Big Red was well named at 180,000 cubic meter volume, with six 105mm recoilless rifles and another ten smaller 76mm guns. Yet it was still outgunned by the combined weight of enemy firepower. Now the odds were about to take a dramatic shift as Tunguska loomed on the scene, bringing another twenty four main guns to the battle, with half of those being the bigger 105mm caliber. To make matters worse for the enemy, Karpov had a thousand meter elevation advantage as he approached, so all his gondola mounted rifles were going to have perfect fields of fire, while the enemy could only bring its topside mounted guns to bear on him, and these totaled only six lighter 76mm guns between all these enemy ships.
Tunguska came in with a roaring broadside against the Angren, the skies about the enemy ship blooming with dark, fiery explosions. The gunners had the range, and the next salvoes were beginning to tear into the hull of the ship, the big 105s ripping holes through the outer shell, piercing the gas bags within, and blasting away fragments of the duralumin frame. Already fighting fires, the engineers climbing the interior ladders to damage control platforms, found themselves shaken and riddled with shrapnel. Some fell from their perches on the upper interior superstructure and plummeted down into the voids between the massive gas bags.
The forward nose bag had now taken so many hits that it collapsed, and the greater buoyancy of Angren’s tail set it drifting skyward, as if the airship was going into a nosedive, even though it still hung suspended in the tumult of the raging battle. Shocked by the sudden appearance of Tunguska, a ship nearly twice its size, the frantic topside gunners on Angren were turning every weapon they had on the enemy, sending thin streams of machinegun fire up in futile defiance.
“Main gondola gunners,” Karpov shouted through the voice tube to the men below. “Hold fire until all tubes are reloaded. Hit that damn ship amidships with one salvo on my command…. Ready… Fire!”
The resulting fire from all the rifles on the main gondola blasted into the heart of the enemy ship, tearing a massive hole in her side to expose the interior frame. There Karpov could see that the number three gas bag had been rent asunder, and was collapsing like a wet rag, the linings burning and soon engulfing the ship in choking black smoke. It was a fatal blow, and then there came two secondary explosions when the fires found reserve oxygen tanks. The resulting infusion of oxygen fed the flames, and the bridge crews watched the one nightmare they all secretly feared, the rapid, burning death of the airship, as fires engulfed it from bow to stern, and men fell, or leapt, from gondolas, preferring the headlong fall to the terror of a fiery death.
Angren hung in the sky, seeming to roll to one side for one brief moment, and then began to fall, the weight of the duralumin frame and gondolas overcoming all remaining buoyancy. It was now a fair fight, at least where ship numbers were counted. Yet with the loss of Angren, the captains of the two S Class ships could now clearly see that they were overmatched. Tunguska might have easily beaten them both, and though bruised and bleeding, Big Red was still throwing hard punches with its 105s.
Samarkand was the first to turn north, thinking to follow in the wake of the now distant heavy cruiser Tashkent. The Captain of Sarkand saw his sister ship turn, and knew that speed and maneuverability was now his only salvation. Both ships ran for the nearest cloud they could find, the skies about them pocked with explosions as they fled. The gunners began to cheer as the enemy turned, and Karpov smiled.
Big Red would live to fight another day. He was already re-writing the book Tyrenkov had found in that excursion up the stairs of the railway inn.
“Tyrenkov!” Karpov ordered. “Signal all ships to make for Ilanskiy. Tell them Vladimir Karpov is back, and ready for a fight!”
* * *
Kymchek stood in the open hatch to the armored command capsule where Volkov huddled. He saw the broken bottle of brandy on the deck, the sharp shards of glass a cruel microcosm of what had befallen the fleet. Volkov had thought to sip his brandy as he watched the battle in sedate isolation here, but the appearance of Tunguska had shaken the fleet to its core.
Two ships, Pavlodar and Talgar, had already been dispatched home after the initial battle that downed the enemy battleship Yakutsk. Salsk had been immolated by that dreadful fire bomb Karpov had deployed, and Sochi was smashed by those rockets. Now news came that Angren was down, Tashkent battered and fleeing north with the two S Class ships of that division.
“Samarkand and Sarkand are still battle worthy,” said Kymchek, trying to soften the blow as he reported. “They are steering for Ilanskiy as ordered, and will join our division there. If Tashkent can control her fires and stay in the fight, that will still give us six airships there when we reform. Anapa was the only ship to escape that surprise attack on the Caspian Division and got her troops down safely. She’ll join us directly.”
“Half the fleet is out of action!” Volkov blustered. “Where did Karpov come from? How did he manage to get a ship of that size in here without a single sighting from anyone in the fleet?” He shook his head, deeply bothered, his eyes moving about the confined space of the capsule as if he were a caged tiger, glowering to break free and get at his enemy. Then he clenched his jaw, a smoldering fire in his eyes beneath the thick gray hair, and reached for his map.
“What is happening on the ground?” he asked tersely.
“Most every ship was able to deploy troops,” said Kymchek. “We got 1500 men down, some northeast of Kansk, and the main body north of Ilanskiy.”
The “battalions” that the airships carried were really no more than large company sized units, though they were well armed, and among the best troops in the army. Orenburg could deploy about 200 men, with most of the other ships capable of lifting between 100 and 150. Volkov’s air mobile “division” would therefore not be much more than a single brigade in actual size, until fresh troops could be air lifted from the western front. Kymchek had warned him they would be outnumbered on the ground, with a full Siberian division occupying the area from Kansk to Ilanskiy. Yet Volkov had assumed he would quickly overpower the smaller Siberian airship fleet, and therefore have complete air superiority over the battlefield to pound the enemy from above.
The sudden appearance of Tunguska had changed all that. Now the fleet might have a hard fight when it reached Ilanskiy. They expected at least two other Siberian airships were lurking there on overwatch, the Abakan and Angara, the two ships that had successfully defended the place during the first raid mounted by Volkov, albeit with a little help from Kandemir Troyak and the heavy weapons fielded by the Russian Marines. With Krasnoyarsk and Tunguska now maneuvering to Ilanskiy, the odds were not as wide as Volkov had hoped.
“We’ll have six airships to their four,” he said darkly. “What about their ships out east?” He was asking about the Siberian eastern flotilla, where two more battleships, Irkutsk and Novosibirsk were supporting Kolchak in his uneasy watch along the frontier with the Japanese empire.
“The last word we had, as of 6:00 this morning, still had both those airships near Lake Baikal. That’s about 700 kilometers to the southeast. They might be here by dusk if they were summoned.”
“Not a very satisfactory situation,” Volkov steamed. “This will simply not do. Send to fleet command in Orenburg. I want every airship they can get their hands on mustered to a new division and heading east within the hour. Any ship that broke off and ran from the enemy here will answer to me personally, from the Captain on down through every crew station. I came here to command this damn operation, not to involve the fleet flagship in the fighting, yet now that is inevitable. We were hit back there, is the damage controlled?”
“A minor breach on the number six gas bag,” said Kymchek. “Gas volume was off fifteen percent there, but the engineers have patched it and re-inflated. Aside from some minor welding on the airframe, the ship is in good fighting trim.”
“Very well…” Volkov had a harried look on his face now. “What’s your assessment, Kymchek? Is this the place to have this fight?”
“You sound worried, Kymchek.”
“Well sir, the 11th Siberian Rifles are still down there. Karpov planted that division here last month, and they’ll have artillery. We hoped this unit would be rushed to the Ob River line after our attack started there, but at least a full infantry regiment remains here. The rail lines must be interdicted, in both directions, or we will likely see even more enemy forces arriving.”
“And the operation on the Ob River?”
“We’re still heavily engaged there. Three divisions are on the line, the last two are maneuvering north, but the Siberians have brought up the damn Tartar cavalry there. They won’t stop a regular division, but they’ll damn well slow us down. The woodlands are thick on that flank, with nothing in the area you could call a road. Our faster armored cars and lorried infantry will have a rough time there. I would not think we could count on any rapid movement east from the Ob River line, but we knew this from the outset.”
“Yes, you were quick to point that out the moment I proposed this operation. Something tells me you have been a reluctant warrior in this from the very first.”
“Sir, I will do all in my power to serve your interests and see that we prevail here… but—”
“But what, Kymchek?”
“But I’m a realist, sir. We can cut the rail lines here, tear up the tracks, but with our forces divided between Kansk and Ilanskiy, the prospect of taking the latter is not good, particularly if they do have the artillery I expect here, or even armor.”
“Armor? You said nothing of that before.”
“The 11th Siberian has a mobile element, with a full company of light tanks and two motorized rifle companies. It was in my report, and could be on the scene now. In any case, it will not be far away.”
“What kind of armor?”
“Armored cars, lighter T-60 and T-70 tanks.”
“We can stop those tanks, yes?”
“With what, sir? We brought no AT guns with us here. The men have AT rifles, grenades, and a couple 76mm recoilless rifles for direct fire support, but little else to stop an enemy tank.”
“Then we’ll hit them with our 105s from above. That was the plan from the beginning. I’m going to pound that Siberian Division all night if I have to.”
“Assuming we win the airship battle here.” Kymchek needed to say that, risky as it was. What good was his advice if he didn’t have the backbone to speak his mind?
Volkov shook his head, staring at the map, then decided something. “The plan to take the bridges at Kansk is to be scrapped. Instead that force is to simply tear up the rail lines east of Kansk and then fall back on Ilanskiy. I’ll want our entire ground contingent focused on that objective—and get that message off to fleet command. I want every airship we can find. I don’t care if we strip the entire front, by god! That bastard pulled a fast one here, and he’s not going to get away with it. I want the rest of the 22nd Airmobile division out here immediately!”
“There’s one other thing, sir—the objective.”
“The railway inn in the center of town. I want that under my thumb as soon as possible.”
“But why, sir? What is so important about that inn?” Kymchek knew it was dangerous to ask this again, but his need to understand the objective was paramount.”
“Just take it, Kymchek. I don’t care if we sacrifice every god damned squad in the brigade, but you take that railway inn! Understand? No more questions about it. Just get the job done!”
“Aye sir.”
Kymchek saluted and re-sealed the capsule hatch, leaving Volkov with his broken brandy flask and map. This wasn’t how things were supposed to pan out. I should be high above that storm, receiving reports on the ground fighting while I dined in my stateroom. Now look at me, huddled in this damn escape pod! Orenburg was never supposed to enter actual combat. I had eleven other airships with me to do that, but things have changed with the wind. Now this whole plan seems cursed. Karpov appears here out of thin air, coming right out of the heart of that storm. When this is over I’m going to find out how he managed that. In fact, that interrogation will be the only consolation I have in this affair.
Yet that ship of his… Tunguska is a match for Orenburg, and Karpov is too damn good at the helm. This could get very dangerous, and very soon, but I’m going to get to that railway inn if it’s the last thing I do.
Even as he thought that, another part of his mind realized how desperate and stubborn he was being here, and how rash and foolish. Suppose you do take the inn, it chided him, then what? Are you going to just sit there surrounded by your ground troops while Karpov summons every unit he can find within 300 kilometers of this place? And the inn itself is of no use to you now, correct? It was demolished in that earlier raid mounted by Sergie Kirov, and has not yet been rebuilt. What are you doing here? You’re making this a personal little vendetta, when you should be thinking in broader strategic terms. The Germans are about to launch their big operation against the Soviets. You should be back in Orenburg, planning how best to support that attack. Instead…
Vendetta!
Part IV
Return of the Fox
“Destiny always rings three times...”
― Muriel Barbery
Chapter 10
While Troyak and Fedorov were watching the advance of the German 7th Machinegun Battalion at Raqqah, and Karpov and Volkov were vectoring in their forces at Ilanskiy, another warrior was about to rise from the ashes of his own making. Erwin Rommel had been a chastened and brooding general at Mersa Brega, sullen as he watched his mobile troops from the 5th Light Division digging in to hard defensive positions. Memories of the last war haunted him when he saw the men stringing wire and sewing fields of mines. It was a war of trenches, and great thundering artillery, dreadful moments in the space between barbed lines of death, and then came the gas, choking, asphyxiating, maddening.
Rommel had fought with the Württemberg Mountain Battalion of the elite Alpenkorps, where he quickly showed the genius for tactics and quick thinking on the battlefield that was to be his hallmark. His audacious infiltration tactics behind enemy lines had produced astounding results at times, where in one instance he had captured 1500 Italians with a single squad of five men. Then, leading a company of just 100 men, he had unhinged the defense of an Italian strong point garrisoned by 7000 troops! The Iron Cross and the coveted Blue Max that he so cherished were just some of the fruits of that labor. But the war was not all dash and medals. It was dreadful.
It was the tank that had broken the awful, grinding stalemate of the Western Front. The first cumbersome charge of the unwieldy metal land forts was a dismal failure for the British, as shocking as it was to the German soldiers who initially faced those growling behemoths. The tanks were unreliable, slow, ponderous in the mud of the rain sodden fields. They broke down, slipped tracks, found their guns jamming in the heat of battle, and too often caught fire. But the devious minds that had conceived them persisted, and eventually they tried again, and broke through.
Within months the sledgehammer charge of armor was used to batter the deeply entrenched lines of the enemy, breaking through for the infantry to cross that deadly space that came to be called no man’s land, and win the hour. In the years between the wars, the Germans had mastered the art of armored warfare, developing tactics and methods that would prove equally shocking to the British and French when their blitzkrieg was let loose in 1940. Rommel had been one of the grand masters of the panzer divisions, the leader of the fabled 7th Panzers, the Ghost Division. It had advanced farther and faster than any other division in the campaign against France, and Rommel’s exploits, and the favor they gained with Hitler, had le
d him to this privileged position as commander of the newly formed German Afrika Korps.
He remembered his promises to the Fuhrer all too well, yet now, as he stared at his motorized infantry digging in, his shoulders slumped with unwanted resignation. Before him lay a vast desert which was the perfect open field for his fast moving shock columns of tanks, armored cars and infantry. Yet the very same weapon that had led him to fame and the heights of command here, had also been his undoing—the tank.
This time it was an enemy tank, one so awesome in its power and capabilities that it rendered his entire armored force obsolete in a single stroke. He had advanced with breakneck speed and characteristic dash in the first Libyan offensive, sending the British reeling and then driving right past their last strongpoint of Tobruk and across the Egyptian frontier. Then, at an insignificant hamlet named Bir el Khamsa, and just as he was to deliver the final blow that might lead to a breakthrough to the Nile, something came out of the deep deserts to the south that stunned his veteran troops and sent them staggering back in a headlong retreat.
Tanks, massive new heavy tanks fielded by the British that were truly awesome to behold. They were twice the size of the older Matildas, a tank that had a tough skin and was already difficult to kill with the light guns on his armor, ranging from 20mm to 50mm. Rommel had adapted by taking the superb 88mm flak gun and deploying it as an anti-tank weapon, and with remarkable results—until now. This new British tank was so heavily armored that it shrugged off hits from a 50mm gun as if they were pebbles, and was even impervious to the dread flak 88!
Look at me now, he said to himself. I told the Führer I would deliver him Libya in two weeks time, and that I did, but I could not hold it long enough to have any sense of the victory. He asked me to stop O’Connor, and that I did, but the reversal and shame of defeat has dogged me ever thereafter. These new enemy tanks are so powerful that our only recourse is to stand on defense, dig in behind wire and mines, and register every gun we have to saturate the field with artillery. It is the first great war all over again, and it is maddening to sit here like this, simply waiting for the enemy to choose the moment he will strike.
Crescendo Of Doom Page 8