Kirov Saga: Devil's Garden (Kirov Series)

by Schettler, John

  Troyak could hear the firefight beginning and knew he had to get reinforcements up or the Germans would eventually get close enough for grenades. He took a five man section and worked his way north where the position he had set up was a triangle of three buildings. A rifle squad was at the apex facing the oncoming Germans. The left base was the RPG section covering the rail yard that had taken down the German armored cars, the right base was a second rifle squad covering a coastal road and with clear fields of fire to the water. He could not lose that vital squad.

  He spoke quickly into his collar mike: “First Platoon—Move through your mortar section to the north coast and block that road! Second Platoon— displace fifty meters to your right and cover the rail yards. Get any casualties to the hovercraft.”

  The Marines moved with expert efficiency. Five man sections firing and moving to new positions on the run. By the time the Germans reached the rail yard island the Marines had shifted and were again opening up strong suppressive fire there. Wellman’s B and C platoons were soon pinned down, but to the north the German attack was building in strength. Troyak decided to repay the Germans for that artillery barrage.

  “Mortar teams—fire on the oil tanks. Saturation fires! Now!” His two 82mm tubes answered the call smartly, dropping a couple ranging rounds and then firing for effect. Soon the German advance there was being pounded, with mortar rounds striking the rusty oil tanks, burning residual oil there and sending fragments of twisted metal shrapnel in all directions. It was enough to stop the two platoons of Wellman’s recon company that had been leading the attack, and the Germans fell back. Troyak could see they were waiting for armor support, and he gave his troops a heads up.

  “There’s still two tanks out there. Be ready!”

  The Russians had taken everything the Germans had thrown at them, and the action on the inland road was equally hot and furious. There the two PT-76 tanks had engaged the oncoming half tracks, and dueled with more Panzer IIIs sent forward by Westhoven before the Russians unleashed a volley of hand held AT rockets to decide the issue. Their superior range prevented the Panzer IIIs from getting good shots on the PT-76 tanks, but Westhoven had already seen the problem and knew what he had to do. The Germans were bringing up two 88s and looking for good places to site them.

  * * *

  It was a question Commissar Molla had a very difficult time answering. How long can you breathe when I get both hands around your neck? It was very difficult to speak while you were choking, and that was what was happening to Molla now as he listened to Orlov’s last taunting rebuke.

  The big Russian had moved so quickly that the Commissar could not even squeeze the trigger of his pistol! In an instant Orlov batted the weapon aside with a sweep of his arm and had a murderous hold on the other man’s neck, forcing him back on the desk where he had been sitting and tightening his big hands on the man’s throat. Molla’s pallid cheeks quickly reddened as he strained for breath.

  “So you like to collect young girls, do you? You like blonds? You stupid piece of shit! See how you like them in hell!”

  Molla strained to escape the hold but Orlov was just too big, his weight pressing down on the smaller man, crushing him, choking the life from him. The Commissar kicked and struggled, and then the icy light in his dark eyes wavered and he went slack. Orlov held on, sneering at the man, and then released him, spitting in his lifeless face.

  “Svoloch! I came a thousand miles to do that! Rot in hell!”

  Orlov was breathing hard, yet elated that he had finally found the man he had come to kill, and finished the job. Now what? He could hear gunfire, sounds of battle, artillery rounds falling. Then he heard shouting and the sound of hard booted feet in the hallway. He had to move—think what to do!

  He lunged for his service jacket where it hung on the nearby coat racket, then suddenly hesitated. If I take that jacket with me they will be able to track and find me. He could distinctly hear the sound of AK-74s now, and knew that Marines must have landed here. But other voices outside were shouting about the Germans.

  In the barest moment he had to decide—take the jacket and all the power and wealth the information its computer could bring him, or leave it behind and embrace a life here, a man of this world, now and forever. He moved quickly around the desk to the window, forcing it up and looking outside to size up his prospects for escape.

  Marines had landed! Marines from Kirov come to find him. Were they here to rescue or arrest him for his crime of desertion? Were they here to kill him? Then he realized that no one would have any knowledge of how he had killed the helicopter pilot. All he had to do was tell them they had a fire on board and the radio was dead…tell them the controls froze and the helo was veering off course. Then the missiles came…

  What was it to be? Would he return to his old comrades on the ship; join in the fight here against the Germans and embrace his old life again? Or would he become a wolf in the fold, living among the sheep of this bygone era for the rest of his life. He would know everything that would happen, but not the details, not the dates and key times without his service jacket. He would be a prophet of doom; the man who knew tomorrow, but no one would believe him until something big happened. Then perhaps he could use his wits and make some decent money. But with the jacket he was a God. He would know everything. Svetlana could whisper in his ear and tell him what he must do, like a dark angel on his shoulder. And he would be the most powerful man in the world…

  He decided.

  * * *

  Wellman was on the radio again, screaming at Kersten to keep firing “They’re cutting us to pieces with those damn mortars. Where is your artillery? Resume firing!”

  He had worked his way north with his radio man Schmidt, following the line of the railway tracks and then dashing across at a point beyond Becker’s burning Panzer IIIs. By the time he reached the long, thin island that separated the tracks, the bulk of his II Battalion was arriving. He immediately gave orders, intent on renewing the attack.

  “Two of Becker’s Panzers are in the tank farm. Get your men in there and take the buildings beyond that clump of trees! Bewegen sie sich! Get moving!”

  Kersten answered his call with renewed fire from the 105 batteries, and now the rounds were adjusted fifty meters to fall in the open area behind the main depot. The Russian mortar teams were too exposed there, and the First Platoon mortar took a direct hit, killing everyone in the shallow earthen trench where they had set up.

  All Wellman knew was that the fire from those damn 82mm mortars had slackened, and his men were again making concerted rushes through the tank farm and into the cluster of trees that screened a triangle of three buildings from the rail yard. They managed to get an MG-42 into position, and it finally put out the suppressive fire to allow the Germans to move again.

  Grenadiers reached the edge of the wood, close enough to hurl potato masher grenades at the building where the Russian RPG team had blasted the German armored cars. It was enough to force the Russians out, and they fell back on a dark roofed building overshadowed by a tall, rusting water tank. The Marines in the forward building at the apex of the triangle had also been forced to withdraw, the MG-42 proving too effective as it chewed through the thin wooden walls. That, and the grumble of two more German tanks grinding their way down the long rows of oil tanks was enough to force that position.

  Wellman had rushed across the tracks from the island, waving on the arriving lead company of II Battalion. Men were surging up on their motorcycles, leaping to dismount and then running low, their rifles in hand and boots and equipment clattering on the cold iron rail lines. He was building up good strength now, and it would just be a matter of attrition. He lifted his binoculars to look down the rows of oil tanks, seeing his men bravely fighting their way forward, rushing from one blasted tank to the next. Then he saw something that he did not expect, a strange looking armored fighting vehicle rounding a bend in the coastal road, and beyond it, something else the like of which he had never se
en in his life. He could hear the whine of big engines, a deep roar as it came to life, a behemoth from the sea!

  * * *

  Troyak could see the same cold logic as he watched the outermost building at the apex of his flank fall to the onrushing German attack. One of the two 82mm mortars had been hit, reducing his interdicting fire and allowing the Germans to build up strength and press forward again. The ground between the main rail yard warehouse and that position was too exposed to send another squad up, and it would not be enough even if he did. He was being hit by a full company on that flank, outnumbered five to one there. It would be all he could do to get his men out now, and safely back to the hovercraft. He squeezed his collar mike and gave the reluctant order.

  “First Platoon. Execute a fighting withdrawal. Fall back on the second mortar team. Leave nothing behind!”

  What he desperately needed now was more firepower to delay the German advance, but all the APCs were engaged in the battle for the inland road where Sergeant Silenko had been holding the line with the two PT-76 tanks the BTR-50s, and another 60 Marines. All Troyak had close by was the hovercraft with its twin 14.5mm machine gun mount. Then he remembered Fedorov.

  “Fedorov! Where are you?”

  The reply came quickly in his earbud. “Look over your shoulder, Sergeant.”

  Troyak looked and saw the ZSU-23 coming around the bend in the coastal road. Firepower! He heard the turret motors whir, saw the four gleaming barrels depress and then quickly gave an order. “All teams go to ground for covering fire!”

  The ZSU began to pour it on, the big 23mm shells ripping up the building the Germans had just occupied, blasting through doors, shattering windows, riddling walls and sending wood splinters flying like shrapnel. A German tank forging a way along the rows of oil tanks was in a position to sight the Russian APC and was turning its turret to take a shot, but not before the radar guided guns found it first. The tank was jolted by a rain of metal, a sustained burst of 120 rounds that pot marked its frontal armor, leaving deep welts there, though it could not penetrate the plating reinforced to a 70mm thickness.

  The shock and concussion of being inside a metal box hit by 120 rounds was considerable, however, and it gave one of the crewmen in Fedorov’s APC just the time he needed to shoulder an anti-tank missile and send it screaming at the lead tank. The HEAT round made short work of the armor, the resulting explosion literally ripped the turret off the tank’s chassis and sent it spinning against a nearby oil tank with a loud crash.

  The Shilka had saved the moment, and Fedorov looked to see Sergeant Troyak pumping his fist as he ran up to the ZSU. “Good job Colonel! But we, can’t hold here much longer if they’re willing to trade casualties for ground.”

  “Prepare to withdraw, Sergeant. I need to check with Zykov!”

  He slipped down into the interior of the ZSU and began to call. “Fedorov to Zykov, come in. What is your status? Over.”

  There was a burst of static, and then Zykov’s voice was heard in return. “We found the camp commandant,” he said. “Quite dead, and with Orlov’s service jacket.”

  “His service Jacket?”

  “Yes, sir. Stuffed in the Commissar’s mouth. The man’s neck was broken. It was clear that Orlov may have been here, but there’s no sign of him. We’re still searching every room, but without the jacket to home in on…”

  “Keep looking, Corporal. We’re running out of time. Dobrynin has the Mi-26 back up and he says the Germans are turning the far left flank where the NKVD has been trying to hold that hill. If they get round there then they will be south of us on the road to Baku. Report as soon as you complete your search.”

  The situation was going from bad to worse. The Germans were lapping at his defensive positions like a rising tide. They had paid dearly for the small advanced they had made, but from Dobrynin’s report the force building up outside the town was at least a full regiment. Thus far the superior rate of fire from their AK-74s had been a real force multiplier in the defense, and their missiles had stopped the German planes and tanks. But the enemy was moving up their Schwere heavy weapons teams, and one of the PT-76s had been hit by an 88 millimeter round. He had to give orders to plant demolition charges, as they had planned in the event any of the APCs were hit and immobilized. They would incinerate it beyond recognition, and leave nothing usable behind.

  They were running out of time. His little invasion force had bravely defended the town, but their primary objective was still not accomplished. Damn it! Where are you Orlov? You must know we’re here for you? What in God’s name are you doing?

  Part II

  The Eagle

  “You are proud because you live in a rock fortress and make your home high in the mountains. `Who can ever reach us way up here?' you ask boastfully. Don't fool yourselves!

  Though you soar as high as eagles and build your nest among the stars, I will bring you crashing down. I, the LORD, have spoken!”

  — Obadiah 1: 3-4

  Chapter 4

  50 miles south east of Hokkaido, 1945

  Captain Yeltsin, stared at the rising mushroom cloud, amazed on the bridge of Orlan. He would not have believed it if he had not seen it with his own eyes. It was the first time he, or any of his bridge crew, had witnessed such a thing. They knew they carried the weapons in the belly of the ship’s magazines, but had never seen what they could really do when fired in anger. Everyone gaped at the horizon, awe struck.

  His destroyer was alone now, Orlan, the sea eagle, alone on the rising swells of doom. She was the first of the Project 21956 class stealth destroyers delivered just before the onset of hostilities. Yeltsin had been proud to sally forth from Vladivostok with the fleet flagship, yet now there was no sign of Kirov, and the distant, black hulk of the American battleship Iowa was the only thing on his horizon, rolling like a stricken whale.

  They built them very tough in this day, he thought. No ship of our era could have survived that blast. He remembered that the Americans had dropped a pair of atomic weapons on fleets anchored off Bikini Island to see what the effects were. Many ships survived the blast intact like this, sinking in time from slow leaks and hull damage. That battleship will undoubtedly sink as well. It is little more than a hunk of floating mangled steel now, and God go with the men who died there today.

  Yet when it was over he was amazed to see that a second wave of aircraft was still coming in from that same heading, the planes sweeping around the tall mushroom cloud as it cauliflowered up into the gloaming sky. And further out to the west there came another large group. Karpov had ordered him to cease fire so the P-900 carrying the tactical weapon would arrive safely on target. What was he planning now? Was he going to swat these remaining planes from the sky with another tactical airburst, or were they to resume conventional SAM defense? The question was moot, as the Fleet Commander was nowhere to be seen.

  He steadied himself, shaking the horror of the moment from his mind and ordered his radio man to see if they could contact Kirov for further instructions. Perhaps the ship had veered off and was lost in the haze. Yet they had nothing on radar but those damn American planes. There was no initial response but the hail continued, sounding more and more plaintive with each repetition… “Orlan to Kirov. Come in, Kirov. Requesting battle orders. Over. Orlan to Kirov. Please respond. Over. Where are you, Kirov? Please come in. Orlan to Kirov. Where are you?…

  Frustrated and knowing the enemy planes were just minutes away, Yeltsin stepped out of the enclosed armored citadel of the bridge and onto the weather deck, binoculars in hand. They had been steaming about two kilometers in front of the big battlecruiser, but when he scanned the sea in his wake, there was no sign of the ship. Kirov was gone! What had happened?

  Yes, they had felt the harsh wind from the explosion, the shock wave and swell from the sea, but even his much smaller ship rode it out easily, and there were no enemy planes in close. Could Kirov have suffered the same fate as Admiral Golovko, struck by a late fired round from the
stricken American battleship? No, there was no sign of an explosion aft, and Kirov was a very big ship. If there had been an incident, or even an accident aboard the ship itself, he would have seen something. Yet what was that strange glow on the sea? He would not have time to investigate further.

  The hard seconds ticked away, and now it struck him that Orlan was alone, and soon to be faced by a massive air attack. Time was running out. He rushed back into the bridge.

  “Air alert one! Resume SAM defense! Ready all close in defense systems!”

  The klaxon howled out the alert, and within seconds the first sleek SAMs were ejecting again from the ship’s forward deck, streaking wildly into the sky to seek and destroy the American planes. The roar of the missiles continued, one after another, the skies streaked by ribbons of smoke as they sped away on hot white tails. Then he heard the low, distant drone of many engines, saw the blue specks in the sky drawing ever nearer amid the roiling explosion from his lethal SAMs

  Perhaps a hundred planes massed above Iowa had been swept to oblivion by that detonation, but there looked to be another hundred behind them, veering left and right around the angry mushroom cloud and still bravely bearing down on his ship.