Devil's Garden

Chapter 3

The Germans came in force minutes later. The artillery had kept heads down, and the Marines had taken a few hard blows. Troyak himself had been knocked off his feet by the concussion of the bombs when they hit the north end of the warehouse building. He sat up, instinctively reaching for his assault rifle, and wiping the soot from his eyes, knowing he had probably lost men there. He could hear calls for the medic and was soon hastening to the scene, personally carrying one man back to the mortars for treatment and removing another who had died in the bomb blast.

The last rounds of 105 mm shells soared overhead and exploded with a roar. Then the artillery lifted and he again heard the whistles. Now he looked to see that German infantry was rushing silently from the covered woods near the oil tank farm, and other sections sprinting across the rail lines to the center island. That attack looked too weak, he thought. No. They will come at our north flank by the tank farm, and those last two tanks will probably go that direction as well. He had two squads and an RPG-7 section there, but the point of the position was a building defended by a single squad. If the Germans could take that building then it would give them an anchor to move on the next one, and break into the rear of his position. They would then have access to the narrow beach where boat 639 was still waiting, their lifeline back to the Anatoly Alexandrov.

Troyak could hear the firefight beginning and knew he had to get reinforcements up or the Germans would eventually get close enough for grenades. He took a five man section and worked his way north where the position he had set up was a triangle of three buildings. A rifle squad was at the apex facing the oncoming Germans. The left base was the RPG section covering the rail yard that had taken down the German armored cars, the right base was a second rifle squad covering a coastal road and with clear fields of fire to the water. He could not lose that vital squad.

He spoke quickly into his collar mike: “First Platoon-Move through your mortar section to the north coast and block that road! Second Platoon- displace fifty meters to your right and cover the rail yards. Get any casualties to the hovercraft.”

The Marines moved with expert efficiency. Five man sections firing and moving to new positions on the run. By the time the Germans reached the rail yard island the Marines had shifted and were again opening up strong suppressive fire there. Wellman’s B and C platoons were soon pinned down, but to the north the German attack was building in strength. Troyak decided to repay the Germans for that artillery barrage.

“Mortar teams-fire on the oil tanks. Saturation fires! Now!” His two 82mm tubes answered the call smartly, dropping a couple ranging rounds and then firing for effect. Soon the German advance there was being pounded, with mortar rounds striking the rusty oil tanks, burning residual oil there and sending fragments of twisted metal shrapnel in all directions. It was enough to stop the two platoons of Wellman’s recon company that had been leading the attack, and the Germans fell back. Troyak could see they were waiting for armor support, and he gave his troops a heads up.

“There’s still two tanks out there. Be ready!”

The Russians had taken everything the Germans had thrown at them, and the action on the inland road was equally hot and furious. There the two PT-76 tanks had engaged the oncoming half tracks, and dueled with more Panzer IIIs sent forward by Westhoven before the Russians unleashed a volley of hand held AT rockets to decide the issue. Their superior range prevented the Panzer IIIs from getting good shots on the PT-76 tanks, but Westhoven had already seen the problem and knew what he had to do. The Germans were bringing up two 88s and looking for good places to site them.

* * *

It was a question Commissar Molla had a very difficult time answering. How long can you breathe when I get both hands around your neck? It was very difficult to speak while you were choking, and that was what was happening to Molla now as he listened to Orlov’s last taunting rebuke.

The big Russian had moved so quickly that the Commissar could not even squeeze the trigger of his pistol! In an instant Orlov batted the weapon aside with a sweep of his arm and had a murderous hold on the other man’s neck, forcing him back on the desk where he had been sitting and tightening his big hands on the man’s throat. Molla’s pallid cheeks quickly reddened as he strained for breath.

“So you like to collect young girls, do you? You like blonds? You stupid piece of shit! See how you like them in hell!”

Molla strained to escape the hold but Orlov was just too big, his weight pressing down on the smaller man, crushing him, choking the life from him. The Commissar kicked and struggled, and then the icy light in his dark eyes wavered and he went slack. Orlov held on, sneering at the man, and then released him, spitting in his lifeless face.

“Svoloch! I came a thousand miles to do that! Rot in hell!”

Orlov was breathing hard, yet elated that he had finally found the man he had come to kill, and finished the job. Now what? He could hear gunfire, sounds of battle, artillery rounds falling. Then he heard shouting and the sound of hard booted feet in the hallway. He had to move-think what to do!

He lunged for his service jacket where it hung on the nearby coat racket, then suddenly hesitated. If I take that jacket with me they will be able to track and find me. He could distinctly hear the sound of AK-74s now, and knew that Marines must have landed here. But other voices outside were shouting about the Germans.

In the barest moment he had to decide-take the jacket and all the power and wealth the information its computer could bring him, or leave it behind and embrace a life here, a man of this world, now and forever. He moved quickly around the desk to the window, forcing it up and looking outside to size up his prospects for escape.

Marines had landed! Marines from Kirov come to find him. Were they here to rescue or arrest him for his crime of desertion? Were they here to kill him? Then he realized that no one would have any knowledge of how he had killed the helicopter pilot. All he had to do was tell them they had a fire on board and the radio was dead…tell them the controls froze and the helo was veering off course. Then the missiles came…

What was it to be? Would he return to his old comrades on the ship; join in the fight here against the Germans and embrace his old life again? Or would he become a wolf in the fold, living among the sheep of this bygone era for the rest of his life. He would know everything that would happen, but not the details, not the dates and key times without his service jacket. He would be a prophet of doom; the man who knew tomorrow, but no one would believe him until something big happened. Then perhaps he could use his wits and make some decent money. But with the jacket he was a God. He would know everything. Svetlana could whisper in his ear and tell him what he must do, like a dark angel on his shoulder. And he would be the most powerful man in the world…

He decided.

* * *

Wellman was on the radio again, screaming at Kersten to keep firing “They’re cutting us to pieces with those damn mortars. Where is your artillery? Resume firing!”

He had worked his way north with his radio man Schmidt, following the line of the railway tracks and then dashing across at a point beyond Becker’s burning Panzer IIIs. By the time he reached the long, thin island that separated the tracks, the bulk of his II Battalion was arriving. He immediately gave orders, intent on renewing the attack.

“Two of Becker’s Panzers are in the tank farm. Get your men in there and take the buildings beyond that clump of trees! Bewegen sie sich! Get moving!”

Kersten answered his call with renewed fire from the 105 batteries, and now the rounds were adjusted fifty meters to fall in the open area behind the main depot. The Russian mortar teams were too exposed there, and the First Platoon mortar took a direct hit, killing everyone in the shallow earthen trench where they had set up.

All Wellman knew was that the fire from those damn 82mm mortars had slackened, and his men were again making concerted rushes through the tank farm and into the cluster of trees that screened a triangle of three buildings from the rail yard. They managed to get an MG-42 into position, and it finally put out the suppressive fire to allow the Germans to move again.

Grenadiers reached the edge of the wood, close enough to hurl potato masher grenades at the building where the Russian RPG team had blasted the German armored cars. It was enough to force the Russians out, and they fell back on a dark roofed building overshadowed by a tall, rusting water tank. The Marines in the forward building at the apex of the triangle had also been forced to withdraw, the MG-42 proving too effective as it chewed through the thin wooden walls. That, and the grumble of two more German tanks grinding their way down the long rows of oil tanks was enough to force that position.

Wellman had rushed across the tracks from the island, waving on the arriving lead company of II Battalion. Men were surging up on their motorcycles, leaping to dismount and then running low, their rifles in hand and boots and equipment clattering on the cold iron rail lines. He was building up good strength now, and it would just be a matter of attrition. He lifted his binoculars to look down the rows of oil tanks, seeing his men bravely fighting their way forward, rushing from one blasted tank to the next. Then he saw something that he did not expect, a strange looking armored fighting vehicle rounding a bend in the coastal road, and beyond it, something else the like of which he had never seen in his life. He could hear the whine of big engines, a deep roar as it came to life, a behemoth from the sea!

* * *

Troyak could see the same cold logic as he watched the outermost building at the apex of his flank fall to the onrushing German attack. One of the two 82mm mortars had been hit, reducing his interdicting fire and allowing the Germans to build up strength and press forward again. The ground between the main rail yard warehouse and that position was too exposed to send another squad up, and it would not be enough even if he did. He was being hit by a full company on that flank, outnumbered five to one there. It would be all he could do to get his men out now, and safely back to the hovercraft. He squeezed his collar mike and gave the reluctant order.

“First Platoon. Execute a fighting withdrawal. Fall back on the second mortar team. Leave nothing behind!”

What he desperately needed now was more firepower to delay the German advance, but all the APCs were engaged in the battle for the inland road where Sergeant Silenko had been holding the line with the two PT-76 tanks the BTR-50s, and another 60 Marines. All Troyak had close by was the hovercraft with its twin 14.5mm machine gun mount. Then he remembered Fedorov.

“Fedorov! Where are you?”

The reply came quickly in his earbud. “Look over your shoulder, Sergeant.”

Troyak looked and saw the ZSU-23 coming around the bend in the coastal road. Firepower! He heard the turret motors whir, saw the four gleaming barrels depress and then quickly gave an order. “All teams go to ground for covering fire!”

The ZSU began to pour it on, the big 23mm shells ripping up the building the Germans had just occupied, blasting through doors, shattering windows, riddling walls and sending wood splinters flying like shrapnel. A German tank forging a way along the rows of oil tanks was in a position to sight the Russian APC and was turning its turret to take a shot, but not before the radar guided guns found it first. The tank was jolted by a rain of metal, a sustained burst of 120 rounds that pot marked its frontal armor, leaving deep welts there, though it could not penetrate the plating reinforced to a 70mm thickness.

The shock and concussion of being inside a metal box hit by 120 rounds was considerable, however, and it gave one of the crewmen in Fedorov’s APC just the time he needed to shoulder an anti-tank missile and send it screaming at the lead tank. The HEAT round made short work of the armor, the resulting explosion literally ripped the turret off the tank’s chassis and sent it spinning against a nearby oil tank with a loud crash.

The Shilka had saved the moment, and Fedorov looked to see Sergeant Troyak pumping his fist as he ran up to the ZSU. “Good job Colonel! But we, can’t hold here much longer if they’re willing to trade casualties for ground.”

“Prepare to withdraw, Sergeant. I need to check with Zykov!”

He slipped down into the interior of the ZSU and began to call. “Fedorov to Zykov, come in. What is your status? Over.”

There was a burst of static, and then Zykov’s voice was heard in return. “We found the camp commandant,” he said. “Quite dead, and with Orlov’s service jacket.”

“His service Jacket?”

“Yes, sir. Stuffed in the Commissar’s mouth. The man’s neck was broken. It was clear that Orlov may have been here, but there’s no sign of him. We’re still searching every room, but without the jacket to home in on…”

“Keep looking, Corporal. We’re running out of time. Dobrynin has the Mi-26 back up and he says the Germans are turning the far left flank where the NKVD has been trying to hold that hill. If they get round there then they will be south of us on the road to Baku. Report as soon as you complete your search.”

The situation was going from bad to worse. The Germans were lapping at his defensive positions like a rising tide. They had paid dearly for the small advanced they had made, but from Dobrynin’s report the force building up outside the town was at least a full regiment. Thus far the superior rate of fire from their AK-74s had been a real force multiplier in the defense, and their missiles had stopped the German planes and tanks. But the enemy was moving up their Schwere heavy weapons teams, and one of the PT-76s had been hit by an 88 millimeter round. He had to give orders to plant demolition charges, as they had planned in the event any of the APCs were hit and immobilized. They would incinerate it beyond recognition, and leave nothing usable behind.

They were running out of time. His little invasion force had bravely defended the town, but their primary objective was still not accomplished. Damn it! Where are you Orlov? You must know we’re here for you? What in God’s name are you doing?