“Smartass...!” Thorne muttered under his breath, grinning in admiration both of the power of the vehicle’s optical sensors and of the operator’s knowledge of enemy units.
“They’re hugging the deck pretty tight, so visual is dropping in and out now in all this shit, but the range is only about ten klicks...” Mitch continued. “Just to let you know, we’ve also been tracking what looks to be a staffel of fighters loitering above the other side of the lines, keeping roughly parallel with the gunships. They’re not getting any closer but they’re definitely keeping pace with ‘em...”
“Ready to ‘run de-fence’ by the looks of it...” Thorne mused softly in reply, again consciously ignoring the fact that he’d used another American colloquialism.
“Can’t say for certain, but the readings I‘m getting from this distance suggest they’re jets... I can smoke ‘em if you give the word...”
“Not yet,” Thorne countered quickly, shaking his head. “Don’t waste missiles on them or the gunships unless we absolutely have to – we’ve got bugger-all of them as it is and they’ll have to come a damn sight closer to give us any grief. What heading are those choppers on?”
“They look likely to pass through about five klicks or so to the north based on current heading.”
“Bit close to where Eileen and the others should be for my liking,” Thorne muttered, half to himself. “Stay on the channel, Mitch, and I’ll alert the others to what’s going on. We may need your missiles yet if Eileen and Evan run into trouble, but hold off for the moment.” There was a pause, then added: “Let ‘em have it though, if any of those bastards stray within range of your guns: I’d much rather you blokes take them on rather than letting ‘em get at anyone who can’t shoot back.”
“Understood, Max... over and out...”
“Arthur, do us a favour and report the sighting back to Formidable,” Thorne requested quickly, turning his attention to Morris. “I’ve no interest in drawing them our way, but I’d be more than happy if the boys in charge were able to find a few fighters to sling our way for top cover.”
“Right away, sir…” the NCO shot back with a nod and a grin, lifting the radio headset to his ear.
F-35E Lightning II Harbinger
Somewhere over Tabuk Province, Saudi Arabia
Trumbull was a very worried man as he allowed the aircraft’s autopilot to carry him along at a steady 490 knots. At an altitude of 33,000 feet he almost believed he could see the curvature of the very earth itself across the distant horizon, although he wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him. Before him the Saudi Arabian desert was an irregular patchwork of brown and tan nothingness that was infrequently broken here and there by the pencil-thin line of some major road or dirt trail, showing marginally darker against the background of its featureless surroundings.
To his right, he could vaguely make out the patchwork of blocks and regular lines that formed the streets and houses of Tabuk, the capital of the similarly named Saudi province they were currently flying over. To his left he could see the blue gleam of the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aqaba stretching across the western horizon, stark in its shining beauty and contrast against the brown, featureless desert.
Slightly ahead and at far lower altitude he could see – if he craned his neck and stared out the port side of the cockpit canopy – the flash of sunlight off polished metal as two far larger jets also cruised on at similar speed. All three were flying far too fast to be intercepted by conventional, piston-engined fighters and as such, there was no real need for Trumbull to remain in tight formation for their protection. In any case, from that height he could easily pick up any approaching enemy on his radar from a hundred kilometres or more away and could swoop down to lower level within just a minute or two. It wasn’t the safety of the two aircraft below that was worrying him at that moment.
What was of great concern to him were the relayed radio reports he was receiving from HMS Formidable that indicated a flight of helicopter gunships were about to attack Eileen Donelson’s position near the eastern termination of the Genaiva Road, currently more than eleven hundred kilometres away: well over an hour’s flying time at current speed. Notwithstanding the fact that the mere presence of his flight – something he was instrumental in organising – was intended to be his friends’ method of evacuation, Group Captain Alec Trumbull felt completely useless.
It was becoming increasingly clear that a trap had been laid for the Hindsight leaders that now had an excellent possibility of success, and Trumbull didn’t like the chances of his reformed ‘Phoenix Flight’ making it in time to save them. That his friends would in all likelihood die or be captured within sight of safety was a dark irony he didn’t care to dwell on all that much.
“Harbinger to Phoenix-One… come in please, Phoenix-One.”
“Phoenix-One reading you loud and clear, Harbinger… what can we help you with, sir…? …Over…” The reply came from former USAF pilot Harvey Weems, seated at the controls of the C-5M Super Galaxy far below.
“I have no threats in the immediate area, Phoenix-One, nor do I consider it likely there’ll be any that can trouble either of you prior to entering Egyptian airspace,” Trumbull began, feeling he needed to give a reasonable explanation for the decision he’d just made. “Air Vice Marshal Thorne and Captain Donelson need our help urgently, and I’m going to make for their position at pest possible speed…” he paused for a moment, confident the men listening to the transmission would already be well aware of what he meant “…forcing me to leave you all unescorted for the rest of the trip, although I will of course be present to provide top cover upon your arrival at Kibrit… over…”
There was a pause, but the reply, when it eventually came, was one of measured acceptance – something he’d have expected from the fine men he’d come to know and call friends over the last two years since joining Hindsight. The general nature of the group had always been one of very casual adherence to rank and structure, and Trumbull’s advice of his decision was as much seeking permission as it was an announcement, regardless of his substantive position as commanding officer.
“Acknowledged, Harbinger… and understood…” There was another pause, and then the next transmission went a long way toward assuaging any feelings of guilt he might’ve experienced over leaving them unescorted. “Get outta here, Alec… they need you more than we do…”
“Thank you, Phoenix-One,” Trumbull replied with relief clearly evident in his tone. “Harbinger over and out…!”
Trumbull took a moment or two to reprogram the flight computer through the main display screen that was the centrepiece of the F-35’s cockpit control interface. Fortunately he’d refuelled only an hour or so earlier and his internal tanks were still mostly full, including the pair of jettisonable 600-gallon (2270-litre) drop tanks hanging beneath his inboard wing pylons like long, streamlined, aluminium cigars. The external tanks would be a hindrance to his maximum speed that he could ill-afford, but as running out of fuel prematurely would also be a substantial spanner in the works of the plan he was building, Trumbull decided on choosing the lesser of two obstacles.
He was pushed heavily back in his seat as his afterburner kicked in, the inflating air pockets of his flight suit fighting to keep up with the sudden increase in G-Forces as the aircraft began to quickly accelerate toward the speed of sound. Within minutes the F-35E Lightning II was travelling as close to its maximum design speed as he could manage: somewhere around Mach 1.2 (around 1,200 kilometres per hour). The revised flight plan would see him over the Genaiva Road target area in approximately twenty minutes: he desperately hoped that would be soon enough.
A line of P-3E Fuchs medium tanks took the lead as Wittman and the rest of the LSSAH units rumbled west along the Genaiva Road, punching a hole through to the rear of the Allied lines as regular German and Italian units ‘peeled back’ the defences on either side, securing their flanks. The Panzer Model Three, still the Wehrmacht’s primary armoured
fighting vehicle until a little more than two years ago, had now been relegated to task more befitting the role of a light tank – scouting, harassing and such like. The arrival of tanks such as the Panther and the Sherman Firefly had changed the face of the battlefield dramatically in a very short space of time, and lighter-armoured types such as the older P-3 or Cruiser tanks could no longer survive for long in such an environment.
Like most of the commanders around him, Wittman rode into battle standing upright with his upper body above the line of his commander’s hatch. Quite common with German panzer crews, the practice was more dangerous and left officers vulnerable to snipers or artillery, yet it also allowed for a much clearer view of the tank’s surroundings; something that often meant the difference in gaining a tactical advantage as combat commenced.
They were too far north to be within range of Malaya’s guns, although there were still enough Royal Artillery 25-pounders and 5.5-inch guns available to at least lay down a creditable barrage against them. Wittman flinched as a smaller explosion went off a hundred metres or so away, several pieces of shrapnel whizzing angrily past a little too close for comfort. A mortar round, he suspected rather than one of those ubiquitous 25-pounders, although there were a few of those also now adding their fire to the fray as the panzers rolled on. German rocket- and conventional artillery were pounding the Allied lines heavily in return, making life extremely difficult for the British and Commonwealth troops standing against them.
It was his peripheral vision that saved him in the end. The distant, faint muzzle flash was barely visible through the swirling dust, but one didn’t become an experienced panzer commander by missing such things and he was already allowing his body to drop back down inside the turret as the 17-pounder shell arced across a distance of over half a kilometre and slammed into the sloped glacis plate of his Panther. The armour-piercing projectile struck at an acute angle, ricocheting sharply upward and shattering itself against the turret face with most of its energy spent. The air around the tank was filled with shrapnel and fragments all the same: had Wittman not dropped below the level of his hatch in time he’d almost certainly have been severely injured, if not killed.
“PAK-kanone…!” He shouted loudly to his gunner, slamming his hatch shut and slewing his periscope around to centre it upon the unexpected target. He waited just a second or so for the built-in rangefinder to adjust before adding: “Six hundred metres… load sprenggranate…!”
His driver slowed the tank’s progress, providing a noticeably smoother ride as the turret began to turn to the right. Gyroscopic stabilisers in this new model allowed the crew to shoot on the move – a vast improvement over previous designs which required the tank to halt before firing – however the technology was still in its infancy and anything the driver could do to even out the ride made a huge difference to accuracy.
The rangefinder and the Panther’s sights were as new as the gun stabiliser and were both extremely effective. As soon as Wittman identified a target in his own periscope, the correct bearing was automatically locked into the main turret controls. All the gunner needed to bring the gun to bear was press the appropriate button and the tanks own electrical and hydraulic systems would take care of the rest. The gunner still needed to make final corrections for aim of course, but it nevertheless allowed for far quicker reaction times between first spotting a potential enemy and getting the first shell down range.
“Target acquired…!” His gunner called a moment later as the coaxial machine gun opened up at long range.
“Feuer…!”
WHAM…!
The entire tank shook as the huge gun recoiled within the turret and a cloud of flame billowed from the muzzle, sending an eight kilogram high-explosive shell down range in a streaking flare of pink tracer. The anti-tank gun disappeared in a cloud of smoke and flame a second later as earth and dust fountained skyward under the shell’s blast.
“Well done, Eric,” Wittman acknowledged softly, breathing a sigh of relief, “quick and accurate, even by your usual fine standards.” With marginally-better penetration than even their own superb 88mm L/71 gun, the British 17-pounder gun was one of the few weapons powerful enough to defeat the frontal armour of a Panther tank at closer ranges: it didn’t’ pay to allow one to send too many rounds in one’s direction in Wittman’s considered opinion, if one wanted to stay alive long on the battlefield.
“Jabo… jabo…!” The urgent warning came through on their unit radio a moment later, only seconds before the roar of piston engines was heard overhead. Even through the Panther’s thick armour, the high-pitched screech and howl of a V-12 inline engines was easily identifiable.
“Mustangs,” his loader breathed, the tone equal parts reverence and loathing as the rest of the crew could only nod in agreement.
In the sky above, a flight of North American F-1Ds swooped down low over the advancing armour then pulled up sharply, bombs falling away from beneath their wings. They clawed their way skyward once more as explosions rose among the advancing tanks and infantry to Wittman’s left, shattering bodies and destroying several armoured vehicles. Known as the Mustang Mark III in RAF service, all wore the standard light/dark brown patterns over sky blue under surfaces that was the standard RAF desert camouflage scheme. Their powerplants were 12-cylinder Packard V-1650s – a licence-built American version of the superlative Rolls Royce Merlin – and their sound, markedly different to the clatter of a radial engine, was utterly unmistakeable.
Part of RAF No.73 Squadron, they banked tightly around in two tight formations of four, gaining speed quickly now they’d lost most of the ordnance hanging beneath their wings. They came about for another pass, this time nosing down at a much shallower angle in order to bring their four powerful 20mm Hispano cannon to bear. The forces on the ground were ready for them this time however and as they drew closer, two mobile flak vehicles opened up in return with their 23mm flakvierling, firing from the rear of the armoured column.
Two Mustangs were blotted from the sky almost immediately, the P-11 Wirbelwind an infamously effective weapon against low-altitude aircraft. Another two were shot down seconds later, but not before most had strafed the advancing Axis vehicles with their cannon, spreading further carnage and devastation. The Mustangs were past then and heading off to the north at full throttle, not willing to test their luck a second time against an alerted enemy.
“Everyone sound off!” Wittman called over their unit radio, relieved by the good news as every one of his troop reported in with no casualties. He then paused for a moment as a report came in from the unit commanders to his left flank, his smile spreading markedly at the news.
“Forward scouts are reporting no further resistance, men!” He almost crowed with excitement. “We’re through! We’re through! Let’s get moving, boys: full speed ahead!”
The Panthers surged forward, forming two columns as they charged off along the line of the Genaiva Road at full throttle. Infantry fighting vehicles and trucks formed up behind them as the spearhead, having broken through the Allied line, began its push deep into the enemy rear.
“Wüstefuchs to all units... Intel reports Isolde located near eastern termination of Genaiva Road! Range approximately six thousand metres, bearing three-five-two...!”
Witzig’s alert call went out across the intercom to the rest of 1FSK and he and the rest of the lead elements immediately began to accelerate, powering away across the rocky desert at close to sixty kilometres per hour. The unit’s tight formation began to deform and elongate as the rest followed suit, forced to weave in and out of the streaming dust plumes from those ahead that significantly worsened a general level of visibility that was already poor.
It wasn’t even close to safe driving at that speed through dust-filled air across such an uneven and unpredictable surface but they forged on regardless. Men of Elite forces units were expected to put the completion of their mission ahead of their own safety, and not one of them thought twice about the danger of running ac
ross some unexpected obstacle such as quicksand or a ravine (or a minefield, for that matter) as their vehicles thundered toward the north-west at close to their top cross-country speed. Witzig, like most of his officers, had retired to the interior of the turret as the speed increased.
The ride was bone-jarring inside the vehicle, strapped into his commander’s chair, but that was nothing compared to the sudden lurches and vibrations he’d experienced while standing half out of the turret. Dust and exposure to the elements he could handle, but the constant threat of literally being thrown bodily from the hatch as a result of some sudden, wild manoeuvre or evasive action was something he wasn’t interested in risking himself for, now they were so close to their objective. They knew where they needed to be and they knew what to expect when they got there... the time for secrecy and hesitation was well and truly over.
Eileen Donelson definitely wasn’t happy about the situation. Up until approximately five minutes earlier, things had appeared to have been progressing relatively well. They’d managed – so far – to have avoided engagement and had made it halfway to Kibrit in the process. The small, mix-and-match ‘assortment’ under her immediate command had made good time – fourteen vehicles in all of varying types that included – other than the ‘core’ of Hindsight’s six GMC 2½ -tonners – several half-tracks, two dedicated anti-aircraft AFVs and two Bedford Q-model trucks pressed into a hybrid AA/AT role through the mounting of single 40mm Bofors guns on the cargo bed of each through a conversion process referred to as ‘Portee’.
All that had changed with the news from Thorne that a flight of enemy gunships had been sighted in the vicinity and appeared to be heading in their direction. They were passing the eastern termination of the Genaiva Road, slightly to the west of what appeared to be the ruins of an abandoned airfield. The remnants of two intersecting runways could be seen, running approximately south-east and north-west respectively, along with several burned out buildings, all of which were surrounded by a moonscape of bomb and shell craters of varying sizes and depths.
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 72