* * *
“Steady…” said Kymchek, watching tensely as the ship bore down on the lumbering shape of Big Red. There it was, the nemesis that had first dropped that terrible fire bomb in the last breakthrough attempt on the Ob. He could see that Krasny was struggling to climb, the skin on one side of the nose still torn and flapping in the wind, exposing the inner duralumin framework. Up on top, the gunners on the upper platform deck were already firing at Orenburg. There were two 76mm guns there, and he could see the bright muzzle flashes, and white sideward’s directed exhaust when they fired. Two near misses puffed in red-black explosions very near the main gondola, and shrapnel rattled against the thin armor plating.
Yet now Orenburg was going to get the advantage of the first big salvo. With most of her lower gondola guns trained on Big Red. Soon the two ships would be at roughly equal elevation, and Orenburg was already trying to stop her descent to keep the elevation edge as long as possible while Big Red continued to climb.
It was the 105mm guns on the main gondola that struck the hardest blow, and they ruined Alexi Larionov’s song that day, just as the Sergeant had warned. Two shells blasted right through the nose of Big Red, one striking a duralumin girder and sending hot fragments that shredded the gas bag in a hundred places, as if a shotgun had blasted the ship at close range. The Vulcan inner linings hissed as they slowly resealed the smaller wounds, but some were too big to close—and the second round plunged right into the bag itself, exploding inside and putting an end to Alexi’s patching operation. His song was stilled, and he was dangling from his cable, a still form, blood falling from his limp body in his pendulum descent to the final cold clutch of death.
Being a completely inert gas, helium would not explode, but an explosion of that much power within the pressurized gas bag was more than enough to burst it completely open, the gas rushing out into the interior of Big Red, where there was soon more than one “squealer” on the rigging ladders. The outer canvas was permeable to the gas, but a lot got into the ship before it vented, leaving crewmen dizzy and disoriented. Yet that was the end of the ship’s attempt to get on an even keel with Orenburg. Only the other ship’s great momentum prevented it from stopping its descent, but it was slowing rapidly, as more helium was pumped from reserve tanks to increase buoyancy.
There was a moment, with the two ships no more than 300 meters apart, where it looked like Orenburg would slip down right into the waiting fire of all those big lower gondola guns on Big Red. Kymchek’s eyes widened, and he could see the enemy gunners training the barrels of their rifles as high as they could to try and fire.
“Vent emergency water ballast!” he yelled at the top of his voice, and Captain Grankin echoed the order. The ship seemed to drool water, but the sudden loss of weight was enough to lift the nose and get it climbing again. The two dogged top gunners on Big Red had scored a hit, damaging the gun pods on the aft gondola. Better there than the gas bags, thought Kymchek. Look how our own bag busters tore open the nose of that airship!
* * *
“Big Red has taken a bad hit,” said Air Commandant Bogrov. “She’s going nose down with that one, it’s unavoidable. Looks like they lost the entire forward bag.”
“Damn,” Karpov swore. “Can’t we get more speed? We need to get in this fight. I’ve got elevation on the Orenburg now, damn Volkov’s soul. Get us over there, Bogrov!”
“We’re running full out now!” Bogrov exclaimed.
“Are there any thermobarics still on Big Red?”
“Sir?” What was Karpov thinking.
“Yes,” said Karpov, we had three canisters in those sealed barrels stowed on the bombing rack near the tail.” Karpov’s eyes narrowed. He watched the two ships battling ahead, seeing the top gunners on Big Red firing bravely, until the platform took a direct hit from a 76mm round that silenced those guns, sending a man falling wildly down along the dull red flanks of the airship, and to a sure death some 3000 meters below.
“She can’t climb, and can’t run with that broken nose forward,” said Bogrov, shaking his head.”
“Signal Captain Alenin. Tell him all hands are to abandon ship. Rocketeers!” Now Karpov was on the voice tube to the forward RS82 rocket racks in the nose gondola. “Stand Ready!”
“But Admiral,” Bogrov warned. “They can’t hit the Orenburg now. Big Red is right in the way! We’ll have to come hard to port.”
“No! Steady as she goes! Rocketeers, on my command, fire all RS82 missiles! Steady… Steady…” Tunguska was nosing down, aimed right at Big Red’s tail, with the Orenburg executing an emergency turn that brought it very near Old Krasny.
“Down elevator, five degrees!” Karpov tipped the nose of Tunguska toward his target.
“You’ll never hit Orenburg!” Bogrov warned again.
“Fire!”
There was just a moment’s hesitation from the crews below. They could see emergency hatches open on the side of Big Red’s gondolas, and men were already leaping from the airship, the first parachutes opening a thousand feet below the torrid gunfight. Karpov’s voice was harsh on the voice tube. “Fire everything you have! Now!”
The rockets hissed away, streaking right ahead, and it was clear they were going to miss the Orenburg by a wide margin, just as Bogrov had warned…
But they were not going to miss Big Red.
Chapter 27
The ground battle at Ilanskiy was heating up. Tyrenkov’s men had leapt from Tunguska at an elevation of 4000 meters, about 13,000 feet, at the high end of typical parachute jump altitudes. He had told his men to hold in free fall for no more than 30 seconds, which might limit their drift and scatter, given the wind conditions at the time. As the men leapt from the airship, their experience of forward throw imparted by Tunguska’s motion was not as strong as that from a flying aircraft, so they were soon “over the hill,” as the men described it, when their motion changed from horizontal to vertical.
These were the Siberian Rangers, Tyrenkov’s handpicked men from the very best squads of the airborne corps. They were always assigned to the flagship of the fleet, standing as Karpov’s personal guard, and Tunguska was big enough to carry fifteen squads, a full heavy company, all armed with sub-machineguns. They fell into the wind, their white chutes soon deploying for the ride to the ground. It would take him the better part of an hour to collect his men, but soon they were moving north, about three kilometers south of Ilanskiy.
Tyrenkov’s HQ squads were approaching the bend of the rail line just as the armored train was arriving ahead of the big rail guns. He fished into his pack for Karpov’s command insignia pennant, and flagged the train down. The engine slid to a noisome halt when the engineers saw the men gathered by the rail line in their dark uniforms, recognizing the Rangers at once. Tyrenkov motioned for his HQ sections to leap aboard the armored train, wanting to get to the rail yard as soon as possible. His officers had orders to bring up the Ranger Company to the railway inn as soon as possible.
When he reached the station, Tyrenkov could see the artillery batteries there, and he quickly gave them orders to move their guns further west to make room for the two big rail guns. He smiled when he saw them roll in, Siberia and Baikal, the two hammers of the east. Volkov won’t like it when I start pounding his men with those, he thought.
He took a deep breath, turning to spy the railway inn, just a few blocks east of the tracks. The debris and damage from the raid that had demolished the stairway had been cleared, and he could see that there was already a rudimentary wood frame in place, with fresh lumber cut for the project, and the first beams for the staircase itself already elevated. The old hearth had been reinforced with new brick, and remained a good reference point for determining where the alcove and stairs were to be rebuilt. The dining room was gone, but the rest of the inn was still intact, as the demolition had been very precise.
“Sergeant!” he said sharply. “We’ll set up our command post on the second floor of that inn. Signal the Rangers to form the c
ompany there. And find out what is happening on the west edge of town.”
He hastened away, waving his squads after him. When he reached the inn, he had his men clear out the small guard posted there and sent them to watch over the arriving rail guns. Then the first thing he did was unfurl the double headed eagle trimmed in gold, Karpov’s standard, indicating that he was now in personal command of all military operations here. The men in the rail yard saw it, along with the long barrels of ‘Siberia’ when the first rail gun arrived, and a cheer went up. Soon word spread along the perimeter defense of the town—Karpov was back! He was here, and the fighting resolve of the men was bolstered by the news.
Word soon came that a heavy attack had been put in on that outlying farm to the west, so Tyrenkov resolved to send reinforcements there.
“Lieutenant! That cavalry unit regrouping there—send them up to cover the causeway near the marshes, and pull the infantry battalion there out. Move them to the west edge of the town, opposite the track to that farm. And I saw a company of armored cars to the south. Have them move up the road north of Sverdlova and flank that position.”
That unit had been the recon company attached to the Motor Rifle Battalion that had left the previous day. It had 15 armored cars, nine BA-20, three BA-10, and three older BA-6. The most numerous model had been developed in 1934 from an old modified Ford motorcar chassis, a four wheeled vehicle with bullet resistant tires and light armor suitable for stopping small arms fire and shell fragments. It had poor off road performance, but mounted the same DP-28 Record Player machinegun that had been used by the motorcycle platoon in its encounter with the Tartar cavalry. In effect, it was little more than a mobile machinegun, and the nine cars had little shock value when they ran into Volkov’s well trained troops, now positioned on either side of the road.
* * *
Colonel Levkin had ordered the three companies off Admiral Gomel’s Southern Division airships to move into the attack for the farm. He then shifted the four companies from the 1st Airship Division into a wide movement aimed at slipping into the hamlet of Sverdlova. There they ran into those armored cars, and a wild scene ensued, with bullets snapping against the light armor, some penetrating, and the BA-20s chattering back with their turret mounted MGs. Neither side was doing much real damage to the other, as Volkov’s troops had little in the way of AT weaponry. Then the three BA-10s came up behind the scout cars, and the situation changed.
The BA-10 had been developed in 1938, and it had better sloped armor at 15mm on the front and turret, and a much bigger gun there firing 45mm rounds. It also had a pair of DT machineguns, so it put out considerably more firepower. The Legionnaires had not expected to face any armor here, and the three BA-10s were blasting away at houses on the northern edge of Sverdlova, forcing Volkov’s men to extend that flank around the town in a wider envelopment.
Resistance from the enemy was very strong. The tough Siberian troops had a long time to sand-bag into prepared positions in the town and, even after two strong assaults, the hardened building at the farm had not been taken. Levkin was counting on speed now. He wanted to get four companies around and through Sverdlova, and into position to make an assault on that rail yard as soon as possible. The loud boom of the railway guns had been another unwelcome surprise, and now he had a report that an armored train had come in along the rail line from the east.
Damn! He cursed his bad luck. I was supposed to have twelve heavy companies on the ground, and heavy air support overhead. Where is the fleet? They’re up there in that gathering storm, still dueling with the Siberian airships. How long before I get air support here? The Siberians are dug in deep, and my companies are reporting heavy casualties. Now we’re facing armored cars on that southern road, and even a troop of Betushkas!
That was the nickname they gave to the small light cavalry tank, the BT-7. Apparently there had been a troop of these at Kansk, and now they were also arriving on the road leading south from Sverdlova.
Six Betushkas, fifteen armored cars and a goddamned armored train in the rail yard! That will have 20mm guns, maybe even 37s. And we’ve nothing in the way of a good AT gun here at all. This attack was badly planned. The ground element was not equipped to do the job alone without support from fleet airships. I should have spoken my mind in the briefing, but it’s too late to have regrets about that now. The decision was made, and there’s no going back.
He considered what to do, his eyes narrowing as he studied his map. The only way to deal with that armored train will be to get even farther east, and fight our way to the railway inn from that side of the marshalling yards…. That is, if we even get anywhere near that rail yard. As it stands, my men are having a tough time making any real headway here.
He summoned a Sergeant, and sent him to call in his last two rifle companies off Armavir and Anapa. They had been watching the road to the west, but he thinned out that defense, leaving only the MG Platoon, and the men of the motorcycle platoon that had managed to make it to their bikes and speed away when the Tartars came charging at them. Then he heard the roar of a loud explosion, and the skies lit up with evil red fire. Something was dying in the throes of that explosion, and up beyond the rising thunderheads there was fire in the east.
* * *
The RS 82s did not miss, at least not the target Karpov had been aiming at, not the fleet flagship of his enemy, but the tail section of his own beleaguered battleship, Big Red. The cold calculation of his mind had seen what happened to Krasny when that forward gas bag was blasted open, and her nose slumped downwards, losing too much buoyancy there. They would never be able to match Orenburg in a climb now, and maneuvering with that bloodied nose was going to be very difficult. He could see the Orenburg, just 300 meters above Big Red, and executing a turn to bring all her gondola mounted guns to bear. In his mind, hardened by so many difficult hours of combat at sea, Big Red was doomed.
He allowed himself one grace, sending the order to Captain Alenin to abandon ship, and waited breathlessly until he saw men leaping from the side hatches in the gondolas. Most of the command level crew, and perhaps the gunners might get to safety, he thought. As for the riggers, bag men and engineers…
This was war.
He waited that one tense moment, nosing Tunguska down as Bogrov flapped his jaws at him, too stupid to realize what the Admiral was doing. Then he gave the order to fire his RS82s, knowing they would just have the range to hit what he was aiming at, the tail of Big Red where those three sealed canisters of highly explosive coal dust and kerosene were stored. It would not be a wide area explosion. The weapon had been designed to have its greatest effect by dispersing the dust and fuel as an aerosol first, but that was not possible. Yet the sheer power in those three canisters were going to raise hell, right beneath the huge silver mass of the Orenburg.
The resulting explosion was massive, a huge broiling flame that expanded in a hot yellow fire, deepening to crimson red and jet black smoke. The entire tail section of Big Red was obliterated, the duralumin frames there blasted to pieces, which shotgunned out in all directions as a deadly rain of metal shrapnel. They flailed against the siding of the Orenburg, tearing through the outer canvass, clanking against her metal bones and lacerating the Vulcan lined flesh of her gas bags. Some wounds would quickly re-seal, others were gashed too deep, and helium hissed out in fitful jets as the airship rolled with the shock of the explosion.
Big Red shuddered with the blast, men shaken from exposed inner girders and ladders, their lifeless bodies falling into the grey clouds below. The fireball bloomed with anger, flames eventually reaching the Orenburg, just as Karpov had hoped. He clenched his fist, his jaw tight as he watched Big Red die its agonizing death, the fires rippling from that shattered tail section, rolling forward, consuming all as they went. The men on the bridge of Tunguska stood stunned, eyes wide, jaws slack with disbelief. Bogrov was pallid with shock, and then his cheeks reddened with hot anger.
“By god! You’ve killed Big Red! You murdering b
astard!”
Karpov turned to face him. “The ship was lost! You knew that as well as I did. But look now, Bogrov. Have a good look at the Orenburg!”
The enemy flagship rolled with the shock of the explosion, fire now leaping from the torn canvass siding, and losing elevation fast from a hundred cuts to her gas bags. The broiling flames from the fire had licked one engine, and it still burned, even after the thermobaric blast had expended itself. Karpov knew that he had dealt his enemy a fatal blow. They were losing elevation, fighting fires everywhere along the ship, and now they had lost that engine as well. He could swing up over the Orenburg and blast it to hell with his gondola guns, and that was exactly what he was going to do.
They watched for one last agonizing moment, as Big Red lost all remaining buoyancy, and began to fall, her twisted metal frame still glowing red near that shattered tail. Karpov saw one of the Mishman cross himself, and gave the man a disgusted grin. Did he think god had anything to do with the fate of that ship out there, or the good men he had just sent to their miserable end? No! That had been decided by me, he thought, Vladimir Karpov. It was my order, and my hand on the tiller of fate in this hour, and god has nothing to say about it.
“Up elevator—ten degrees!” he shouted. “Ready on all main guns. Target the Orenburg and give them hell!”
The stunned crew reacted, jerking to life again, moving on reflex, driven by the hard lash of Karpov’s voice. Then the guns were firing, the black explosions puffing in the sky around Orenburg, with other shells ripping into the massive side of the ship. Tunguska had a 500 meter elevation advantage, and the battle would be short and violent.
Karpov took up his field glasses, his leather gloved hand steady as he peered at the savage fate of his adversary. Are you there, Volkov? Did you have the guts to come out here with the rest of your fleet? Then, as if in answer, he saw what looked like a round metal egg fall from the underside of the enemy ship. He followed it down, seeing a parachute deploy from its top, fluttering in the storm. Volkov! That bastard had an escape pod! It could only be him. He was fleeing his burning ship like a rat, probably hoping to get to his ground troops before my men find him. I’ve got to get down there!
Crescendo Of Doom (Kirov Series Book 15) Page 23