Altered States -Volume III. Hinge of Fate

Chapter 11

There was a dry clink, and Symenko jumped as the hammer of Karpov’s revolver snapped down on an empty chamber. Karpov smiled, seeing the look of real fear on Symenko’s face now.

“The other five chambers all have bullets,” he said as he fixed Symenko with that same evil grin. He knew damn well that Volkov would have never sent a rabid dog like Symenko out as a courier boy. No. And all that talk about losing his appointment to the Governorate was a nice little sob story. He had his suspicions about Pavlodar moving south like that, and Symenko had just confirmed them, along with a good hint at what was soon to transpire on the southern border zone. Could he be believed?

The Lieutenant rushed in when he heard the gun clink, his eyes wide. He saw Symenko slouched in the chair, breathing hard, a look on his face like a trapped animal.

“Get him to the brig,” said Karpov. This man was too useful to kill just now. “Then get the spy basket ready and signal the Alexandra that their Captain is returning.”

What happened next was planned from the very moment Karpov had news of these air contacts. He knew he had to act quickly, because a third contact had been spotted and it could be here within the hour, changing the odds considerably. For the moment, he had the advantages of both position and surprise, and he was going to use them while he could.

“A pity you won’t be able to see what I’m about to do to your airship,” said Karpov. “Good day, Symenko-at least for me.”

He was up and out of the briefing room, his footsteps hard on the metal grid of the keelway as he hastened forward to the main bridge. He was down the ladder quickly and ready to fight.

“Admiral on the bridge!”

“All guns manned and ready, Bogrov?”

“Aye sir. Shells chambered and guns trained on the targets. We couldn’t miss if we tried.”

“Very good. In a few minutes we will begin lowering the spy basket to return Captain Symenko to his ship. He’s in the brig, but no one down there will know that. Lower it right down on that open gun platform so it blocks their line of fire. The moment that basket comes in reach of their crew, we open fire. Signal the gun crews. All batteries fire on code red! Be ready on that signal flare.”

“Aye sir! Code red.” Bogrov nodded to a Lieutenant, and the order was quickly piped down to the gun pods beneath the gondolas. He had his ship hovering perpendicular to the Alexandra so he could bring every gondola gun to bear on the target. He had a big 105mm recoilless beneath the bridge gondola, three 76mm guns under the main gondola amidships, and two more of those on the aft gondola. Six rounds were going to be a most unpleasant advantage in the opening salvo, and Bogrov was correct, at no more than 200 meters range they could not miss.

Down went the spy basket, even as word was passed via field phone to the upper gun platform on top of the ship: Ready on signal flare one. A young mishman was fitting the red tipped round to his flare gun, waiting for the order, and then the phone rang again. He looked smartly to the gun master, who nodded. “Red, red, red!”

The sound of Abakan’s broadside split the silence with a loud roar. Six rounds blasted into the cotton canopy stretched over the duralumin airframe of Alexandra, penetrating easily and exploding deep within the ship. Not even the Vulcanized gas bags could close a wound from a high explosive shell in that caliber. Alexandra shuddered under the blow, sheets of her envelope fabric torn and set afire, gas bags penetrated and venting their precious helium, shrapnel cutting men down on ladders and lacerating the interior ballonets with a hundred tiny cuts.

“Drop ballast!” Karpov shouted over the action of the guns. “Full retraction on that spy basket. Fire for effect!”

Now both ships seemed to belch white falls of water from the ballast tanks on the undersides, which fell in a grey rain seeding the clouds below. Abakan immediately began to rise, intending to stay well above her adversary, even as the open top gun deck on the Alexandra desperately trained and returned fire with the two 76mm recoilless rifles there. With the spy basket now clear, the second volley from Abakan struck her foe again, and two guns hit that platform, killing every man there and silencing Alexandra’s only reprisal unless she could gain parity in altitude.

But that would not happen. Karpov smiled as he watched the gun duel through his field glasses. There was a moment when the aft 20mm AA gun on the enemy ship was able to rake his central gondola with a burst of fire, but then the big 105mm gun under the bridge scored another direct hit on the brow of the enemy ship.

“That’s the way!” Karpov shouted. “That’s my big bag buster!” He could see that there was now severe damage forward on the Alexandra where the 105 had ruptured at least two main gas bags with that last shot. Even though the elevator controls were desperately trying to get the ship’s nose up, and Alexandra was bleeding more ballast forward, the ship’s tail was much lighter. The airship’s nose tipped downward, and the tail rotated wildly off axis as it careened up, riddled by continuing gunfire.

They put fifteen holes in the outer canvas in the first three minutes. Smoke bled from the nose of the ship, and her big tail fins seemed to jut obscenely up, the rudder moving to try and control the airship’s wild turn. Then one of Abakan’s 76mm guns put a round right into the aft port engine near the tail, and it exploded in angry red and yellow fire. Karpov clenched his fist when he saw the propeller blown clean away, still spinning wildly as it plummeted down and away from the ship.

The spy pod was finally hauled up, and Karpov smiled to himself. A pity I didn’t just put Symenko in there so he could see what I did to his ship, he thought.

Now he turned his field glasses north to see what was happening with Angara in its engagement with the Oskemen. His ship had the advantage of surprise, but that battle was still raging. That stiff prick, Symenko had talked about, Captain Petrov, was better than he expected. He had been ready on all ballast tanks and he dumped everything at once in a desperate emergency drop to try and rapidly gain altitude. He had his nose up, engines full out, good elevator control, but it wasn’t going to be enough. His ship still had nearly a full contingent of troops aboard, and it was just too sluggish with all that weight. Angara was much lighter, maneuvering in a nimble, fiery dance above the other ship and riddling the enemy’s tail fins and elevators with deadly fire.

Both ships rose up into the grey sky, but Angara maintained the advantage of position, and so Oskemen decided to run. Karpov could see all six engines revving madly to gain power, and he saw the enemy ship level off, no longer trying to gain altitude it could never reach in time.

“That’s right, Petrov, you son-of-a-bitch,” Karpov breathed. “Yes! You run level when outgunned from above. You get your ass out of there.” He could see Angara revving up her engines to pursue, but that ship had risen over a thousand meters above her foe and the gunfire was now less effective. Rounds were reaching the target, but exploding above and beside the enemy ship in bright angry blossoms of fire that became blackened roses of smoke in the sky.

Karpov took one look at the Alexandra, burning forward, belching smoke from her wounded brow, flames devouring the cotton canvass envelope. He knew that ship was finished. We must have ruptured half her gas bags, he thought. They’ve lost all buoyancy and gone critical. That ship is going down.

Alexandra had dropped too much ballast trying to climb, and now he saw men flinging equipment overboard in a desperate attempt to halt their descent, but with a full battalion still aboard the loss of buoyancy had become fatal. They could try to jettison their spy baskets and cargo lifts, thought Karpov, but it will still do them no good.

There came a terrible hissing sound, and Karpov knew that the other ship had opened all their emergency pressurized helium tanks and were pumping it into any gas bags that were still intact. Then he heard another explosion, and saw the side of the ship burst open, revealing the duralumin frame like the bare metal ribs of an animal that had been flayed alive. A man dangled from one of the girders, then fell, a tiny speck vanishing into a cloud below with a fading scream.

“They blew a main gas bag amidships!” said Bogrov. “Tried to pump in too much reserve helium! They’re finished now.”

“All engines ahead full!” Karpov shouted. “Come fifteen points to starboard! Let’s get after the Oskemen!”

He took one last look at the Alexandra, seeing the ship falling like a stricken whale descending into the depths of the sea of clouds. It was a long way down. They were up over 4500 meters, and the ship was now going into an uncontrolled descent, nose down, trailing black smoke as it vanished, swallowed by the cloud deck.

The thrum of Abakan’s engines was a loud roar now as the airship hastened north. Karpov could see that Angara had halted her rapid ascent by venting helium to her reserve tanks and pumping air to the ballonets. Now that airship had leveled off and was also running in pursuit of the Oskemen, about 1500 meters above the enemy ship and an equal measure behind.

“Range to Oskemen?” He looked at his gun director and had an answer soon enough.

“Sir! I make it 5200 meters, and we’re closing.”

“He’s going to dive, Admiral,” said Air Commandant Bogrov. “He’s going to try to get into that cloud deck.”

Yes. Petrov was another sort. He had the nose of Oskemen down, and slipped deftly into the thickening mist. Once masked by the clouds their gunfire would not be able to sight on the target. Damn, thought Karpov. Now we will need to track them on radar. I must get to work with a way to radar control these guns.

“Topaz system! Call out enemy contact by range and bearing.”

“Sir! I have the range at 5000 meters, bearing 290.”

“Gun Master. Fire on those coordinates. We may not hit anything, but we can damn well let them know we are coming. Signal Angara. Tell them to drop a thousand meters elevation.”

They were gaining on the unseen contact, but Karpov knew his fish might easily slip off the line. At this rate Oskemen could run half an hour or more before we might make visual contact to get guns properly trained again. Petrov might even get down below the deck to prevent that unless we come down to look for him. That could be dangerous in this weather… and there is still that third ship to worry about out there. The bastard is good. He’s done everything I would have done and he just might slip away.

The roar of Abakan’s engines was fearfully loud now. The men huddled in their heavy woolen coats, dark Ushankas crowning their heads with the flaps pulled down over their ears, warming them as they muffled the sound. The airship vibrated with the urgency of its labor, and then the engine status board lit up with a bright red light. Bogrov’s eyes flashed as he scanned the board.

“We just lost number six engine!” he shouted over the din. He knew engineers and mechanics were already running to the scene, and they would have men out from the aft gondola hatch and down the ladder to that engine in no time, but it would be bitter cold at this elevation. They were over two and a half miles up!

“That won’t be fixed any time soon,” he said with a shrug.

“What’s our airspeed?”

“80KPH, and we’ll hold that with the other five engines running full out.”

“Topaz operator, are we closing?”

“Range 4800 meters, but holding steady, sir.”

Bogrov shrugged. “They’ve still got six good engines, but they’re heavier than we are. At this rate it will be a long chase if we can hold onto them. We’ve certainly got a fuel advantage. Angara is much closer. They should be able to catch the bastards.”

“There’s a third ship out there somewhere, Captain. Any readings? Is our fighter still shadowing?”

“No sir. They had to return to Krasnoyarsk.”

“He could be leading us right to that number three ship. What do you figure they have, Bogrov?”

“Anyone’s guess sir, but they did have the flagship in the western region for that conference at Omsk.”

“Orenburg? That’s Volkov’s ship, and he wouldn’t send it out on a mission like this.”

Or would he, thought Karpov? It was clear Symenko had more in his orders than the delivery of that diplomatic pouch. That’s why I should have shot the bastard the minute I knew he was lying through his teeth. Was he playing for time with that delivery, time for that third ship to come in at high elevation on us? No time to find out now. I’ll deal with him later. Then the Topaz operator called out a position update.

“Sir, I think he’s descending. We’re closing on his position, but the actual range being reported is out of sync. That can only mean he’s losing altitude.”

“Very well.” Karpov had to decide what to do. Should he go down after this ship? What could he be up to? Think! Then he realized what Oskemen was trying to do. He wants to offload his troop contingent. He’s too damn heavy to maneuver in a gun fight, and if he gets those men landward he can also climb much easier if he needs to do so. But he’ll have to hover to deploy his cargo basket and put squads down. There’s no way he could do that if we’re close. It doesn’t make sense.

“Shall I order Angara to get down after them, sir?” Bogrov was waiting, his eye on the altimeter board. They still had no reading on that third ship. If they both went down after the Oskemen, then that unknown contact could come in on top of them and turn the tables with the same advantage that had just sent the Alexandra to a fiery death. One of his ships would have to stay at good elevation to prevent that. He decided.

“Alright, order Angara to descend and pursue. We’ll remain up here on overwatch.”

It was the only decision he could make given the circumstances, and he hoped that the moment Oskemen hovered to debark her troops, the Angara would be able to catch the damn ship in the act and make short work of her.

But it would not happen that way.

Already 3000 meters below them, well beneath the grey cloud deck. Petrov’s men were standing in tense lines all along the main gondola, their rifles shouldered, eyes grim and set. A loud warning claxon blared and a ripple of movement animated the troops. A gunnery sergeant bawled out an order. “Hook up! Ready on red!”

The light came on and the men heard the aft gondola hatch open as another alarm bell rang. The Sergeant yelled out an order. “ Go!”

The first men took three brisk steps and were out through the hatch, leaping from the gondola at 1500 meters. One after another the two lines shuffled tensely forward, the boots of the soldiers loud on the deck plating as they moved, grunting with exertion. The battalion was one of the specially trained air mobile units of the 22nd that Symenko had unwisely named during his interview with Karpov. It was parachute trained, and soon the skies were blooming with soft white chutes, like a school of a hundred jellyfish drifting in the sea, with the great, whale-like shape of the Oskemen high above.

Even as they fell, they could see the smoke rising in the distance from the place where Alexandra had crashed to earth in a fiery wreck. But many men on that ship had leapt to safety this same way, and they were already assembling into makeshift squads, and rushing for the cover of nearby trees in small groups. Only two companies made it off in time. The rest went to a fiery doom. Yet as the sun began to lower on the horizon there would be five elite companies on the ground, all assembled and ready to head south for the place they had been ordered to strike that day.

Ilanskiy.