The Long Hard Road

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Fight To The End

Vladivostok, Russia

9^th May 1942

General Iosif Apanasenko, Commander of the Far Eastern Military District, watched in awe as the battleships duelled with his heavy guns. He’d long prepared for an attack on his fortress – although he had expected to have to meet a Japanese attack – and watching the dual was fascinating. The battleships were so far away that they could only be glimpsed briefly in the mist by the yellow flashes of their main guns, which, minutes later, would deposit a massive blast onto his positions. In return, the arrays of heavy guns would fire back, attempting to hit their tormentors.

Apanasenko allowed himself a smile. He’d read the information on the capabilities of the future with considerable interest and one thing was clear; their technology didn’t make them invincible. They had been beaten before by Soviet forces, and they could be again. He had nearly five hundred thousand ethnic Russians under his command, and he knew that they were tough enough – and expendable enough – to be used to win the great victory Stalin wanted.

He picked up the field telephone without bothering to dial a number. “Comrade Rakba,” he ordered. “Order the bombers to launch at once.”

The American bombers had been kept busy bombing Vladivostok itself, rather than the airfields which lay nearby; only a handful of bombing raids had been mounted on the airfield. A cunning camouflage system had made the damage look more impressive than it really was. The Red Falcons, one of the elite formations that hadn’t had its reputation – and its flight crew – wrecked in Iran, remained fairly intact. They had trained hard for aerial combat, and they were commanded by the skilled Colonel Gubnasha.

“Any ships you see are ours,” Gubnasha informed his flight crew, as they rose above the land. “All our ships have been withdrawn, or so the good general has informed us.”

The crew didn’t comment on what they were certain was a lie. The pounding Vladivostok had taken made it unlikely that anything had survived in fit state to go to sea. The facilities at Nadhodka – which hadn’t had any ships stationed there – had been captured by the enemy.

Gubnasha led his crews out over the sea. Ahead of him, he could see the American fleet in the strange half-light. “Forward, my falcons,” he cried, and opened the bomb bays.

Admiral Halsey was actually relieved when his radars picked up the Japanese swarm; they weren’t trying to dive bomb his ships. Instead, they were trying to bomb from high attitude, something that wasn’t very accurate at the best of times.

”Open fire,” he snapped, as the Russians closed in. The Combat Air Patrol was already engaging; the Hellcats were slashing away at the Russian planes. He watched through his binoculars – there was no longer any point in trying to give orders – as the fighters duelled it out; the Russians had worse equipment and clearly their pilots were not as skilled, but lord, were they brave. He watched grimly as a battered YAK rammed a Hellcat, both planes exploding and falling to the ground.

“The destroyers are doing well,” his aide said. Halsey nodded; the Russians were now attempting to come down for torpedoes – or perhaps to try to bomb from low attitude. The radar-guided guns on the destroyers lashed out, sweeping them from the skies, but they came on and on.

“Sir, Saratoga’s been hit,” Commander Ajax snapped. Halsey swung round quickly, just in time to see a massive explosion rippling through the carrier and blasting her out of the water. She sank rapidly; if there were any survivors, he didn’t see them.

“Raise General Vandegrift,” he snapped. “What is the current status of the landings?”

“Aye, sir,” his aide snapped, and headed off to the radar room. Halsey scowled; the Russians were showing no sign of breaking off, despite the horrific casualties. A nasty thought developed in his mind… might the entire attack be a diversion?

“Sir, General Vandegrift reports that his corps is under heavy attack,” his aide panted. He had run across the bridge; a breach in protocol that many other admirals would have censured him for committing, even in the heat of a battle. “He urgently requests air cover and battleship support.”

“Fuck,” Halsey swore. “Helm, pull us out of here, back to the landing zone. Vladivostok will have to wait.”

Gubnasha laughed aloud from the sheer pressure of the dogfight. The Russians were fighting well, even if they didn’t have quite the manoeuvrability of the American planes. They’d hit several big ships, he was certain, and he’d seen one of their carriers explode. He grinned; one day the Rodina would build ships like that and carry the red flag to the four corners of the world.

“They’re leaving,” he said. The American ships were pulling back, running from the battle. It made sense, he knew; the dogfight – which hadn’t lasted that long – had to be burning through their pilots as much as it was burning through his. An American plane lanced past his command aircraft; he saw the gunner fire at it – and miss.

“Shoot better next time,” he called, and settled down to watching the Americans leave. They were moving quite fast, and he knew that pursuit would be futile. “Call the planes back to the base,” he ordered. He never saw the American Hellcat that was just below the command aircraft, or the line of bullets it poured into his craft. Gubnasha died, smiling and unaware to the last, dreaming of his triumph.

General Vandegrift had known that things were going too well, but even the experienced Marines hadn’t been able to find the observer, hidden as he was under the ruins of a T-34 tank that looked as if it had been bombed from the air. American search parties had passed close to him, but none of them had seen him, or the cable that linked him to the command post further north.

“Comrade, the Americans are landing now,” he muttered. They’d secured Nadhodka, but the observer had expected them to do that. Now they had been building up their forces, using the small port to land directly. Other boats moved forwards and backwards from the landing force, carrying men and supplies to the beach. He muttered in envy; one of them was clearly a medical ship. The Red Army had nothing like that.

“Understood, Comrade,” the Colonel commanding the force said. “The Red Army Force is on its way.”

General Vandegrift had fought, argued and cajoled through every committee and sub-committee in Washington for the loan of one of the priceless British mobile radars, attached to a large number of batteries of mobile machine guns. They would be needed, he argued, and eventually President Truman had ruled that he could have a set.

“General, they’re coming,” the operator said. “Nearly a thousand aircraft.”

“Open fire,” General Vandegrift snapped.

“They’re not in range yet,” the operator said calmly. The batteries had been distributed around the landing zone, and now the port of Nadhodka. “They’ll be in range in three minutes. Designating targets now.”

“Just sweep them out of the skies,” General Vandegrift ordered, as the noise of Russian engines drew closer. “When can we fire?”

“Now,” the operator said, as a black cloud of planes appeared over the hills. The guns started to chatter, firing short bursts seemingly randomly. General Vandegrift looked up, to see Russian planes exploding and falling out of the sky, but there were so many of them.

“Take cover,” he bellowed. Many of the Marines had already done so without orders. “Everyone get down!”

The Russian planes swooped overhead, bombing with a viciousness that General Vandegrift had never seen before, targeting ships and Marine transports alike. The chain of explosions lashed out at him, but the machine guns kept firing, sweeping Russians from the sky. The operator threw himself down beside him, gasping for breath.

“We’ve lost two of the batteries,” he said, trying to remain calm. “Shit, its worse than Dover.”

“Yes, they battered you pretty hard then,” General Vandegrift said, who had seen the reports. He didn’t understand why the 2015 British hadn’t had bomb shelters or a clear plan for a massive air raid. “Are our own aircraft trying to engage?”

The operator nodded. “I think so,” he said. “There were certainly IFF-equipped contacts coming back. The problem is, sir; what happens when they run out of ammunition?”

“We are dependent on Halsey,” General Vandegrift said, with an inflection that suggested that he would have sooner asked Old Scratch himself. “The flyboys had better live up to their egos.”

As suddenly as it had begun, the attack ended. The operator pulled himself up and staggered back over to the radar system. “We seem to have chased them off,” he said. General Vandegrift nodded. “Satellite imagery is tracking them back to their airfields… empty patches of ground?”

“Bastards are very good at camouflage,” General Vandegrift muttered. He studied his map. “About two miles from here; we’d better get moving.”

The operator blinked. “Don’t you want reinforcements?”

“We have ten thousand men on the ground and two hundred light tanks,” General Vandegrift snapped. “This isn’t the time for waiting for the follow-up force…”

“Perhaps we don’t have time,” the operator said. “Look.”

General Vandegrift studied the display and swore. A line of Russian tanks had appeared, hundreds of them, heading towards the landing zone. A second appeared from the opposite direction, and then a third.

“We have movements all over the map,” the operator said. “I think we might be in trouble.”

“Oddly enough, I noticed,” General Vandegrift said. He grinned. “It’s time to deploy the Marines for anti-tank operations and…”

His radio buzzed. “This is Halsey,” a voice said. General Vandegrift was almost pleased to hear from him. “What do you need?”

General Vandegrift considered for a long moment. “I need you to shell the following coordinates,” he said, and nodded to the operator, who rattled them off. “There’s a shit load of enemy tanks coming our way.”

“I’ve had the orders given to the battleships, the aircraft will hammer their airbases,” Halsey said after a long moment. “The re-supply convoy from the Philippines is on its way; it should be here in a day or so.”

General Vandegrift shrugged. “Admiral, it will be decided by then, one way or the other,” he said. “What about the Japanese?”

“The British have launched some of their fuel-air missiles at their airbases,” Halsey said. “Whatever happened, it seems to have been an isolated incident.”

General Vandegrift snorted. “You can’t trust those slant-eyed sons of bitches,” he said. “Are we are war with them, or not?”

“Seems pretty clear that we are,” Halsey said. “The President hasn’t made any announcements yet, but its not like they can do much to us, is it?”

Tank Commander Kabanov loved his new tank. The JS-1 – named for the man who’d forged the Soviet Union – was far too slow and heavy to cross a bridge, but it was strong and heavily armoured, with a main gun that could blow through even future British armour. Kabanov, who knew that manufactory experts rarely knew what they were talking about, wasn’t keen to test that theory, but the British and their American allies had clearly decided to force the pace – and lay their hands on a piece of Holy Mother Russia.

“Forward,” Colonel Kagnimir snapped over the little radio, made from German designs. There was none of the jamming that rumour had placed in Iran, despite heavy denials by Radio Moscow. Kabanov hadn’t disagreed openly – he liked being alive – but he’d been very relived when Kagnimir had insisted on practicing manoeuvres without the radios.

“Incoming,” someone shouted. Kagnimir had barely time to issue a demand for more information when the shells crashed down on top of the tanks. Kabanov felt his entire tank flip over and over, coming to rest on its treads again; the rest of the brigade wasn’t so lucky. Of what had once been fifty of the most powerful tanks in their armoury, thirty had been destroyed outright, including the command tank.

Shit, I’m senior, Kabanov realised grimly. He snapped orders into the radio, knowing that another flight of shells had to be heading at them even now. His mind raced rapidly, trying to realise where the Americans had placed their guns, but he came up with nothing. Where the hell are they?

“They’re firing from the sea,” Captain Kaliman snapped. “Sir, they’re firing from battleships.”

On cue, a second round of shells exploded in their midst. Aircraft roared overhead, dumping strange fat bombs on the tanks, which exploded and released massive gouts of flame, spreading out over the tanks. The heat rose to horrifying levels… and then the third round of shells arrived. Tank Commander Kabanov wasn’t lucky again; a single shell scored a direct hit on the turret of his tank.

“Get those weapons into place,” Captain Caddell snapped. “The Russians will be on us any second now…”

“I think they’re here,” Sergeant Pike said calmly. Private Max Shepherd looked up to see a line of green tanks closing in on the Marines’ position, one that would – hopefully – force them to come at them two or three at a time. “Stand by to fire!”

A Russian tank fired, a shell that exploded against a rocky position, barely missing the anti-tank gunners. “Fire,” Captain Caddell ordered, and five rockets were launched at once, blasting through the Russian tanks. “Hold them back.”

Shit, Shepherd thought, as a wave of green-clad Russian infantry appeared over the hill, firing directly at the Marines. “They’re trying to clear us out,” he shouted.

“Pour it on,” Sergeant Pike bellowed. The burly sergeant was controlling a BAR machine gun, mounted on a tripod. He fired madly, time and time again, raking the Russians as they marched forward. They died in their hundreds, bodies ripped apart by the bullets, and they kept coming.

“Fire,” Captain Caddell ordered, and three large guns opened fire, pouring high explosive into the Russian ranks. That broke their formation as men were blown apart; peace regained as the Russians fell back in disorder, leaving hundreds of bodies behind.

“They’re coming,” Sergeant Pike said, and the entire force groaned. A hail of shells slammed into the Marine position; Shepherd realised that the Russians must have sneaked an observer forward. The blasts forced him down the hill, scattering them, as the Russians probed forwards. He un-slung his bazooka and fired a rocket at an advancing tank, which exploded, and then fell back.

“Back to the next position,” Captain Caddell shouted, trying to coordinate the retreat. It was succeeding, barely; the Marines had been hit hard and they wanted to retreat. A flight of American planes came over the hills, firing madly, and dropped bombs on the Russians; massive waves of fire cooked them in their thousands.

“Napalm,” Private Manlito said. The wave of heat reached the Marines, warming them even as they shuddered at the smell of burnt meat, and faded, leaving them in command of the battlefield.

“They can’t keep coming,” Private Buckman breathed. A handful of Russian tanks appeared; the big blocky designs. “Shit.”

“Our tanks,” someone shouted. Four American tanks were nosing forward, moving faster than the Russian tanks, but more carefully. Shepherd realised that they carried less armour and shuddered; if the tanks were hit, they were death traps. It was why he had refused to go into armour when offered the chance.

“Cover them,” Captain Caddell snapped, holding the force together by sheer force of will. “Keep the infantry off their backs.”

The Russian tankers must have seen their new opponents, for they fired at the same time. Two American tanks fired at the same time, killing their opponents before they were hit themselves. Shepherd winced as both tanks were hit and exploded, their comrades forcing them aside and pushing on.

“Cover them,” Captain Caddell snapped, as a line of Russian infantry appeared on the side of a hill. The tanks opened fire with machine guns, sweeping the Russians away, then firing at an imprudent Russian tank that had tried to sneak over the hill in the confusion. “We can hold this position!”

New life swept through the tanks as supplies arrived, carried by a handful of trucks. Shepherd moved as quickly as the other men to get new ammunition, just as new Marines arrived to stiffen the defences. The first Marines jeered at the newcomers, but no one was in the mode for a fight. Sergeant Pike glared at anyone who looked too belligerent, keeping tensions down. The Russians were advancing again – and the Marines prepared to fight to the end.

“We were luckier than we deserved to be,” General Vandegrift muttered, as the day drew to a close. It had been close; the Russians had fought with suicidal bravery, but the napalm and the battleship guns had prevented them from forcing the Marines back into the sea. Once the entire force had landed, and the aircraft replenished, they had been able to go on the attack, hammering their way though Russian positions and sealing off the landing zone from any prospect of a Russian counter-attack.

“I know,” Halsey said. The two men were standing in Enterprise’s flag officers quarters. “The reinforcements should be here soon, and then we can advance again.”

General Vandegrift nodded grimly, too tired to do much more. The Russian attack might have been broken, but small commando forces were constantly pressing against the widening perimeter of American-held territory. Instead of a quick blitzkrieg – the German word had entered the American vocabulary – against Vladivostok, they had been forced to fight for their lives against a vigorous Russian counterattack.

“We bled badly,” he said darkly, and knew that he was being unfair. Halsey had lost four large ships; a carrier, a battleship and two cruisers. Even with the extra ships now steaming towards them, he knew that it had been tough and as close to a disaster as it could be without actually being one.

“Your men fought well,” Halsey said. “The satellites reveal that the Russians aren’t doing too much to make a new attack force.”

“Perhaps Stalin shot the guy in charge,” General Vandegrift injected.

“Perhaps,” Halsey said. “So we should have time to build up and then seal off Vladivostok, then we can complete the mission.”

General Vandegrift nodded. “Any news on the British missile-launching submarine?”

“It’s supposed to be here tomorrow,” Halsey said. “It can do the hard work of cutting the railroad for us, then we’ve cut them off from the rest of the Rodina anyway.”

“I suppose,” General Vandegrift said. “We lost thousands of lives. Congress is going to have a collective heart attack.”

Halsey grinned. “Ah,” he said wryly, “just think of how that would streamline the war effort.”