Crescendo of Doom

Chapter 25

Karpov watched as the Orenburg climbed for the safety of the advancing storm, risking the tempestuous wind there rather than face battle after having been caught by surprise.

The Orenburg, he thought. Volkov’s flagship! That would not have been committed here unless this was a major operation, just as Rudkin had it in that book. He thinks he is going to destroy my entire fleet, but so far my little surprise here has worked as I hoped. I was meant to be here, he thought. The line of my fate is simply too strong for time to disregard me, nor will I be marooned in the past as we were just now, even if that left me in a very interesting position to destroy Volkov in 1909. No, this is the way it should be, ship to ship, face to face, man to man, only it looks as though Volkov wants no part of this fight, if he’s aboard that ship. I have chosen, and there is no going back now.

“Radio room says there are three enemy airships at low elevation north of Ilanskiy,” said Tyrenkov, rushing in with the latest report.

“Low elevation? That can only mean they are landing troops. Any word as to what is happening on the ground?”

“There was some scattered fighting east of Kansk, sir. It looks like some of Volkov’s troops landed there, but they have withdrawn.”

“For Ilanskiy,” said Karpov quickly. “He thought he was going to catch us all napping here, and he must have brought troops on every airship, but it still won’t be enough. We have the entire 11th Siberian Division there. Kolchak wanted to know why it wasn’t sent to the Ob river line? Now he knows. Speaking of Kolchak, what about Irkutsk and Novosibirsk?” Karpov was hoping his last two airships might be heading west.

“Last report still had both airships over Lake Baikal. Kolchak is wary of giving up his only heavy air support on the Japanese frontier.”

“Damn the Japanese, they haven’t even entered the war yet! The fight is here. Signal Kolchak again. Tell him I am here now, and I need those damn ships! What about Talmenka?” That was his last ship, another T-Class heavy cruiser like the stricken Tomsk.

“At least six hours away, sir. She was the only ship patrolling the Ob River line, and is re-provisioning at Chemororsk.”

“Tell them to get here as soon as possible, and any troops at Kansk as well.”

“Nothing there but light garrison troops and three squadrons of Tartar Cavalry.”

“Send the cavalry after those troops Volkov landed east of that city. If they cannot make contact, then they are to follow the main rail line and come to Ilanskiy.”

Karpov was pacing, his footfalls hard on the metal plated deck of the main gondola. He had this ship designed with a wide central walkway there just so he could do this, an old habit when things got hot on the bridge of any ship he commanded, and his field glasses hung from a clip on a nearby bulkhead beam, just as they did aboard Kirov.

So I can’t count on help from Kolchak, he thought. I’ll only have Abakan and Angara, already hovering over Ilanskiy, and if Volkov can pull his surviving ships together we could still be in for a tough fight. No matter, that was what I was sent here for. Yes?

“Signal Big Red,” he said confidently. “Tell Captain Alenin that Admiral Karpov sends his regards. Well done! Have him forward a report on his ship as soon as they can control their fires. Now let us steer directly to the fight at Ilanskiy! All ahead full!”

“All engines ahead full sir,” said Bogrov.

It was then that a runner handed Tyrenkov the report he had been waiting for, and he read it with some misgivings. “Sir,” he began. “We may not have the full 11th Siberian Division after all.”

Karpov spun on his heels, a flash of anger in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve just received word from Colonel Ivanov on the ground. He tells me that two rifle regiments were sent west by rail three days ago when the enemy opened that offensive on the Ob River line. He has only his regiment at Ilanskiy, and the Motor Rifle battalion was recalled to Irkutsk yesterday.”

“On who’s order?”

“Kolchak, sir. He was the only one who could have cut those orders.”

“Damn that man! I gave specific orders that the 11th was to stand here at Ilanskiy.”

“It seems the confusion caused by our recent absence resulted in some alarm here sir. When that big offensive started, Kolchak tried to assume command from Irkutsk.”

“That idiot!” Karpov did not mince words, not even in front of Bogrov and the other men on the bridge. “Doesn’t he realize what’s happening here? Volkov started that offensive three days ago to try and compel us to do exactly what Kolchak ordered—weaken the garrison at Ilanskiy. He knows damn well that his troops out west will never break through and get 700 kilometers east to have anything to do with this battle. Kolchak is a fool! He played right into Volkov’s hands. I should have dealt with him long ago—before I left for that conference with the Soviets.”

He steamed with the news, his eyes searching this way and that, driven by the fever of his mind. “Very well,” he said at last. “Then we get our troops on the ground as soon as possible. Were there any men aboard our other airships?”

“No sir, they were all rigged for air operations.”

“Then get your men into their parachutes on the double.”

“Sir… Your personal guard?”

“That’s at least one more heavy company we can get into the defense,” said Karpov. “But we must move quickly. We’ll maneuver the ship south of the town and you’ll have safe ground for an air drop. But I can’t sacrifice any elevation. The men will have to deploy by parachute. You will have to lead them, Tyrenkov.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Very good. First contact that Motor Rifle Battalion and get it turned around and headed back here immediately. Then get your men to Ilanskiy. Get to that railway inn, Tyrenkov. You know what’s at stake.”

I certainly do, thought Tyrenkov. Yes, I do indeed. He saluted crisply, turning to leave.

The Orenburg emerged from the edge of a darkening cloud, and hovered in the sky, glowering at the two distant airships over the town. Far below, Kymchek could see the bright flashes of heavy weapons fire, and the smoke and fire of battle west of the town. The troops landed by the Southern Division, four heavy companies, had already arrived. Three more had been safely put on the ground by the 1st Division, but of the four ships in the Caspian Division, only Anapa and Armavir had safely landed their troops, just east of Kansk.

That’s just nine heavy companies, he thought. Volkov calls them battalions, but they’ll be matched by a full regiment of the 11th Siberian Division. Lucky for us that the enemy took the bait and moved most of this division to the Ob River line three days ago. We’ll have no more than a Brigade sized force here, and it will still be some time forming up. As for the air battle, we’ll need Pavlodar and Talgar back as soon as possible. It was foolish to detach those ships so early in the action. Then again, we thought we outnumbered the enemy twelve to five at that time, and so I can see why Volkov made that decision. It does put them in position to get back here with at least two more companies, but we may need more than that if Karpov gets any help from the East.

Down on the ground, the battle Kymchek was musing on was slowly beginning. The Tartar cavalry at Kansk had the word to move east along the main rail line, and to look for enemy troops along the way. Two rifle companies from Armavir and Anapa had landed there safely, lucky to be alive after the thermobaric bomb that had immolated Salsk with all hands aboard, and the hot action that had blasted Sochi from the sky. This force was hastening east along the rail line, a small platoon of infantry on light motorcycles standing as a rearguard.

A battalion of Tartar cavalry came upon them, the report of a machinegun firing from a concealed position north of the rail, and gunning down three horsemen. Hailing from the Upper Volga region and the Ural Mountains, these were big, hardy men, with swarthy beards, broad shoulders and dark eyes. Most had rifles, but in close combat they would seldom dismount to fight on foot, preferring the speed and mobility of fighting from horseback. Their mounts enabled them to move swiftly through the wooded terrain of the taiga, going places where no motorized formation could follow, and easily eluding most infantry forces that might try. And when they charged, their bright curved sabers were enough to unnerve all but the most stalwart of infantry.

The days of massed cavalry charges were long over, ended by the carnage a few good machineguns could inflict. But here, in the thick terrain and woods, broken only by occasional clearings, they could emerge unseen, and fall upon their enemies in a storm of violence. The men of that small motorcycle platoon were wary now, wondering if these were merely scouts at the far side of the clearing where they had set up their blocking position. They had two light 7.62mm MGs, the Degtyaryov DP-28, with a small circular cartridge on the top that had prompted the troops using it to call it the “record player,” as the magazine resembled a gramophone record, slowly revolving as the weapon fired. First in service in the year 1928, it was so reliable that many were still being used as late as 2011, where militants used DP-28s in the uprisings of the “Arab Spring.”

The gunners lay prone, seeing more movement at the far side of the clearing, and then sporadic rifle fire zipped into the ground nearby. They returned fire, spitting out rounds from their record players, a song of death that was the first mournful tune of the battle that was now beginning. Then, to their surprise, a thunder of hooves and deep throated voices came from the right. Their enemies had only teased them with rifle fire, while stealthily moving around their flank, covered by the heavy woods the MG platoon thought were impassible. The horsemen charged along the open ground at the eastern edge of the clearing, coming from the north instead of the west, rifles firing on the run, and cruel sabres flashing. Most of the platoon ran for their motorcycles, hoping to escape, and were ridden down.

Farther east, two recon companies of the 11th Siberian, motorized in light trucks, had formed up astride the main rail line about four kilometers west of Ilanskiy. The remainder of the regiment, all infantry, was deployed in a wide horseshoe defensive position around the town, which had marshy wetland to the northeast that made that flank impractical for any infantry attack. The three battalions, nine rifle companies in all, were enough to set up a good defensive perimeter on the exposed sides of the town. The rail line from the east bent around that marshy ground and ran north into the town itself, and it was also guarded by the regimental engineer company. For heavy weapons support, there were two batteries of artillery, positioned in the open ground around the main rail station.

Volkov’s forces had finally assembled east of the town, north and south of the rail line leading to Kansk. Colonel Levkin gathered his men, a tall officer in black uniform and grey overcoat. He had taken stock of his forces, four companies from the 1st Division, three from the Southern Division, and two more behind him, landing near Kansk and the last to arrive on the scene, as they had been harried by the Tartars that were skillfully dogging their march east. A man of forty years, Levkin was under no illusions that this would be the easy fight Volkov had hoped to find here. He had only seven companies in hand at the moment, and one look at the map told him what he needed to do.

“Lieutenant!” He shouted at an officer from the rifle company off Sarkand. “Take your entire battalion and occupy that hamlet southwest of the town—all four companies.”

There were two outlying features he wanted to control at once, one a small farm beyond a low rise just west of the town, and further south, a large hamlet called Sverdlova. Once he occupied that, his men would be just south of the main rail station, and also in a good position to strike due east and cut the Trans-Siberian rail line. Any help the enemy received would most likely come from the east.

His men moved out, swinging south in short rushes, while an MG platoon, supported by engineers and a 76mm recoilless rifle team, moved on the farm. Volkov’s men had little in the way of heavy weapons. There was no artillery, its weight precluding easy air transport. Instead they would rely on small sections of 82mm mortars, their machineguns, and three 76mm recoilless rifle sections. All the rest of their fire support would have to come from the six airships that were slowly emerging from the clouds, some still smoking from their earlier duels with the Siberian fleet. Colonel Levkin hoped the enemy would not have too much in the way of heavy firepower here, and that Volkov’s airships would tip the balance when they got down to a ground support elevation, but he was wrong.

Even as his men were gathering themselves, a small train was chugging along the rail line to the east. It was led by an armored engine, its top and sides bristling with machineguns and flak guns, Rail Security Engine #4. Behind it would come the first unexpected surprise, a pair of large railroad artillery pieces that had been dubbed “Siberia” and “Baikal.” They had once been machined for the 12-inch gun turrets of a Kronshtadt Class battlecruiser that had never been completed. The guns, 305mm monsters, had been captured from a factory in Omsk, and then rigged out as big rail guns by the Siberians three years ago. Both had been at Irkutsk, where Kolchak kept his watchful eye on the Japanese, as they could fire all the way across the wide sweeping curve of the great Lake Baikal. Karpov had wrangled them away, and was planning to move them to the Ob River line defenses near Novosibirsk. As it happened, they were only twenty kilometers east when this action started.

Now they were in the rail yards of Ilanskiy, their long barrels pointed west at the unsuspecting troopers of the gathering Grey Legion. There came a loud roar, and a resounding boom as the first gun fired, the whine of the shell coming quickly before the first big explosion fell just beyond the lines of the legionnaires. Colonel Levkin craned his neck over his shoulder, eyes wide with surprise.

“What in god’s name was that?”

‘Siberia’ had announced itself with that booming challenge, and the battle for control of this insignificant backwaters settlement, the crossroads of fate and time itself, was soon underway.

Chapter 26

High above Ilanskiy, above the slate grey sleet of the rain, hovering over the gathering storm, the big airships climbed for the crucial advantage of elevation. The troops on the ground below would have to wait until the battle in the skies was resolved before either side would gain the support, or endure the wrath of fire from above.

Abakan and Andarva had received the order to climb to their best elevation, and now they saw the enemy riding the rolling grey storm clouds ahead. Three S-Class Zeppelins, Sarkand, Samarkand, and Saran were formed in a great triangle, their silver noses pointed upwards as they climbed. Behind them, some distance off and much higher, was the fleet flagship Orenburg, bigger than any other airship over the town at that moment. Only Tunguska could outmatch her, but Karpov was still some ten to twelve kilometers to the south, completing the airdrop operation for Tyrenkov’s “Siberian Rangers.”

The three S-Class Zeppelins all carried eight 76mm recoilless rifles. Both the Siberian A-Class airships were similarly armed, except the gun on their forward command gondola had been replaced with a heavier caliber 105 when Karpov took command. They were fast at 130kph, but could only climb to a ceiling of about 9000 meters, which would not be an issue until a larger airship appeared on the scene. Unless Orenburg descended to join the action, the S and A class Zeppelins were of largely the same class, and the battle would be decided by skill and maneuver.

Already the Siberian captains were seeing their best chance was to take the fight as high as possible, without drawing Orenburg’s attention, and keeping both their ships in a tight formation to maximize firepower. Abakan led the way, followed closely by Angara, and they were maneuvering to try and catch one of the three S-Class ships in a position where its own bulk would shield them from the other two ships in the enemy formation.

The 76mm guns were effective out three to five thousand meters, but as in most ship to ship combat at sea, closing the range increased the probability of good hits. The duel that resulted saw Saran taking the brunt of the Siberian firepower, raked by ten of their combined 76mm guns, the others being top mounted and unable to bear on the target, given the fact that the Siberians had just a slight elevation edge. Sarkand and Samarkand reacted quickly, blowing ballast to pop up and avoid the intervening mass of Saran, and getting even elevation with the two Siberian ships. They blasted away, both ships concentrating on the Angara, and the result was that both Saran and Angara were soon smoking with heavy fire damage, and losing altitude with many punctured gas bags.

The new Captain of the Abakan, Melinikov, knew he could not hang in the fight long against both the other S-Class airships, but climbing presented him no easy escape with the massive Orenburg lowering over the scene. To make matters worse, the enemy had two other A-Class ships of their own, Armavir and Anapa, and they were only now arriving after dropping off those troops closer to Kansk. Melinikov would soon be boxed in by four enemy airships, but help was on the way.

From the south a great air horn sounded, the lowing roar of Big Red charging to the scene. Old Krasny had lost some buoyancy, but her massive 180,000 cubic meter volume and greater firepower was going to go a long way towards evening the odds. All the enemy airships mounted eight 76mm guns each, a total of 24 guns. Now Big Red brought her ten 76mm and six 105mm guns to the scene, and the odds were even at 24 guns each, with the Siberians having an edge in raw firepower with all those 105s.

Kymchek was on the bridge of the Orenburg, seeing the looming shape of Big Red emerge from a bank of clouds, smoke still trailing from her right side from the previous battle.

“That battleship will even the odds down there,” he told Volkov. “We should descend and attack at once.”

“What?” Volkov said immediately. “Without knowing where Karpov is? We’ll lose the elevation we’ve been fighting to gain for the last half hour.”

“True sir, but that’s the Krasnoyarsk, Big Red. It’s carrying heavy guns like our own, and one good broadside will rip one of those battlecruisers apart in no time. We’ve got to kill that ship, sir, then we can mass everything we have left against Tunguska.”

“Damn you, Kymchek! This is the fleet flagship!” Volkov was not happy to think that a big 105mm round might come crashing into his escape pod. It was well armored, but would not withstand a direct hit like that.

“Don’t worry, sir. We’ll be descending on that ship, in a good position to bring most of our guns to bear. And we’ll climb easily enough if Tunguska shows up. The emergency helium tanks will move us quickly.”

“Very well. Get on with it then.”

The sight of Old Krasny had already prompted Volkov’s smaller ships to break off their gun battle with Abakan and begin climbing. In any duel with a bigger ship, they relied on their ability to change their internal buoyancy quicker, enabling them to rise or descend faster. Getting an elevation advantage on a larger ship was really their only chance, and they had to do so early in the engagement, because the greater lifting capacity of battleships allowed them to eventually reach much higher service ceilings. Tunguska had shocked the Germans by topping even their highest flying bombers, skirting 15,000 meters over Berlin.

Aboard the Krasnoyarsk, Captain Alenin stood near the elevator man, urging him on. His right arm was bandaged with a bloodied shirt, as he had been nicked by shrapnel in the earlier battle when a round came right through the main gondola, killing two other men. Krasny had taken at least five hits, two in the nose of the ship, where the forward gas bags there had been penetrated. They would have completely deflated, had it not been for the rapid intervention of the “baggers,” a special team of engineers poised in the rigging, and on ladders between the big gas bags. With rolls of vulcanized rubber patches that could be deployed and sealed with a heated tar-like epoxy, they could seal off a bag breach in minutes in a long rehearsed emergency patch drill. The network of ladders around the shell of the airship allowed engineers to get to almost any position on the interior lifting bags, and for a breach that could not be reached, there was one last resort—the squealers.

There was a maintenance flap which could be opened on the top of each gas bag, and a man could go within if adequately rigged out in a protective diving suit with oxygen. It was extremely dangerous, for breathing in the helium could lead to a giddy delirium and asphyxiation so easily, that there would later be a method of suicide using a helium bag called “the suicide bag.” On the airships, any man brave enough, or skilled enough, to enter a bag and swing on a long cable from above was called a “squealer,” for a badly seated face mask might see them breathe in some helium, and their high voices on exiting the bag had led to the name.

Alexi Larionov was a squealer set for entry on the forward gas bag of Big Red. They had done what they could to patch two holes, but there was a shrapnel tear just big enough to defeat the self-sealing inner lining, and it simply could not be reached by any other ladder.

“Now don’t get heroic, Alexi,” said the Sergeant of Engineers. “And don’t get silly. Otherwise another round is likely to come blasting through the ship’s nose and knock you right off that cable! Get in the access pouch and be sure the outer seal is fully secured before you open that inner flap. And hook up well! That tear is about 50 feet below, and you’ll have to swing a bit before you can get hold of an inner seam hook, but don’t play around in there. And remember, turn on your red lantern when you want us to haul you up.”

Alexi had been known, on more than one training drill, to slide his oxygen mask aside and take a little breath of helium, yelling in a high voice as he swooped about in the interior of the gas bag on the long maintenance cable. The drill was to enter the upper access pouch, and do exactly what the Sergeant had advised. It was a canvas airlock of sorts, with an inner and outer access flap, the whole thing sealed with Vulcan linings.

Alexi was through, sitting on the suspended swing seat, and opening the lower flap in no time. Once he did so the helium from the main gas bag rushed in, and he always got a thrill when that happened. Then he yelled for the cable men to begin lowering, and down he went, through the inner flap and into the vast interior of the helium filled gas bag. It was a strange experience, seeing the silhouettes of other engineers outside the bag, moving like animated shadows. There he knew the men were rigging up a replacement tarp where a fire had burned away a segment of the nose canvass.

After lowering some 50 feet, Alexi could see the inaccessible tear in the side of the bag, and, in spite of the Sergeant’s stern warning, he slipped aside his mask and took one gulp of helium, singing in a high pitched timbre as he leaned his body weight to swing over to the damaged area.

Outside the gas bag, the Sergeant rolled his eyes, shaking his head when he heard the man squealing away. Alexi did not huff too deeply, and had his oxygen mask on again when he finally reached the side of the bag, and caught one of the inner securing hooks to hold him in place. Now all he had to do was get the patch from the satchel strapped over his shoulder, and use the glue gun to seal off the breach. But young Alexi was soon going to have more work than he needed just then. Orenburg was falling rapidly from above, her gondolas bristling with recoilless rifles.

“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 company 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 bastard!”

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!

He turned, seeing Bogrov still standing there like a blithering fool, staring at him with those big eyes, a look of shock and disgust on his face. Then he remembered what the Air Commandant had said to him, shouting at him when he had struck his fate shattering blow against the tail of Big Red. He lowered his field glasses, looking for the peg on the bulkhead beam where he hung them, then strode over to Bogrov his eyes hard. In one swift motion he raked the back of his leather gloved hand across the other man’s face.

“Get hold of yourself, Bogrov! See to the ship! And If you ever speak to me again like that, it will be the last words you ever say. Understand?”

Bogrov understood.