Crescendo Of Doom (Kirov Series Book 15)

by John Schettler

  Through the chaos of that moment, as the airship rolled in the sky, fires spreading rapidly to engulf its tail and rudders, Volkov heard his Security Chief shouting frantically over the voice tube to his capsule.

  “Sir! Are you all right down there?”

  “What’s happening?” Volkov had shouted back, though he knew very well what was happening. He could feel the ship shuddering in the sky, hear the hiss of helium escaping from the lacerated gas bags, feel the queasy roll of Orenburg as the flight crew struggled for control. The sight of Krasny falling from the sky was a chilling prelude to what was now about to happen to his own ship. They were going down, and Volkov gritted his teeth, his eyes searching frantically for the overhead lever that would eject his capsule into free fall so that he could escape.

  “Kymchek! I’m using the escape pod! Save yourself! Get off the ship, and by god, if you make it out alive round up every man you can find and get a security detail to my landing site.”

  He reached for the lever, never thinking a moment like this would come. He had always been above the heat of combat, immune to the violence he set in motion with his iron will. Now his pulse was rising with the thought that this emergency system had never been used before. What if it failed to operate? What if the parachute would not deploy? He could be plunging to his death at that very moment, but there was nothing else to be done.

  He found the lever, pulled hard, and was relieved when the securing clamps released, and the weight of the capsule allowed it to fall freely away from his burning ship. Agonizing seconds passed, then the sharp tug of the chute deployment stilled his fear, and he eased back, collapsing against the bulkhead and gaping out the observation window, seeing burning fragments of the chaos above falling like molten rain. A man fell screaming, then another. Some were saved as their parachutes also deployed, though he saw one chute suddenly engulfed in flames from the falling burning cinders. Crew members from both the stricken airships were leaping for their lives, each with the same hope and fear that wrenched his own chest.

  Seconds passed, and he finally realized, with great relief, that his parachutes were going to hold. The capsule was descending through a grey-white cloud, and then it broke through, allowing him to see the green rolling taiga below. All he had to do now was survive the landing.

  “Damn you, Karpov!” he swore, venting his emotion. “I’ll see that you burn in hell!” He realized now what must have happened. Big Red was the same ship that dropped that terrible fire bomb on his troops some months ago. And he had seen Karpov use the weapon again, savaging the ships of the Caspian Division and sending Salsk and Sochi to a fiery end. There must have been another bomb aboard Krasny, mounted in the tail cargo holds. My God! He fired those rockets at his own ship this time, just so he could detonate that weapon. I will never underestimate that man’s black heart and soul again!

  Down he went, falling until the capsule plunged into a stand of trees, in a wild moment of snapping branches. But the woodland actually helped to cushion his fall, which might have been much rougher had he struck some rocky clearing, or worse, fallen into a marshy tundra bog. In one last chaotic moment, he tumbled down through the stand of trees until his chute, tangled on the upper branches, brought his descent to a sudden halt. He was thrown to one side, his shoulder bruised, but then it was over.

  There, in that relative silence, he cursed his enemy a hundred times, and bewailed his own fate as he did so. How could he have allowed this to happen to him? He was Ivan Volkov, Secretary General of the Orenburg Federation! He should still be up there, high above the storm, sipping his brandy and receiving reports of the destruction of the Siberian Fleet, but Karpov, damn his soul, had literally come from nowhere to ambush his ships just as victory was within his grasp. How could this happen?

  A hundred other questions were in his mind now. What was happening on the ground? Has Colonel Levkin taken that railway inn? What about the rest of his fleet? Would they know what to do now that Orenburg had fallen.

  Orenburg, the fleet flagship, a 16 gun leviathan with 200,000 cubic meter lift… The sound he heard next was the final horrendous chaos of the falling airships. It was somewhere behind him, a terrible roar and crash of twisted steel. Then his adrenaline rushed, and instinct took over. He had to get the hatch open, get out of this damn capsule, and get to his men on the ground. Where had he fallen? Thankfully the drift of his capsule on the rising winds of the storm had allowed him to escape the pandemonium in the sky above. He looked for the emergency supply satchel—food, ammunition, water—and then he wrenched the hatch open, seeing he was perched about six feet from the forest floor, suspended by the tough straps of the parachute harness.

  He was out through the hatch, grunting as he fell to the ground. A man in his sixties now, he was never expecting a moment like this, yet here it was. He felt his old instincts for survival kick in. You’re alive! You’re on the ground now, but it is imperative you get to your men. Where in god’s name am I? First things first. I must get away from this capsule. If Karpov saw me escape this way, then it is only a matter of time before he orders every man at his command here to look for me. But what is happening at Ilanskiy?

  He listened for a moment, after the terrible sound of the falling airships had finally subsided, eyes closed. He could hear the crump of mortar fire over his right shoulder, and he turned in that direction, knowing that must be the fighting at Ilanskiy. Then he heard a much louder boom, the sound of a great cannon firing, and the thunder of its round hitting home. Good lord, he thought. Where did they get that heavy artillery? He started away, his legs stiff, but moving with the urgency of his need.

  This was far from over.

  * * *

  “What’s happened to the 2nd Battalion?” Colonel Levkin was huddled in a barn at the far edge of the farm his men had been battling for.

  “Melnik was just on the radio. They’ve run into more armor—five or six light tanks, but we weren’t expecting them.”

  “Nor those damn armored cars! Has he gotten around that hamlet?” Levkin pointed to Sverdlova, where a wide flanking movement was underway with four companies involved.

  “Not yet. Sir. They reached the road leading up to Ilanskiy, but that is where they ran into those tanks. He says there’s another column coming in from the east. They could be getting up reinforcements, sir.”

  “Which is what we’re going to need in short order. This attack looks like it will become a defense within the hour. We’re already three companies light, and even the full twelve companies were not enough to take on a full regiment. What was Volkov thinking? He promised me heavy air support, but we’re not getting it. What in God’s name is going on up there?”

  “Somebody caught hell just now sir. A big airship fell about ten kilometers to the south of the town. Maybe that’s the last of the Siberian fleet, sir. We got news that Pavlodar and Krasnodar should be here soon with two more companies. They landed by parachute half an hour ago on the road to Kansk.”

  “Good! The minute they’re assembled, have them come here. Damn! Those bastards are putting up one hell of a fight for that farm house. We need heavy weapons. We’re getting pounded by those big railway guns—another thing I warned Volkov about. Kymchek said they were still out east near lake Baikal! This is going to get much worse before it gets better. Get another message off to the Ob River attack an see if there’s any progress there. Otherwise, we need everything they can airlift, and as quickly as possible!”

  * * *

  When Karpov saw that escape pod fall from Orenburg, he knew it was Volkov. Now all he could think of was getting on the ground to capture him before he slipped away. The chaos in the sky around them slowly subsided, and he peered through his field glasses, seeing that the other two enemy airships Big Red had been dueling with had fled to the north. He smiled.

  Watching those two big monsters die like that had just the right effect, yes? We’ll see how quick they are to tangle with us now. One look at Tunguska will freeze th
eir blood!

  He took a quick mental count of the fighting thus far. He had killed two enemy ships in that first ambush, appearing right in the thick of their formation, and at perfect altitude. I could not have planned it better, he thought—then again, I did plan it! I knew I would get here. I willed all of this to be, and Mother Time had no choice but to obey, because I’ve got her by the throat again.

  Then I got that third ship, and now the fleet flagship! That’s four enemy ships destroyed, and a fifth had a bad tail fire. Tyrenkov tells me at least two others were detached earlier, or so he has learned. There still may be another four enemy ships nearby. As for my fleet, Angren took a beating in that last fight, but Abakan is still in good shape. But we’ve lost Tomsk, Yakutsk, and now Krasnoyarsk, god rest their souls. I had to do what was necessary, but Big Red did not die in vain. They took Orenburg down with them, and that may make all the difference here. Tunguska can handle any other ship they have. We’re twice the size of their battlecruisers.

  Soon he had a much better picture of their situation, his signal intercept team had been listening to enemy ship-to-ship radio traffic. Another enemy ship, Saran, had been damaged so badly that it crashed north of the town. The rest of Volkov’s fleet had been ordered to withdraw to the north.

  Good, he thought. That will give us time to pull things together. Angara was badly hit, and had to be grounded southeast of Ilanskiy, But I make the count four to two at the moment. We may get Talmenka up from the front soon to better those odds, and with Tunguska, I could probably beat those other four ships single handedly! This is looking very good.

  Then he thought of Volkov down there somewhere, possibly alive. He wanted to get on the ground, but knew that he had to remain on overwatch. The enemy could get further reinforcements as well. We’ve only faced half their full battlefleet so far. They’ve another twelve airships on their side of the line, but many may be too far away to intervene here. The thing to do now is to drive off those last four enemy airships. Only then can I contemplate getting on the ground to find Volkov.

  Tyrenkov is already down there. I must signal him at once. He can alert the Tartar Cavalry and watch the roads east through Kansk, He must do everything possible to find Volkov. But think! What would I do if I were Volkov now? First off, he’ll get to his men on the ground, but he’ll realize he’s marooned here, sharing the same fate as the men he ordered into this stupid attack. So he’ll try to get airborne again, as soon as he can. That could be why those last four enemy ships have broken off. They’re consolidating all their remaining air power into one division. Volkov might be trying to rendezvous with one of those ships.

  Yes, that’s what he has to be planning now. He’ll hover with one ship, lower a sub-cloud car to the ground level, and leave the other three on overwatch. So that means I should be able to find that bastard just by finding those last four ships of his.

  “Bogrov!” he turned to his Air Commandant now. “Deploy our Forward Topaz Radar equipment and tell Abakan to do the same. They are to form up and take the van. We’re steering north to find those last enemy airships!”

  Karpov rubbed his hands together, eager to get in the hunt.

  * * *

  Far below, Volkov had picked his way to the edge of the woodland, moving warily to the northeast towards the sound of the ground battle. He hunched behind a fallen tree, staring across a small clearing, and could see men moving there. From their uniforms he knew they were his own troops, and he started across the clearing, running as fast as he could, winded and tired when he reached the far side. Then he heard men shouting, the sound of a motorcycle revving its engine. A rider wheeled up on a motorbike, halting some fifty yards off and firing a machinegun at him!

  “Cease Fire! Damn you! This is Ivan Volkov! Now get over here with that motor bike at once!”

  The stunned rider knew one thing when he heard it—that voice, deep and threatening. He had heard it a hundred times in radio addresses, but what was Volkov doing here? He edged close, then saw a man in a plain grey uniform with red piping, and his heart skipped a beat when he recognized the General Secretary. He scooted over to the man’s side, saluting and blathering out an apology, saying he had been ordered to watch this clearing.

  “Never mind, never mind, you idiot. Where is Colonel Levkin?”

  “At the farm, sir, coordinating the attack. Just over there.”

  “Get off that bike!” Volkov would ride the rest of the way, motoring to find Colonel Levkin in a few minutes time. Every man in the headquarters was surprised when Volkov motored up to the back side of an old barn in a cloud of dust, growling like the motorbike. He would hear Levkin’s report, then get all the remaining men of the motorcycle platoon together here to form an escort and security detail.

  “What’s happening, Levkin? Have you taken that railway inn?”

  “Sir… resistance is much heavier than we expected, and we’re three companies light. Reinforcements are only now arriving on Pavlodar and Krasnodar.”

  “Those ships have returned? Good! What about Talgar?”

  “No word on that ship yet.”

  “Very well, circumstances have forced me to ground here, Colonel, but I must get airborne again as quickly as possible.”

  “We’ve lost the Orenburg?”

  “Forget that!” Volkov shouted now. “Where is Pavlodar?”

  “Sir? That ship is to the east, along the road to Kansk. They were bringing in a reserve company.”

  “Good. Tell them to hold where they are, and descend to ground level. Krasnodar will stand on overwatch. I’ll get there as quickly as possible. Signal all our other ships to move to the north and form a strong battlegroup.”

  “But sir—we need air cover here! They out gun us badly, but even with the additional troops off Pavlodar and Krasnodar, it’s going to be difficult, if not impossible, to get to the objective. We need heavy weapons! They’ve been pounding us all morning with those heavy railway guns. My companies are down to four and five squads each.”

  “Don’t worry, Levkin. I’ll get you support in due course. For now, do as I have ordered! I’ll want any man on a motor bike to meet me on that road to Kansk in ten minutes. See to it!”

  Volkov was desperately planning his escape. As for the fate of the men he had led here, that was as far from his mind now as his stateroom in the capital back at Orenburg.

  Chapter 30

  The reports were coming in to the Main Intelligence Directorate in the Kremlin, known as the GRU. First founded in 1918 by Trotsky, it had gone through many evolutions over the years, a vast intelligence network with operatives all over the world. Internally, it also competed with the KGB, NKVD, and other military intel units, but in Kirov’s Russia, the GRU was the real head of the snake when it came to military intelligence.

  It was presently led by Ian Karlovich Berzin, also known simply as “Janis,” a hard man with short cropped hair, penetrating eyes and a ruthless disposition. A former member of the Cheka, Lenin had used him to head up his “Red Terror” in the early years of the Russian Civil War before Kirov fully consolidated power and moderated those policies. He served in the diplomatic corps before the war, until he was recalled and transferred to Moscow to become head of the “Red Archives.” Stalin would have had him arrested in the purge of 1938, but that never happened, and so Berzin soon was moved from his post at the Archives to head of the GRU, and he was soon to be called “the spy of spies.”

  There in “Berzin’s Kitchen,” as the GRU was called, plots and secret operations were cooked up that often aimed at shaping the political structure of any nation designated an enemy of the Soviet Union. Spain had been so designated once, where Berzin personally intervened in the Spanish Civil War, advising the Republican forces under his code name “Grishin.” To this day, Sergie Kirov still called him that in their private meetings, for Berzin had the ear of the General Secretary from the moment he consolidated power. He was thought to be a most gifted man, with vast knowledge and insti
ncts that often seemed prescient to his rivals and foes. How he came by the information he so ably used to unhinge enemies of the state, no one knew—except perhaps Sergei Kirov himself, who often met with Berzin in a highly secure room within the Red Archives.

  A central records depot for Soviet intelligence, the Red Archives also had a secret room open only to Sergei Kirov, and a very few handpicked confederates in the Central Authority. Berzin was one of them, and there he was amazed to see the strange documents Kirov had secreted away, newspapers, books, photographs depicting a world, and a history, that Berzin could scarcely imagine. He learned that all these things had been collected by the General Secretary himself, though he was never told how Kirov had come by them. At first he believed them to be fabrications, preposterous documents dreamt up by some story teller—until Kirov took him into his confidence one day, and told him a story that changed his life forever.

  “The material,” as it was called by the two men in their secret conferences, was fantastic and unbelievable to Berzin in the beginning. Yet, he was soon convinced of its veracity when events depicted on the pages of those secret books began to take place with almost clock-like accuracy. He learned of the rise of Adolf Hitler, long before that demon ever emerged on the world scene, and he had been directed by Kirov to eliminate him.

  On three occasions, Berzin had mounted special operations attempting to find and kill Hitler, but in each case, something had happened to frustrate the attempt. They were small things, one a careless slip of the tongue that exposed an agent and blew his cover, the second a simple street accident that killed his assassin just an hour before the planned attack. The third time it had been a mere loose boot lace, which saw a man stumble, rattle a half open door, and be exposed as the saboteur he was.

  Finally, Sergei Kirov came to the conclusion that some men, through the sheer magnetism of their will, were destined to come into the world, like weeds invading a garden. Once they got rooted, and matured beyond some unknown nexus point in their darkened life histories, they became impossible to eliminate. He had managed to get to one despicable weed before it bloomed and seeded the Devil’s Garden of the emerging Bolshevik Revolution, Josef Stalin—but he could not pluck out the life of Adolf Hitler before he became the mortal threat he now was. The energy driving that man’s forward momentum along the meridians of history was simply too great.