Hammer of God (Kirov Series Book 14)

by John Schettler

  “A helicopter!” he shouted at a staffer. “The British have some kind of new helicopter.” He had heard of them of course, and knew the Luftwaffe was testing some experimental models, though he had never seen one—until now.

  “They are pulling their men out! I could see them on the ropes. Get hold of third battalion! I want them to attack that hill at once!”

  His quarry had sat their impudently for days, answering his tormenting mortar fire with equal fire, and daring him to try another attack. They were obviously special forces of some kind, he realized, admitting a grudging admiration for the audacity of this attack. Now they were slipping away!

  The field phones rang in Diocletian’s camp, a jarring sound in the backdrop of the old ruins. Sergeant Hermann answered, taking the order that they were to attack immediately, and passing it on to his Lieutenant. Moments later the men were up, and moving across the open ground towards the hill. The MG-34 teams were already beginning to put out covering fire.

  Up on the hilltop, Fedorov was in the harness Troyak had described, buffeted by the heavy downwash and deafening sound of the helo. Yet he heard something whiz past him in the dark, and then saw the streak of tracer rounds reaching for him. The overwatch teams began returning fire with their automatic weapons, with Troyak down on the crenulated wall barking orders and seizing a Bullpup machinegun. He stood there, implacable, like a part of the fortress itself, the weapon jutting from his hip as it belched hot gunfire on the advancing German infantry below.

  He could barely hear the whistles of the enemy, signaling one platoon after another to advance., and now the fire on the hill became more intense. He saw one round flash into the rotors of the KA-40 sending a shower of sparks down from above. Then he heard a deep growl, the minigun answering with its angry reprisal. He looked up to see the terrible stream of what looked like molten lead erupting from the spinning barrels of the gun, and could only imagine what it must be like to be under fire from such a weapon. Popski’s words haunted him… It was murderous.

  Then he felt a hard tug on the cable from above and he was pulled rapidly up to the helo. Four other ropes were down, and the Marines were up them with amazing speed. Then, to his horror, he saw one man fall, hit by enemy fire and shot clean off the rope. His body scudded against the edge of a stone tower, and he saw another man lunge for him, unable to reach the man as he fell. The sight of the Marine’s body falling into the deep shadows of the trench was agonizing. Then, to his amazement, he saw that Troyak had fixed a rappelling line around a stony abutment and was quickly up and over the ledge!

  My god, he thought. What is he doing? Three other Marines moved to the scene, with one man securing the line while the other two poured out fire from their automatic weapons. The German infantry was now half way up the hill, a dark tide on the pallid ground, advancing in slow rushes. If they could reach the brow of the hill before Troyak could get out of that trench…

  Then he turned when the pilot shouted something from the main cabin. “Incoming aircraft!” In a pulsing moment he thought they were now under attack by German fighters. The minigun had finally expended the last of its ammo, the barrels slowly rotating to a stop in the smoke of their own fire. Now the enemy infantry was hastening forward, and the defensive fire was slackening as the bulk of the Marines were already aboard. To men fired their assault rifles from the open hatch of the helo, and an enemy round zipped past the door—another striking the sliding hatch with a whine. Then Fedorov saw dark shapes in the sky to the west.

  Popski had been the first man up, and was in the forward cabin. Now he shouted back some most welcome news, a gleam in his eye. “I’ve just got word from those other fellows—the Argonauts! Here they come!”

  Three black shapes appeared, moving swiftly through the night like angels of death. Then they erupted with fire, each one with another minigun that raked the oncoming German tide. The men had a long cable down to the trench where Troyak had linked up the fallen Marine, Now the two men were hauled rapidly up through the downwash, and the three Marines on the tower above hitched up a canister, two men riding it up while the third, Zykov, took a last look over his shoulder before whistling for the final rope.

  The X-3s had quickly broken the attack, their fire so devastating that the German assault company seemed no more than frozen corpses on the barren hill, like human magma that had issued from the stark volcanic cone. Zykov clipped the metal C-Ring to the cable, his boot in the bottom foot harness, and up he went, the motor whirring as it pulled the last man out. Then the heavy rotors growled with renewed power, and the helo began to climb away from the tower. They were up into the covering cloud deck, the three dark angels rising with them as the helos headed east.

  Fedorov looked to where Troyak sat, with the fallen Marine still cradled in his arms. He met the Sergeant’s eyes, and saw Troyak slowly move his head in the negative. The man’s name tag was burned into Fedorov’s soul that night—SYMKOV. It was the only man they lost, but one life too many. My fault, he thought. What possessed me to think I could use these men to win the war? What did Symkov die for? He was a long time thinking about that as the helos moved east.

  Later that night, when the silence had again enfolded the land, Colonel Wolff went up the hill himself to the Fortress of Fakhr ad-Din. He had many more names to linger in his soul that night, their bodies darkening the stony hillside. He realized he had used his men like a lash, in a vain attempt to strike at his enemies as they fled. The thought that he had wasted these men was also heavy on him, but he was to receive one odd consolation when a young corporal came up the stone stairway, holding something he did not recognize.

  “What is that?” he said as the corporal saluted, handing him a long tube with an ominous looking diamond shaped end that he knew was some kind of ordnance. The corporal explained that he had found it in a lower chamber, hidden in the shadows.

  “I tripped on the damn thing before I saw it,” said the Corporal. “What is it Herr Oberst?”

  Wolff took the object, hefting it in his arms, and noting the small tube like eyepiece that was fitted on the long metal shaft. The whole thing was some three feet in length, and weighed no more than 25 pounds. He did not know what it was, but Fedorov would soon learn that it was missing—an RPG-7, with a PG-7VR Tandem HEAT round mounted on the end.

  Chapter 32

  Brigadier Kingstone was a massive angry presence at T3 when he arrived there. His operation had run into much more trouble than expected, and now he had some difficult decisions to make. He sat with Nichols, Popski and Fedorov, not knowing quite what to make of this Russian Captain. As for Popski, General Clark’s word was all he had to go on now, though the General had been taken ill in the desert, and had to be hospitalized in Palestine. So it was down to Kingstone in overall command of Habforce now, an irascible man on a good day, and this was not a good day.

  “We saw that little theater at the old Arab fort,” he said to Popski. “What sort of aircraft do you men have?”

  “I call it a helicontraption—a helicopter, General, though I can’t say I know much more than that. That big blue bird there comes off the Russian battlecruiser that’s thrown in with the Royal navy at Alexandria. Don’t know much about the others, but I’m sure glad to have them handy.”

  “Yes… We saw how they gunned down that German company trying to make that last assault.”

  “Bloody business, sir. They paid a high price for that one. The only thing is this—the damn things shoot so fast they run out of ammo in a pinch. Now they’ll have to fly back to Rutbah where they’ve stowed supplies and reserve fuel. But they’ll be back, sir. You can count on them.”

  Fedorov said something in Russian, and Kingstone gave him a sideways glare. “The Captain wants to know whether you plan to fight on here,” said Popski.

  “Does he now? And are the Russians to have their nose in all our business here?” Again the harsh look Fedorov’s way.

  Popski thought he might smooth things over, and did wh
at he could. “Begging your pardon, sir. This man here is thick as thieves with General Wavell. As you know, Wavell speaks Russian, and to answer your question—yes sir—Captain Fedorov was right there at the table alongside the General for the planning of the Syrian campaign. In fact, sir,” and now Popski leaned in very close to the General’s ear, lowering his voice. “He’s even met with the Prime Minister.” He raised his eyebrows to emphasize that point, which seemed to have some pull with Kingstone.

  “Very well,” said Kingstone. “General Clark has vouched for you, Major, so I’ll give you some latitude here. If what you say of this man is true, and he stands well with General Wavell, then he stands well with me.” Now the general extended a hand to Fedorov, shaking it firmly.

  “The Captain is fairly well versed in intelligence matters,” Popski put in.

  “That so? Then he’ll want to meet our own man, Somerset DeChair. He’s about somewhere. The two of them should get on well. But the question now, gentlemen, is what to do about this mess we find ourselves in. Now, we just got up King’s Own Rifles, so that gives us four battalions of infantry, and what’s left of the cavalry. God only knows where Glubb Pasha is, but his men amount to another light battalion. As I see it now, and particularly from your report on that German column arriving, we’re up against two good sized German units.”

  “Two regiments,” said Fedorov in English.

  “Yes, well one was more than enough. Nobody expected them out here. We knew about the single Foreign Legion battalion, and we’d be half way to Homs by now if that was all the they had at Palmyra. But German troops are another kettle of fish. Now, Colonel Nichols here is of a mind that any further move west would be inadvisable, and I tend to agree. At the same time, we’ve got another battle to the east shaping up at Dier-ez-Zour on the Euphrates. Here’s the map our man DeChair sketched out.”

  He briefed them on the Euphrates operation, indicating that two brigades of 10th Indian Division had pushed up from Iraq, with the intention of driving all the way to Aleppo, which is something Fedorov knew they had accomplished in this campaign.

  “Now the Germans in front of me at Palmyra are the 22nd Luftland Air Landing Division. We know that much. It seems they also stuck their thumb in the pie over here at Dier-ez-Zour. Another full regiment flew in by air, and it’s been reinforced in the last two days. There’s been some thought given to the idea of our pulling out here, and getting northeast to the Euphrates to help out the Indian troops. At least between both forces we might trump the enemy in at least one spot, and then we can get up north.

  “May I suggest alternatives?” said Fedorov, again in English. “Here, this town, Raqqah. It is north, yes? But any force at Dier-ez-Zour must be supplied—through this town.” He pointed to Raqqah, which was about 180 kilometers up river from Dier-ez-Zour. “Can we go there?”

  Kingstone eyed the map, thinking. “Yes… If we could manage to get up north, we’d cut Jerry’s supply off alright, except for anything they can get in by air. That won’t be much as soon as the Indian Division gets its artillery up and starts pounding the airfield at Dier-ez-Zour. I suppose if we do move north, even that movement itself might compel the Germans to withdraw up river. The problem is getting there. I see very little in the way of roads on this map, and that’s Jebel country north of Sukhnah—rugged mountains, badlands, volcanic debris and stony ground. We could get the whole column lost out there, or stuck, and without a good rout of supply. We’d only have what we can carry. Without Glubb Pasha and his scouts, I’d hesitate to move my force north. Nichols?” Kingstone wanted another opinion.

  “I like it better than trying to slug it out here. We’re a desert maneuver force. That’s our real virtue. We’ll find Glubb Pasha, wherever he is now, and Major Popski is here, both well schooled as desert scouts. And we’ve got the Captain’s helicopters out there.”

  “True, and no offence Major Popski, but have you seen that ground? It’s no place for a wheeled column, and I’ve hundreds of trucks and vehicles to look after. On the other hand, there is a relatively good road from here to Dier-ez-Zour, and it’s no more than 125 kilometers. If we leave now we could arrive there tomorrow, and possibly have a major impact on that battle. The 10th Indian Division is fighting there now, and, if we can’t fight here, then my inclination is to march to the sound of the guns. I would, however, permit a flying column to try the roads north to Raqqah, but it would have to be fast, light, and well supplied. Would your Russian Captain care to volunteer to have a look up north. If there are any prospects, I’ll hand this one off to Glubb Pasha when we find him. You can take Number 2 Armored Car Company, a battery of light AA guns on portees, and perhaps a company of the Essex Battalion. As for the rest. I think I have my mind set on Dier-ez-Zour.”

  “Very well sir,” said Popski, translating all this for Fedorov. He nodded his understanding. Then told Popski that he and his helicopters would be honored to scout the way north.

  “Good then. Let’s pull out and get moving. If we can take these two places, it will cut off the whole limb of the tree where the Euphrates is concerned. The Germans will have to fall back on Aleppo, and the only question is whether they can get there before us when they learn what we’re up to.”

  Kingstone folded his arms. “One last thing, gentlemen. What is to stop this German force here at Palmyra from getting into mischief?”

  “Where would they go?” said Nichols. “Certainly not Rutbah down south.”

  “If they tried, they might cut the pipeline to Haifa,” Kingstone cautioned.

  “Yes,” said Nichols, “but we still have troops near Fallujah and Ramadi, and we can get them there in time to stop such a move, or at least hold them off until we can do something about it.”

  “Alright,” said Kingstone. “I’ll inform Jumbo Wilson what we intend to do, and unless he’s got something to say about it, then we’re off as soon as we can pull the men together. Get anything you have north of that airfield back west. I’ll post the Cavalry as a rearguard, and will somebody find out where the Arab Legion is?”

  “We’ll have a look about when we take off to fuel the whirly birds,” said Popski.

  And so it was that the battle of attrition that was in front of them would now evolve again into a battle of maneuver, and both sides would soon be in a race to control the upper Euphrates. Fedorov felt a little better in thinking he had given some sound advice here, even if it wasn’t entirely taken, yet he had to rely on the experience of these men in the here and now. This wasn’t just a reading exercise. He realized he was well outside his history books now. There’s nothing written about this, he thought, nothing at all. But someone has to write the new book, and it may as well be us.

  “Will you be departing to resupply immediately?” Kingstone asked Popski.

  “More or less. We were four days up on that hill. The French tried us once, and Jerry tried us twice. They’ll be regretting that for some time, but we lost a man during the extraction, and the Captain wants to have a burial ceremony here.”

  “I see… Sorry we couldn’t do more. Damn Bedu raiders were nipping at the column the whole way here. ”

  * * *

  Fedorov decided to move the supply cache at Rutbah to the T2 Pumping station along the pipeline to Tripoli. The line itself had been closed since the onset of hostilities, but as each pumping station had a makeshift landing strip, a small fortified outpost, and communications back to Iraq, it would serve as a good local base for their next operation. Now they had the X-3 helos, and two platoons of the Argonauts, together with the Marines. The “Mobile Force” was reconstituted, and they could front what amounted to a well armed company, airmobile, and with the considerable support of the helicopters on attack or defense.

  The conference ended, and the Argonauts, still well armed and fueled, departed to secure T2, while the Marines gathered for a burial ceremony for Symkov. It felt very strange to them to see their comrade, born and raised in 21st Century Russia, and now laid to rest in th
e empty desert of Syria in 1941. The thought that in that future time, should it ever come, he would be born again, and walk the earth while his remains still lay buried beneath those sands, was somewhat confounding in Fedorov’s mind.

  The whole team was surprised by the unexpected arrival of Brigadier Kingstone, with a small rifle detail. He stood respectfully at the grave site and, when the burial was concluded, he nodded to the riflemen, who stood stiffly to attention. They shouldered their arms in unison, and fired three volleys into the open desert in tribute. When the salute was concluded, all the Marines felt something that they had not felt since coming to the Mediterranean sector again. They had fought, many times in this wild sojourn, but the sound of those rifles was a kind of bond between men of war that all understood, and felt deeply. Brigadier Kingstone turned to Popski, and asked him to thank the Marines for what they had done.

  “Now we’re off to make that man’s life count for something,” he said, saluting before he turned and led the rifle team off.

  Fedorov wasted no time. He wanted to depart for Rutbah immediately to load the supplies and remaining fuel, and move everything to the new base at T2. It was during that flight that Troyak decided to take inventory on the canisters they had used at the fortress.

  “Chenko… Didn’t we bring four RPG-7s along with the RPG 32s?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. But we didn’t get the chance to fire them.”

  “Oh? Well I count only three.” He turned, eyeing the men where they sat in crowded rows in the helo. After batting it around for a time to find out who was carrying what, it soon became apparent that something had simply been overlooked in the hasty withdrawal under fire at the top of that fortress.