Axis of Evil

Chapter Seventeen: Red Storm Rising

Red Army Headquarters

Nr Abadan, Iran

7^th May 1941

Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov, General of the Armies and Hero of the Soviet Union, shifted uncomfortably inside his uniform in the blazing heat. It had been one reason why he’d been pushing for the invasion to begin; his men became far less effective as the heat rose for summer. According to his history files, the Red Army would have launched a similar campaign – with the aid of the British – later in the year, but he was suspecting that that would have been a disaster. The files grew vague once the Great Patriotic War began.

Zhukov scowled. The NKVD, the Army Commissioners, the GRU and Stalin himself, all of them had vetted the information that had been provided to lower-ranking people – and even a General was low-ranking compared to them. He knew better than to grumble openly – the NKVD had spies everywhere – but it was annoying. His laptop, one of thirteen within the USSR, would have been far more effective if it had been left with all the files it had once held.

At least I got into the history books, he thought. The NKVD had smuggled a handful from America to Russia, including one written by Zhukov himself. How Stalin had laughed before passing it on with a few pages torn from the end. Still, the months of delay had allowed them to consolidate their position and strengthen their logistics – which had been the reason given to the Red Army for the delay.

“Comrade General?”

Zhukov nodded politely at Commissioner Petrovich. The Political Commissioner – a tall vampire-like man with pale skin and a mouth like a slapped arse – was unhappy. He’d been unhappy ever since the Politburo – which meant Stalin – had removed most of the Commissioners powers. It was no longer within his abilities to tell Zhukov to attack or to retreat, only to give the men their political indoctrination.

“Is the attack finally ready?” Petrovich asked. His voice worked its way up and down the scale. He’d been just as bored as Zhukov, and he’d had less to do. There was no need to indoctrinate the Iranians, not when Comrade Stalin had decreed their enslavement and extermination.

Zhukov nodded. He’d argued against that policy as much as he had dared; the Iranian resistance was growing stronger, even with the hordes of Russian soldiers that were moving in daily as the Red Army grew stronger and stronger. Russia had almost limitless numbers of untrained men, suitable only as occupation troops, and they were enjoying Iran, particularly the Iranian women.

“We’ll move as soon as dawn breaks,” he said. He would have preferred to move at night, but even the improved Red Army didn’t possess the amount of equipment necessary to make that work without making a complete fuck-up of it. “The scouts are out now.”

“The dunes are alive with the sound of shooting,” Petrovich said. Zhukov looked at him; he would have never figured Petrovich for a romantic. “Won’t they know we’re coming?”

Just for a while, Zhukov would have liked one of the Commissioners who’d fought in the Civil War, ones who had really understood warfare. Petrovich knew very little beyond Communism – and he would never make a theorist.

“Perhaps,” he said finally. There was no such thing as a ‘front’ in the desert war; the British had their bases and the Russians had theirs, and there was a giant strip of No Man’s Land in between. Every day or so, there would be a skirmish; ground troops on patrol running into each other, tribesmen clashing with one side or the other, spies and sabotage teams… and even the occasional air battle between both sides aircraft. Zhukov scowled again; the British had won all of those so far.

“They won’t know that much is happening,” he said finally. “They have very good reconnaissance, but we have successfully hidden some of the main force of tanks, and we have massive patrols around our bases. At dawn, when I give the signal, the advance will begin.”

Petrovich nodded. He’d given his approval to the plan, but both men knew that it had been purely formal. In effect, the entire South Iranian Front was to advance to Basra and Kuwait, taking the ancient city and securing Iran, before plunging a dagger into Iraq. If the Germans joined in, a joint attack could be mounted against Baghdad, ending the Iraqi Government. Iraq wasn’t the easiest place to attack – and the British had had experience of fighting there before from their perspective – but Zhukov had learnt three things from the war. The first was that the British had limited resources and they were reluctant to use them too much. The second was that they were scared of causing civilian casualties; hardly a concern of either of their opponents. Finally, they had superiority in many fields, but superior numbers and an unflinching refusal to be bullied into making mistakes could offset them to some degree.

“Yes, Comrade General,” he said finally. “Are you going to make a speech to the troops?”

Zhukov shook his head. “That’s the responsibility of the sergeants and their captains,” he said. “We have to develop some small-unit initiative; the British act faster than we do.”

“I suppose,” Petrovich said, who didn’t think much of the concept of giving anyone additional authority. “They might make the wrong decisions.”

Zhukov smiled. “You remember when they blanketed our radios?” He asked, referring to the Battle for Abadan, the local oil centre in Iran. Unlike the Germans, the Russians used few enough radios… and when the British had jammed them, the entire attack had almost collapsed. “I would sooner have them firing at the enemy than milling around waiting for orders.”

Petrovich nodded. Nearly three thousand infantrymen and thirty tanks had been lost when they’d just stopped and waited for orders. The British aircraft had struck them on the ground.

Zhukov checked his watch. “Only two hours, Comrade Commissioner,” he said. “Better get some sleep. Once it begins, the attack won’t stop for tea and biscuits.”

It was what the RAF called a target-rich environment. Countless tanks and lorries, all built to clumsy Russian specifications, were moving along the desert, along roads that were almost none-existent or off the roads altogether. Sergeant Adams noted their presence from his hiding place, far too close to the Russian base for comfort.

Not very subtle, the Russians, he thought, as yet another patrol tramped past his hiding place. The little cave was very comfortable – he could even listen to music – and there were plenty of sensors scattered around, monitoring the Russians. A transmitter, concealed in a rock, relayed his reports and the sensor recordings.

“Stupid tank,” he muttered, as a stream of weird tanks glided past, puffing up smoke. The T-28 carried no less than three turrets, spinning independently to give it a complete coverage of the firing region. It would be a nightmare to attack with Contemporary technology – indeed; the online database reported that it had given the Finns nightmares. A dull roar split the air as a massive flight of aircraft darkened the sky, roaring over Basra and Kuwait. The dull pounding of long-range fire could be heard, pounding the defence lines of the cities.

Shaking his head, he rolled back over to the computer and began tapping out a report. General Flynn would have already been alerted by the FLASH signal he’d sent when the Russians began manoeuvring, but he had to know as much as he could. The storm was finally about to break… and the British had to react.

Forward Command Post

RAF Habbaniyah, Iraq

7^th May 1941

No one could understand how it had survived, but survive it had; an oasis of British power in the centre of Iraq. The RAF had flown Harriers and Jaguars from the base before the Germans advanced into Turkey, and it was now serving as the centre of military control. Only a handful of ground-support and troop transport aircraft were based there now; it was too risky. If the enemy – either one – managed to get within artillery range, they could shut the base down within minutes.

General Flynn pulled himself to his feet as the klaxons sounded, alerting the base that the war was about to hot up again. A flurry of electronic signals were already flickering out, alerting the commanders of the various army deployments scattered around Iraq, watching for the Soviets. Others went to the forces closer to the German fronts; alerting them in case of a simultaneous offensive.

“Report,” he snapped, as he strode into the situation room. It had been extensively modified, even though it was mostly for show; some of the equipment was back in Arabia. The danger of some of it falling into German or Soviet hands was too great.

Privately, Flynn thought that it was nonsense, but the Germans had already shown themselves way too adaptable for British peace of mind. Even seeing a British item could inspire them to solve previously unsolvable problems, and God only knew what would encourage a German genius to create a new and deadly weapon.

“We have a major Soviet offensive developing,” Major Gatling reported grimly. The former SAS officer who now limped around as a result of a mission in the Balkans he refused to discuss waved a hand at the screens. “The drones are overhead now, spying on them and reporting their movements.”

Flynn nodded. “Where are they going?”

“Basra seems to be the first target,” Gatling reported. He glared down at the display. “The Iraqis are already taking fire from long-range guns moved up overnight.”

Flynn scowled. He’d hoped never to have to work with Arabs again; at least the British-born Muslims understood some of the rudiments of modern war. The remains of the Iraqi Government had gone all out building a series of defence lines around the city that could have been cracked in an hour by the British.

“The Iraqis are screaming for our help,” Captain Margaret Flannery said. Assigning the gorgeous Captain – who had very impressive skills in unarmed combat – to liaison officer had been intended as revenge for Iraqi incompetence. She short-circuited their thinking processes; they were almost grateful when Flynn ‘rescued’ them.

“Bother,” Flynn said mildly. The majority of the British force in the region, Force Basra, was stationed near Basra, at the old base ten miles south of the city. The Iraqis themselves had nearly ten thousand men – mainly conscripted refugees from the north – in the city themselves, but few of them were worth anything. The Arab Legions that the British were training, as part of their citizenship for the Republic of Arabia, were nowhere like ready.

“They’re saying that they will implement your plan now,” Flannery said. Flynn chuckled; his plan, which had involved defending Basra with minimum force and outflanking the Soviets, would take more time than they had. The marshes north of Basra would have made a formidable obstacle – if the Iraqis had listened and prepared them for defence. It was the eternal problem of the Middle East; the governments dared not appoint strong and competent generals, because they would be overthrown.

“Tell them… tell them to suck them into the city,” Flynn said, knowing just how many would die. “Tell them… we’re sending what help we can.”

“Yes, sir,” Flannery said.

“Air Commodore Cromwell on line two,” Captain Ransom reported. “Here, sir.”

Flynn took the phone. “Flynn,” he said. “I need you to get in the air.”

“Wilco,” Cromwell said, without arguing. “Do you have any particular targets in mind?”

Flynn stared over at the display. The Soviet air formation was heading towards Basra, far too many to be swatted out of the air. It was one of the odder details of their strange war; the RAF, which had far superior aircraft, needed landing strips, while the Red Air Force could land almost anywhere. On the other hand, the RAF had far better coordination and was almost invulnerable – as long as the missile supply held out.

“Hit their guns, and then the tanks,” he said. Not for the first time, he wished that he had been able to convince the Prime Minister to authorise the use of gas; that would have shut down the Soviet airfields. A thought struck him and he tapped his PDA, issuing orders to the submerged submarine in the Gulf; ordering it to fire its Tomahawks at the airfields, when the Russians were trying to land.

He closed the connection and stared up at the German icons on the map. They remained where they were, unmoving. Scouts and some of the SAS troops reported that they didn’t seem to be preparing for an offensive. He gave orders to have them watched, wishing that the space program would hurry up and give them some more recon satellites.

Another phone rang. “Sir, it’s the Prime Minister,” Captain Ransom said.

That bastard finds out everything, Flynn thought, with genuine admiration. “Put him through.” There was a pause. “Yes, Prime Minister?”

Over Iraq/Iran Border

Nr Basra

7^th May 1941

Flying Officer Mick Eccleston sucked in a breath as the scope of the Soviet offensive became clear. Little else had quite the same scope; even the American Invasion of Syria hadn’t been so… impressive. There were thousands of tanks and thousands of lorries and thousands of aircraft, and even though none of them matched his Harrier, he wondered if there weren’t enough of them to make good the difference.

I wonder if Stalin made his famous quote about quantity having a quality all of its own yet, he thought, as he banked the Harrier high over the battlefield. Smoke and flames were already rising up from Basra as the Soviets began bombing and shelling the city, aiming more at random than at any particular target. The Soviet planes had no way of knowing that he was here; the Russians hadn’t deployed a radar station to Iran.

A good thing too, he thought, as the Harrier turned slowly, its flight computer receiving updates from the sensors scattered around Basra and the AWACS, far to the south. The Harrier was carrying a new weapon, one that few in the MOD approved of, and it was handling sluggishly. The bombs it carried were very sensitive; a single lucky shot and the Harrier would explode violently.

“Alpha flight, your targets are at the following location,” the AWACS said, and read out a series of coordinates. Eccleston nodded; the location was only five miles away from Basra. “Alpha-one is to engage, Alpha-others to wait for result.”

“Understood,” Eccleston said, and swooped over the battlefield. Even handling sluggishly, he found his target within minutes, a massive line of guns, spread out over the desert.

“Now that’s clever,” Alpha-two muttered. At least twice during the war, the counter-battery fire from the Army had triggered a chain reaction among the Soviet guns, destroying entire regiments with a single shell. The Soviet NKVD had been busy, installing so much fear that the guns were spread out… and the ammunition far to the rear.

“Designating targets,” Eccleston said. “Target one; main gun position, centre hit. Target two; ammunition supply, centre hit.”

The Harrier steadied itself, high over the battlefield, its laser designator defining the target. “Releasing weapons,” Eccleston said, and the Harrier dropped the weapons. The two bombs fell away, tiny rockets on each guiding them towards the two targets. “Weapons on target.”

There was a sudden blast of fire. The thermobaric weapons, sometimes referred to as a fuel-air explosive, detonated, forcing a wave of fire forward across the Soviet position. Triggering the ammunition supplies only added to the chaos; the blast was hot enough to melt steel. Before they could react, an entire artillery regiment was destroyed.

“Target destroyed,” Eccleston said dispassionately, watching as men ran screaming, flames licking at their bodies. They’d been lucky; they’d only gotten a little of the volatile liquid – they hadn’t been told what the fuel was – on their bodies. They might survive…

Guess not, he thought, as other men shot down the men. He guessed they were NKVD; they certainly had the right attitude for the task. Didn’t the Russians take any care of their men?

“Alpha-one, return to base,” the AWACS said. “Alpha-other, engage the enemy at the following targets, then return to base.”

“I’m not to engage the enemy?” Eccleston asked, and then looked down at his display. The Russians had thousands of planes in the air; what could one Harrier do against such a cloud? The ground-based weapons were taking a toll of the Russians, but there weren’t enough weapons to make a real difference and…

“I guess quantity does have a quality of its own,” he said, and turned the Harrier around, heading back to the base.

Battlezone

Nr Basra

7^th May 1941

Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev trembled as he held his rifle, the strange future Russian weapon that had come back to the past, along with the detailed histories of those who had betrayed Stalin – and Stalin’s memory. Khrushchev shuddered; his meeting with Stalin’s henchman had been chilling.

“In the future, you will betray our great leader,” Beria had said, and read out articles that he had – would have – written. He was supposed to have served as a political commissioner, but instead… he’d been reduced to the ranks and sent to a penal battalion. His membership in the politburo had lasted only a year, before Stalin had learnt about the future. The only survivor had been Kliment Voroshilov, the utterly incompetent Marshal of the Soviet Union, who had apparently lived a charmed life after losing in Finland.

Perhaps someone will take advantage of his command of the 1^st Guards, Khrushchev thought coldly, glaring around the lorry. At least Zhukov wasn’t making them walk to the front, as Voroshilov had made the heroes of Finland walk; he understood that even a penal battalion needed to be rested to be effective.

The lorry stopped with a jerk as the sound of the guns grew louder. “Out, traitors,” an NKVD guard snapped, opening the back of the lorry. He wore nothing on his uniform except the green tabs and his rank badge, who knew; the men who had been Great once might be Great again.

Khrushchev took a moment to check the terrain; it was all desert behind them, and some green ahead. Ahead of them, Khrushchev could see smoke rising from a trench, skilfully dug into the ground, with men watching the Soviets carefully. Behind the trench, there was a river, and then another trench and marshes surrounding it. He shuddered as some of his experience came back to the fore; taking the trench would be difficult even for young men, let alone the old men in the group.

“That’s your target,” the NKVD man said. “Take it, distinguish yourselves, and the Great Stalin will let you live. Fail and they’ll kill you; did you know that the last Russian to be caught by the black-asses was brutally murdered?”

“No,” Khrushchev murmured, as he shouldered his rifle and took command. The older men, those who were in their sixties, were useless – and he wondered what Zhukov had been thinking.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” The NKVD man asked. Khrushchev sighed and turned to his men. “Move it,” the NKVD man snapped.

“You four, head left around the trench,” Khrushchev ordered, thinking his way through the occupation. Stalin’s forgiveness was worth risking their lives for. “You five, head right. Everyone else, with me.”

He smiled as they snapped to attention. He’d sent the elderly on the suicide missions, while he’d kept the younger men with him. They weren’t young, not in the sense that the NKVD man was, but they were fit and had experience. Smiling for the first time, Khrushchev lifted his rifle and led the charge.