky, he said, "Thank you. You saved my life again." Gao Fei couldn't even be bothered to acknowledge him. Gao Fei felt he was starting to figure out the enemy's drone deployment pattern: at most two at a time, and only when a key position was contested did the enemy send two over. Ukraine simply couldn't pull off swarm tactics with dozens or hundreds of drones at once. If Ukraine could still casually throw a hundred drones into a small sector of the battlefield, this war wouldn't have dragged on for so long. So, this fight was winnable. He lowered his muzzle and aimed toward the enemy's position ahead. The enemy no longer dared to poke their heads out. Even their hand grenade tosses had grown feeble and sporadic. Judging by the number of hand grenades thrown, the enemy force was likely between ten and fifteen men—a very small-scale counterattack. Figuring out enemy numbers from hand grenade volume was simple. In trench warfare, hand grenades were more convenient and effective than any other weapon. Tossing as many hand grenades as possible before assaulting was standard practice, and they were thrown in simultaneous volleys. Simply observing the volume of hand grenades at peak density was generally enough to gauge the scale of the enemy attack. The number of hand grenades an infantryman could carry was limited. Normally, a soldier carried four, perhaps up to eight or ten for an assault. But unless someone was a dedicated grenadier who carried only hand grenades and no other weapons, eight to ten was the hard limit for an infantryman. Now the enemy's hand grenades were running low. The problem was, Gao Fei and his squad were running low on hand grenades too. How were they supposed to fight this battle? Lowering his voice, Sokholov spoke urgently into his walkie-talkie: "Mortars! Mortars! I need mortar support, do you copy?" Sokholov released the push-to-talk button and waited for the reply. Amid the thumping bangs of mortar fire came a hurried voice: "Get in line." Sokholov stared in disbelief. Calling for fire support, only to be told to take a number? This fire support wasn't reliable at all. Since when had even 60mm mortars become so precious? Just as Sokholov was fuming, a series of explosions suddenly erupted from the enemy position on their left. The detonations weren't especially heavy—louder than hand grenades, but only just. It turned out the 60mm mortar rounds were all falling on the position the platoon leader was assaulting. Well, there was nothing to be done about that. With only four small tubes, it was better to let the comrades leading the attack have them first. The enemy couldn't push forward, and they couldn't push across either. What now? The answer was: sit tight and stay locked in stalemate. Up to this point, no retreat order had come down, nor had any order been given to halt the assault and dig in for defense. When falling back meant desertion under fire and pressing forward meant suicide, Sokholov's only choice was to stay put and hold on. Not getting wiped out by an enemy counter-push was the greatest victory they could hope for. Unless they received artillery support, Sokholov would never lead his men into an assault. Gao Fei swept his rifle across the battlefield. Not a soul was in sight. The enemy weren't stupid; unless they had a prime opportunity, they wouldn't stick their heads out at all. Both sides had it rough, and it was hard to say who had it worse. Looked at another way, the Ukrainian forces holding off this Russian onslaught were probably exhausting every resource they had. It all came down to who received reliable support first. If the enemy's drones arrived first, Gao Fei and his squad wouldn't be able to hold out. But if the 60mm mortars could drop a barrage on this spot, the enemy would crack first. As an infantryman, there was nothing he could do right now except wait. While the broader battlefield raged with fury, this tiny sector—where the two opposing sides were separated by barely twenty to thirty meters—fell into an eerie stillness. Neither side fired a shot, neither side threw a hand grenade, and not a single shout broke the air. After enduring roughly three minutes of quiet, Andrey was the first to crack. He fired an aimless burst toward the enemy position, then turned to Sokholov. "What if we just attack?" Sokholov stared at him in utter bewilderment. In all seriousness, he said, "Do you want to die? I mean, are you dead set on dying right here?" A veteran of many battles, Sokholov had seen it all. He had lived through forced standoffs like this countless times. Accepting Andrey's suggestion to mount an attack would mean he had to be completely drunk. Yet Sokholov didn't chew Andrey out. With a man like Andrey, you could call him rash and reckless, but you could also truly call him brave. Often enough, it took someone who didn't fear death to charge the enemy lines. Cowards who feared death were plentiful; men rash and brave were few. Sokholov had no intention of stamping out that precious trait in Andrey. Finally, the thumps of exploding mortar shells ceased. Sokholov's ears had remained pricked the entire time, keeping close tabs on the state of their immediate sector. The second the explosions stopped, Sokholov grabbed his walkie-talkie and barked into it with lightning speed: "Calling for fire support! We're facing an assault by a large enemy force!" Falsifying or exaggerating battlefield reports was nothing unusual; inflating the enemy's numbers was standard practice. How else could he get the mortars to prioritize them? "Coordinates!" "I don't know! Where are your drones? Drop one round first, and I'll walk you in based on the impact point, how about that?" Sokholov was forced once again to admit he didn't know. There was nothing strange about it, and nothing embarrassing either. Directing artillery with coordinates was specialized work. If there were fixed grids and the battlefield was pre-plotted on a map, anyone could call in coordinates by spotting where the enemy was. But without fixed coordinates, trying to calculate them based on your own position and the enemy's was extraordinarily difficult. Firing one round first and then adjusting the gunners—forward, back, left, or right—based on where the shell landed was the standard infantry drill with 60mm mortars. Under normal circumstances, or when visibility was good, that worked fine. But in a situation like this, where friendly and enemy positions were intertwined at point-blank range and visibility was terrible, it was out of the question. "Wait for our drones to get airborne again." The gunner flatly rejected Sokholov's request. Sokholov didn't curse over the radio, afraid of offending the mortar crew, but the moment he released the button, he snarled aloud, "Useless sons of bitches!" His frustration was plain, and his outburst told his comrades all they needed to know: artillery support wasn't coming. Right then, Parker suddenly called out to Sokholov, "Do you not know how to direct fire? I do. Do you have an artillery map? Give me an artillery map, and I'll direct the fire for you."