Three Kings

Chapter 22

Admiral Cunningham’s fleet was well out to sea, a long column of four battleships, Queen Elizabeth, Malaya, Warspite, and finally Admiral Tovey in HMS Invincible. They were accompanied by the heavy cruisers Kent, Berwick and York, light cruisers Calcutta, Coventry, Orion and Ajax along with twelve destroyers. Kirov was ten kilometers off the starboard bow, her radars sweeping the sea for signs of enemy activity. This left only a few cruisers and destroyers in the cupboard to cover Alexandria and Suez, but it was a risk they thought acceptable given the probable locations of the Italian fleet. There were also two aircraft carriers at sea to provide fleet air defense, though both were aging warriors by 1941.

Hermes had been laid down 22 years earlier, in 1918, a design built on a light cruiser hull. A light escort carrier, she would carry no more than 18 to 20 planes, mostly fighters. But the ship had managed to get in on a few choice assignments, hunting both Graf Spee and Admiral Scheer in the South Atlantic, and then participating in the watch on Dakar before that place was finally taken. She had been slated to go to the Persian Gulf to harass the German effort to reinforce the incipient rebellion in Iraq, but the loss of Gibraltar prompted the Admiralty to re-assign her to Admiral Cunningham’s fleet for the planned raid on Taranto. Now that was frustrated, but her Captain, Richard Onslow, was eager to get in the action again as part of the fleet covering force for this operation.

HMS Eagle was the same age, a larger ship that was first planned as a dreadnaught for Chile, designed as an Almirante Latorre class Battleship at about 28,000 tons, with ten 14-inch guns. She was later purchased by the British for conversion to an aircraft carrier. The guns were removed, lightening her displacement to 22,000 tons by 1924. The ship spent the first nine months of the war in the Indian Ocean, hunting German commerce raiders before joining Cunningham’s fleet in the eastern Mediterranean. With mostly Swordfish, she managed to sink three Italian destroyers and a submarine in raids off Tobruk along the North African coast. She also had three old Gladiators that had been found crated up in Dekhelia, the only fighters available to the FAA at Alexandria before new squadrons arrived. Now she had the new Fairy Fulmars assigned to 803 Squadron, planes that had been transferred from HMS Furious.

The two carriers, Eagle and Hermes, would be going in ‘light,’ with a preponderance of fighter aircraft. Eagle would embark 12 Fulmar fighters of the 803 Squadron, and six new Martlets. She would also retain her 12 Swordfish in 824 Squadron, 30 planes in all. Hermes would carry 800 Squadron with 12 Skua fighters, and a small flight of 6 Swordfish that were waiting for her at Alexandria.

It was a strong sortie on paper, 4 battleships, 8 cruisers and twelve destroyers covered by 48 planes, and the addition of the battlecruiser Kirov was the icing on the cake. That said, the fleet would now face its greatest challenge of the war.

Prior to this time the Royal Navy had sparred with the Italians at inconsequential engagements off Crete and Cape Spade and Passero, which had decided nothing in the balance of power in the Mediterranean. Now however, the enemy was sending out a well coordinated fleet. The Italians had the battleships Roma, Venetto and Littoro near Messina, sailing to join Andria Doria, Duilio and Conte Cavour from Taranto, with four heavy cruisers, six light cruisers and fourteen destroyers.

The Vichy French would contribute another powerful fleet led by the pride of their navy, the battleship Normandie, battlecruisers Strasbourg and Dunkerque, with two heavy and four light cruisers, and ten destroyers. And arriving from Gibraltar the Germans were sending the formidable Bismarck and Hindenburg, escorted by their light carrier Goeben and the new fast battlecruiser Kaiser, which the British did not even know about, mistaking it for a heavy cruiser in the Hipper class when it was first spotted. They now outnumbered the British 12 to 5 in capital ships, 6 to 3 in heavy cruisers, 10 to 5 in light cruisers and 24 to 12 in destroyers, almost a solid two to one advantage in every category… almost.

Those odds were about to round off almost perfectly as an ominous storm cloud began to form in the Aegean that day. It was a wholly unaccountable moment, yet strangely one that had been planned by Admiral John Tovey himself… in another life…

Admiral Volsky was glad to be at sea again, a maneuver that served two purposes. First, they would soon join the British fleet that had just sortied from Alexandria in the hunt for the Italian Navy. Second, he could launch his special services rescue mission more discretely at sea, far from the many eyes who might see the KA-40 rise from the aft helo deck. The missile fire was one thing, yet it merely confirmed rumors that the Russians had been able to develop advanced rocketry on this prototype vessel. The sight of KA-40 naval helicopter might start another new rumor chain, and he wanted to keep evidence of the ship’s capabilities quiet for as long as possible.

Once aloft Fedorov was going to move discretely out in front of the British fleet and do a quick long range radar scan to test the Oko panel installation while searching for the Italian fleet. Then the helo would swing south over Mersa Matruh and make the journey south to begin the search for General O’Connor’s downed Blenheim. They had a fairly good idea where he might be, but the desert was a very big place.

It was to be a fateful mission, like so many other conceived in the fertile mind of Anton Fedorov. And in a strange echo of those earlier missions, another man would have a great deal to do with what happened that day.

Orlov stuck his nose around the hatch opening to the engineering section, looking to find Chief Dobrynin. He had something in his pocket he was still wondering about, and thought the Chief might be able to make some sense of it. He was greeted by the sound of system alerts and the rush of reactor engineers. Another man squeezed past him at the open hatch even as he stepped inside.

“Move, move, move!” he heard Dobrynin shouting inside the engineering section. “Norin — check those water feed levels. Osiniov — get on the reactor flux monitor. Tell me the instant you get any reading beyond yellow.”

Orlov stepped inside, aware that something was amiss, and soon seeing he would not be able to get the Reactor Chief’s attention. Yet he was ship’s Chief Operations Officer, so he stuck his thumb in the pie in any case.

“What’s going on here? Some kind of problem, Dobrynin?”

“Not now, Chief. Can’t you see that we have a flux event underway?”

Orlov looked at the monitors, but they made no sense to him at all, just as the radar and sonar stations made no sense to him on the bridge when he was lingering there. He shook his head. “Flux event? Someone had a bad egg for breakfast?” Even as he said that he was fingering the strange metallic egg he had in his pocket, the Devil’s Teardrop, as Troyak might call it.

Dobrynin was too busy to answer him, adjusting dials, looking at readings on the monitors, tapping a young engineer on the shoulder and pointing to a digital display. “Let me know the instant you see anything above thirty three on that monitor. Watch that thermal neutron flux very closely. See it rising? That had better settle down soon or we’ll have to insert another control rod.”

Orlov didn’t know it at the time, but if Dobrynin was forced to use one of his emergency control rods, the ship and crew might have other problems no one had counted on then. Both rods were the two new controls that had been shipped in, each from the same batch and field that spawned Rod-25. If he had to insert one now…

Seeing he was as useless here as legs on a snake, Orlov shrugged and edged out through the hatch, thinking he might need to get to the bridge and inform Rodenko of the problem. Then he realized that Dobrynin would simply use his intercom, which would save him that long climb all the way up to the citadel, so he started off towards the mess hall instead.

Every step he took was a benefit to Dobrynin and his badly spooked reactor crews. Every step he took carried that thing in his pocket just a little farther aft, another few feet away from the tempestuous fire of the nuclear core of the ship, and when he took a ladder up, entering the helo bay level, the thick reinforced bulkhead there designed to protect the ship from fuel explosions made things even better. He was outside the armored core of the ship surrounding the engineering section, and Chief Dobrynin’s morning would begin to settle down almost immediately.

Orlov thought he might go up yet another level and grab a sweet bun with raisins and a nice black tea for his mid-morning snack, but when he got to the mess hall he saw that a mishman had eaten the last bun. History would never record a moment like that, when a young man’s appetite for sweet rolls, or Orlov’s appetite for something to cure his boredom, would suddenly change everything again. When the ship’s bakery chef spread the last bit of icing on that roll, he could not know that he was sculpting the contours of the history of World War II from that moment forward.

The simple fact was that Pavel Gavlik took a second roll that morning, the last roll, and Orlov found nothing left but the empty bakery bin. So he wandered one deck higher, soon finding himself near the helo bay when he might have stayed right there in the mess hall, munching his roll and drinking black tea for the next half an hour — and that made all the difference. Was it the roll, or the Chief’s restless curiosity when he saw the elevated energy level in the aft helo bay that morning?

“Hey, Zykov, what’s going on? Why is everyone suiting up?” He could see a group of Marines donning special light camo-suits, and the weapons lockers were all open. Machine guns, grenade launchers, ammo canisters and other equipment were being pulled out and checked by the men. Off in the distance he heard the gruff voice of Sergeant Troyak riding someone for a sloppy rifle cleaning procedure, and the whole scene brought back memories of those first hours when he had been busted in rank and dumped here in the helo bay to join the Marine contingent.

“Orlov!” Zykov seemed eager to see him. “Just the man we need right now. Hey, Big K, the Chief is here!”

Troyak was Big K, at least to Zykov, who called him that instead of using his rank as an easy handle, or his real first name, Kandemir. The Sergeant stuck his head around the open door of a weapons locker and gave Orlov a scowl.

“Orlov. Good man on the job! I need you to get an Oko panel installed on the KA-40, with an infrared sensor suite. Can you do it? Kymkov is in sick bay and nobody else knows what they’re doing here.” He glared at his Marines, who shirked away, tending to their weapons and packs.

Orlov had been wandering below decks all morning, listless, brooding, thinking about that silly ride he had taken in the zeppelin and musing on the fact that Karpov was still out there somewhere doing the same thing. It seemed comical to him, that the once mighty Captain of the world’s most powerful ship was now relegated to the status of an airship commandant. Serves him right, he had thought.

Everyone on the ship seemed busy that morning, except Orlov. All he had to do was roam about and kibitz with one section Chief after another until his Bridge watch would come up in another six hours. He was bored, but now he finally had something to do.

“Oko panel? You going somewhere?”

“Never mind where we’re going, Orlov. Can you mount the damn radar panel or do I have to collar a matoc to get the job done?”

“Vse zayebalo!” said Orlov, swearing as he often did. “Of course I can mount a stupid Oko panel. Just let me grab a few men to fetch it from the bay.”

“I’ve already done that, but they can’t sort out the damn cable connections. It’s over by the KA-40. See about it, will you Chief?”

Orlov nodded. What the fuck, he thought, sick of Troyak’s bluster. Where did he get off ordering me around, eh? But it really doesn’t matter. I need something to do, and now I’ve finally got something to keep my hands busy for the next twenty minutes. Who knows, maybe I can work my way aboard and have some more fun with Troyak and his damn Marines.

Zykov grinned at him as he went to the helo, and Orlov was sick of him too. But what were the Marines up to? Why was everyone getting rigged out as if they were about to storm the barricades? That was an idle curiosity that would soon change the lives of millions… a man with a sweet tooth, a missing roll, and Orlov.

The Chief got to the helicopter and he could see that it was already set up with a long range reserve fuel tank, and two air-to air weapons pods on the short outer pylons. The KA-40 was much bigger than its younger brother, the old KA-27 naval helicopter that had been used for so many years. It could be rigged out for ASW combat with torpedoes and sonar buoys, and also had the ability to mount short range air-to-air missile pods. There it was, the fat blue pig, as Orlov often referred to the KA-40 with its pale blue paint scheme. It wasn’t the sleek fighting airframe that was used on the faster KA-50/52 series helos, but it had twice the range, 1200 kilometers with those extra fuel stores, and it was a very capable platform for many roles: transport, search and rescue, AEW, ASW and more. The Chief wasted little time getting to the cables and configuring the infrared sensor suite for the unit hookups.

Troyak came over to check on things a minute later, frowning at the medusa cable clutter and shaking his head. “Six cables for one damn radar panel?”

“And two more for infrared,” said Orlov with a grin, glad that he could lord it over Troyak now, as he could install an Oko panel in his sleep, while the gritty Sergeant did not have the slightest idea what he was doing. The Chief fussed and cursed with the last cable, remembering he had to attach a special data feed link under the main cabin panels as a last step.

“What’s going on, Troyak. Why the radar?”

“Mission.” The Sergeant was characteristically curt. He had wasted too many words that morning trying to get that panel mounted, and was just glad the job was finally done.

“Desert safari!” said Zykov as he came up with a grin, his short cropped blonde hair soon disappearing under his beret. “We have a search and rescue operation, or so I hear.”

“To the desert? What the fuck are we doing on this ship? First we go floating off in that damn zeppelin, now it’s Lawrence of Arabia.”

“Yes? Well we need a sensor suite operator. You want the job, Orlov?” Zykov winked at Troyak. He was joking, but Orlov obviously took him seriously. He thought for two seconds, realizing all he would be doing here is wandering about with nothing to do, looking at reports on stupid clip boards, nodding his head when a mishman requested shift leave, rousting the matoc out of their bunks for the next shift. He could leave that crap to the section Chiefs and have some real adventure here. In fact, even though he deprecated the zeppelin mission, he had been thrilled to get off the ship, and the ride he had taken in the sub-cloud car was more fun than anything he had done since he decided to jump ship, long ago, or so it seemed now. Here was another opportunity to get out into the world and do something different, and he didn’t think long.

“Sensor man? Sure! I can read these systems easily enough. It’s simple. One small screen, two digital readouts — not like that stuff on the bridge Rodenko fusses over.”

“I was only kidding, Chief,” said Zykov.

“Who’s kidding? You want a good man on the radar? I can take that watch. It will give me a chance to keep an eye on you two bilge rats and make sure the job gets done, eh? Where we going?”

Troyak gave Zykov a hard nudge in the ribs. “Nobody knows yet,” he said. “And look, we can only take ten men, so—”

Orlov was quick enough to see that Troyak was trying to give him the brush off, but at that moment a most unusual man came into the helo bay with Fedorov, and the distraction was just what he needed to worm his way aboard the KA-40.

Chapter 23

At that moment Fedorov came up, talking with a heavy set, middle aged man in an odd looking uniform, with a black fleece beret on his otherwise balding head. He wore baggy battle dress trousers with wide thigh pockets, a thick canvass belt, and black dragoon ammo boots. Orlov caught a flash of silver on his cap, where an odd looking badge was affixed. It looked like a complex silver globe mounted on a stand, but it was actually an astrolabe, the ancient instrument used for navigation that Chaucer wrote about as early as 1391 in his treatise on the subject. Ancient mariners would use it ‘to know justly the four quarters of the world, as East, West, North, and South.’

“There you are, Sergeant,” said Fedorov. “Allow me to introduce a most remarkable man here. This is Major Vladimir Peniakoff.”

In spite of his Russian name, the man was actually a Belgian, born of Russian parents in 1897, which made him nearly 44 years old at that time. His unit was set up in Cairo in 1942 as Fedorov had learned in his research. Yet here he was, already thick as thieves with Wavell, who had a penchant for special operations types, and seemed to find this man very useful.

Fedorov learned that “Popski,” as Peniakoff was called, would associate with the famous John “Shan” Hackett, who would fight in Syria, North Africa, and later raise and command the British 4th Parachute Brigade for the big operation at Arnhem that would one day be called “Market-Garden.” It was Hackett who would be instrumental in the formation of the special unit designated Number 1 Demolition Squadron, PPA, and that last bit would stand for “Popski’s Private Army.” It served well as a long range reconnaissance and raiding group behind enemy lines in Libya, and though it was not presently functioning in that role, Wavell had encouraged Popski to “get some sand on his boots” and see what was happening in the lower desert.

While much of the real military action would be anchored to the main coastal road, both sides were always sending out long range patrols to scout the endless desert to the south. Some ranged as far as Bayhira and Fafra Oasis, and the Italians had a small force still garrisoning the oasis at Giarabub northwest of Siwa. The British had scouted Siwa itself, and Popski already had men there with the Berber tribesmen, finding them useful sources of information on the local desert conditions, hazards, and the activities of enemy troops in the region. Wavell had suggested Siwa as the natural place to take O’Connor if they could possibly find his downed plane. It was well watered, with stores of fuel, ammunition and food that were kept there for use by the British raiders.

Whether he ever spoke Russian in the world Fedorov came from was a moot point now, for Popski spoke it fluently in this world, as he also spoke Arabic and English, and he was apparently getting an early start on his career as a special forces raider in the Long Range Desert Group for Wavell in this retelling of his colorful tale.

He had come to Egypt in 1924 to operate a sugar mill, and there he learned to pilot a plane and navigate the Nile on his boat, named the Astrolabe. He also acquired an old Model-A Ford, which he called his ‘Pisspot,’ and he used it to learn to navigate in the desert with nothing more than a sun compass, a good timepiece, and the stars. When his marriage to an Egyptian born Belgian woman finally faltered at the outbreak of the war, Popski was a bit of a derelict for a time. The marriage broke up back in England, his two daughters shipped overseas to South Africa, and he walked into the Bank of England one day and deposited nearly every shilling to his name, but not to his account. It was a gift to the Crown.

He was a man burning his bridges after that, and like so many other lost souls, he immediately thought to sign up with the military. The R.A.F. and Royal Navy would have nothing to do with him at this age, even though he had learned to pilot aircraft. So he signed on with the Army, and soon found himself in Egypt again. Frequenting the bars in Cairo, he heard a great deal in the seedy warrens of that place, and he began to pass information to the British on things the Italian Army was up to in the desert, hoping to prove himself useful.

Aging for any real military work, Peniakoff bent the ear of a medical officer after he joined the British Army in Cairo. He convinced the man to certify him as fit for duty, in A1 condition, even though he had a gimpy leg that often bothered him on his long desert hikes. He eventually ended up in the 3rd Battalion of the Libyan Arab Force (L.A.F.) where he got his promotion to Major, though he soon realized the L.A.F. wasn’t destined to do much of anything in the war. So he thought to try a foray behind enemy lines to gather intelligence or blow up a supply depot or two, and this gave him his start in the special operations he would become famous for.

It was there that he met up with Major Jock Cameron, who would become his steady right hand man and companion on many raids. It was there also, that he assumed the nickname history would know him by, Popski. It was actually the name of a dog, the sidekick of a Russian character in an old comic strip, and his mates found it easier to code for signals transmission than the name Peniakoff.

Fate had an odd way of weaving the fortunes of all these men together that day. Peniakoff would one day come to know and operate with another British commando of some note, Lieutenant Colonel John Haselden, the very same man that had led the small raid to find and capture Chief Orlov on the shores of the Caspian Sea. He would find himself mixed up in another rescue operation, the elaborate raid that had been planned by Fedorov using the Anatoly Alexandrov, and Troyak’s dogged defense against the encroaching German Panzer troops as they desperately searched for Orlov. And here was the burly, irascible Chief yet again, right in the thick of things, as if some inexorable gravity was gathering all these souls into the same well of fate and time.

“The British call him Popski,” said Fedorov, and he made the introductions, surprised to see Orlov inside the KA-40, as he had not selected him for this mission.

Troyak smiled at the name, but his discerning eye saw more in this man than he seemed on the surface. There was a weathered texture on the man, the product of long days and nights in the desert, and his features were well sculpted by time for his age, his face browned by the sun. Yet his eyes held a warmth that seemed very engaging when he looked at you, a softer soul behind that wrinkled face. He seemed to be taking everything in, the men, their equipment, the activity in the helo bay, and of course, the KA-40 where it sat beneath those long, drooping counter rotating props. There was just a touch of amazement in his expression, though he said nothing. Simply offering a firm handshake. Then Fedorov briefed them on the mission.

“A plane carrying an important British General has gone down in the desert — General O’Connor. We have every reason to believe that he has survived the crash landing, and that the Italians might be out looking for the crash site even as we speak. Our mission is to locate the plane and find this man. He must not be captured. In ten minutes I want to be airborne in that helicopter with this man here, Sergeant Troyak, and a select squad of his choosing.”

“And what about me,” said Orlov from the back of the helo where he was still fussing with the Oko panel cables. “Someone has to sort out this mess on the Oko panel. I’ve only just got the damn thing cabled. We’ll need to test it once we get airborne and then initialize the infrared module.”

“You know this equipment, Orlov?”

“Sure, it’s the one thing I studied well enough to actually learn in the Tech school. Then I decided it was easier to just become Chief of Operations.”

The Marines laughed at this, and Fedorov smiled.

“Besides,” said Orlov. “I can fly this thing too. An extra pilot is always handy. Yes?”

Fedorov had read Orlov’s report from the Zeppelin mission, and he had been pleased with the results. Yes, another man who could pilot the KA-40 would be a good idea, so why not, he thought.

“Very well, I’ll clear it with Admiral Volsky. It’s one thing to have the ship’s Captain on an away team. The Admiral can fill my shoes easily enough, but who’s going to knock heads together if you come along, Chief?”

It was soon decided that Orlov could be spared, and so the team was set and the men were mounting up minutes later. The quiet, pudgy man with the black beret entered the main cabin with the pilot and co-pilot in the front seats; Orlov and Fedorov were on the three seats just behind them. Troyak selected nine other Marines for the security detail, which made for fifteen passengers. Much bigger than the older KA-27, this helo could carry up to 24 men in total, though this was the typical mission load. Troyak’s squad was “heavy” this time, as they did not know what sort of opposition they might encounter on the ground. The men had assault rifles, two machine guns, a mortar, grenade launcher and a Ilga hand held SAM. Two men carried lighter RPGs instead of the heavier anti-armor weapons they had taken to Siberia, but they were more than capable of defeating any armor they might encounter. Fedorov explained that if they did encounter anything, there would be no real armor to speak of at this time in the war, and the light shoulder fired RPG-30 could blast through 600mm of armor with its shaped tandem charge.

Popski took a keen interest in the weapons the Marines were carrying, particularly the machine guns, which he eyed with a look approaching envy on his face.

“That looks to be one fine weapon there,” he said, pointing at Zykov’s assault rifle, which gave the corporal just the perfect opportunity to expound on its virtues.

“Bizon-2 SMG,” he said handing the gun to Popski. “High impulse Makarov rounds in a helical sixty-four round magazine—”

“Very good in a firefight,” Troyak had heard the litany many times before, and he finished it off for Zykov. “Particularly at close quarters.”

Yet Zykov was not deterred. He could see the light in Popski’s eyes as he looked at the machine guns, which were really the only weapons he ever respected in the work he did in the desert. “That one there is good for ranged suppressive fire—Pecheneg Bullpup 7.62mm.”

“Yes? And what about the rest? What’s that slung off the back of that pack?”

“Auto-grenade launcher. Great area denial weapon. It’ll pop off these little cherries thirty at a time.” He held up a small grenade, a wry grin on his face. He was obviously enjoying his little session with the visitor, a bit smug in his thinking that no weapon of this era could ever match his own.

As they took off, Popski smiled with delight. “Amazing,” he said to Fedorov. “Where can I get one of these? It beats my old Pisspot Model-A for getting around, and then some.”

“Where are we headed?” Orlov looked to the ex-navigator as the helo rose from Kirov’s aft flight deck and angled away in a heavy wash of churning rotors.

“South,” said Fedorov quietly. “South into the greatest desert on earth, the Egyptian Sahara. You’ll see things there that we’d never find in Mother Russia,” he said. “And this man Popski is our expert guide.”

At this Popski doffed his cap with a smile. Now it was his time to deliver a little lecture. “Scorpions and snakes are the least of it, sun and sand the worst you’ll ever find. The Western Desert is the most dangerous place on this earth, riddled with tombs and ancient grave sites, and haunted by the souls of the dead since the time of the Pharos, and ages past.”

“And will we get to ride a camel?” Orlov gave him a grin.

“Not likely,” said Popski, “but I’ve a squadron of nice rugged jeeps at Siwa if we need to move on the ground, all rigged out with some good 50-caliber machine guns. There’s also a detachment of the Aussie 6th Divisional Cavalry out here watching Giarabub, and they could be handy in a pinch if we need some help. We’ll be right on the edge of the real desert, the deep desert, the Great Sand Sea. Dunes there get to be a thousand feet high, star dunes, rumbling dunes, wind and sand storms that will take the skin right off your face if you don’t have protection.” He gestured to the yellow dyed cloth that he wore around his neck. “Not for decoration mates,” he said, his roots as a long time Anglophile steeped in British culture very evident, even though he was speaking Russian and he used the word ‘comrades’ in that language.

“Egyptians call the Western Desert the ‘Land of the Dead,’ the gateway to the underworld, and most anything you run across built by human hands out there is a temple, to some evil god, a cemetery or a tomb. Think of it as a border zone, a hot desert twilight zone between this world and the next, and believe me, many a man has slipped across that frontier, never to be seen again. You’ll need to keep your wits about you out there, and you’ll need good equipment too.”

He eyed the satchels and backpacks the men had assembled, and the arsenal of weapons. “And you’ll need more than guns and ammunition to survive out here. The heat can be unbearable, unless you have a good source of water. Even the hills are scorched black in places, as if burned by some great fire long ago. The only humans you’ll find where we’re headed will be black clad Berbers, drifting about the landscape like ghouls, and looking for trouble. Some say they’re all in the service of demons, but I’ve managed to persuade a few to work for me instead. They aren’t much good at night, however. Berbers get spooked at night. They say the witches come, digging up the graves of the newly buried dead, and there’s plenty of them in that damn desert. Dig them up they will, and they’ll tear the bodies right apart, making off with a fellow’s head dangling from their mouth like a rabid dog. That’s just Berber talk, mind you, but no sir, you don’t want to get lost out here unless you know what you’re about. God help this General O’Connor if he’s wandered away from his aircraft, and God help him even more if he hasn’t. It will attract Italian patrols like flies on shit.”

All the men were listening, but no one said anything.

Chapter 24

When Rommel moved east after his lightning swift advance from Agheila, Wavell had to make the uncomfortable decision to leave one of his best divisions behind, the Australian 6th. He had meant to recall it to Alexandria for shipment to Greece, but O’Connor had convinced him that replacing it with the 9th Division, already in the Nile Delta, would be a waste of time and much needed fuel. So the 6th stayed on the line, with a Brigade at Benghazi and to others reorganizing as motorized units by trying to get as many captured Italian trucks as possible in good working order.

Two brigades of the division had been part of O’Connor’s column pointed west to Sirte when Rommel struck, and the instant the General realized what was happening, he had given orders for a withdrawal to Tobruk. Thanks to those Italian trucks, the 16th and 17th Brigades made the long journey back across the thin desert tracks to reach the fortress safely. The 19th Brigade had been at Benghazi, and though it had better roads through the mountainous Jebel country, it had to go on foot, barely managing to retreat through Derna to Tobruk before the Axis columns could cut it off. It joined the other two brigades and took up defensive positions in Tobruk, only to learn that Wavell was ordering a further withdrawal to Bardia and the Egyptian border — but the 6th Division would not be moving. Instead they would be assigned to hold out at Tobruk for as long as possible, supplied by sea, and to be evacuated by that route should their position become untenable.

The Australian 6th Divisional Cavalry Regiment was the one unit that had managed to escape the onerous garrison duty. Being well motorized, it was sent south to keep watch on the long frontier wire, and particularly on the Italian outposts at Garn el Grein south of Fort Maddalena, and at the Oasis of Giarabub. Along the way, Captain Brown’s Squadron of motorized Infantry fought a sharp engagement with the Italians at Garn El Grein, cutting through the wire to try and take the place by surprise, but finding the enemy defense alert and vigorous. Brown soon found his column under artillery fire, and the Italians had also managed to call on the services of three C200 fighters from Giarabub, which were strafing his men and trucks until they finally ran out of ammunition.

Captain Brown withdrew his column to the British held outpost at Siwa, where he joined the Regiment HQ under Colonel Fergusson and the 2nd Squadron commanded by Major Abbot. Even together, the force comprised no more than 300 men in trucks, mostly armed with Vickers machine guns and a few light mortars beyond the rifles carried by the troopers. Yet Fergusson soon was given the task of trying to lever the Italians out of their oasis outpost at Giarabub.

“It was one thing to go after them while we were heading west,” said Fergusson as he gathered his officers together to try and come up with a plan. “Now, with Rommel heading east, we aren’t likely to get any of the reinforcements I requested.” Fergusson had asked for two more infantry companies and an armored squadron, with supporting artillery and a platoon of engineers. He would get only the artillery and engineers, four 25 pounders, two 40mm Bofors and 32 engineers under Captain O’Grady. The Italians at Giarabub were now thought to number at least 1200 men, with six MG companies, engineers and artillery under Colonel Costiana. The British therefore found themselves outnumbered four to one.

Brigadier General Morshead’s 18th Australian Brigade was supposed to reinforce the desert force at Siwa and capture the Italian outpost at Giarabub, but it would not be coming in this history. Hard pressed by at least five Italian Infantry divisions, Wavell had sent it to Tobruk by sea to reinforce that garrison to four brigades. So Colonel Fergusson was alone at Siwa with his 300 man motorized cavalry unit, and a few hardened souls belonging to the Long Range Desert Group that were watering there, Popski’s confederates.

The ‘diggers’ in the tough Australian cavalry unit nonetheless set to aggressive patrolling and probing of the enemy’s positions, always answered by plenty of enemy artillery and machinegun fire. Unable to live with the tortuous names on the maps they had of the area, they began to rename prominent terrain features with easier handles. A depression where Captain O’Grady had been forced to dismount his men to push his 25 pounders along on foot soon became “O’Grady’s Dell.” A narrow wadi covered by a small Italian 44mm gun the Aussies called “Pipsqueak” was summarily named “Pipsqueak Valley.” A stony outcrop known as El Hamra became “Brown’s Hill.”

The heat wasn’t as bad in December, though it was bitterly cold at night under the cloudless, star sewn sky. The pristine, rugged beauty of the desert was the only consolation the Aussies had. When word came that they could count on no further reinforcements for some time, Colonel Fergusson resigned himself to a cautious watch on Giarabub, still mounting regular patrols, largely in an effort to convince the Italians he had far more troops than he actually did.

“Keep nipping at them like an angry terrier,” he told his men. “If they find out we’re no more than battalion strength, then the tables will turn bang away, and we’ll be the ones sitting at Siwa with the Degos at the perimeter trying to get in.”

A day later he got even more disheartening news. General O’Connor’s plane had gone down in the desert somewhere northeast of Giarabub. The Blenheim twin engine light bomber, once the fastest plan in the air force, was now well behind the aeronautical engineering curve, and it had been no match for the Me-109 that found it that day. The German fighter got off one good pass, striking the left wing with MG fire as it flashed away, apparently out of ammunition.

In the effort to evade, the Blenheim had turned south and dove. Before the plane could recover altitude, the winds kicked up into a sudden, fierce sandstorm, blowing heavily out of the northwest. They tried to climb above it, but that single pass by the Me-109 had nicked the left engine and it caught fire under the strain. Unable to climb, they knew they would have no chance in that sandstorm, so the General told the pilot to run south away from the storm and towards Siwa. They were still well north of the oasis when the engine gave out, and so they wisely elected to attempt a crash landing.

Lieutenant Cory, of B Troop 1/6th Australian Cav, thought he saw something through the gloomy silted sky that evening, a strange glow in the sky, but he and his men had to hunker down for the storm as well. They were out on point, up beyond a gully they had dubbed “Davidson’s Pass” after the first scout section that went through. Their position was right near the Libyan border at Ayn Melfa, which they had taken from a small Italian patrol the previous day. Giarabub was 35 kilometers due west of his post, and much farther to the east, on a high rocky outcrop, there was a lonesome, haunted plateau that would soon be visited by spirits and demons from another world.

The KA-40 with Fedorov’s rescue team was very close, well south over the dread Qattara Depression, at the trailing edge of that storm as it swept south. The depression was the lowest place in Egypt, descending from impassible craggy escarpments to a depth of 80 meters below sea level. There were endless miles of soft wet ‘sebkha,’ a silty soil that made the area impassible to all vehicles and even camels if they were loaded with any cargo. All around it lay a maze of parched dry lake beds fed by gnarled, dry wadis. Other places were dotted with shallow sand and salt marshes, fringed by parched stony ground that had been baked in the hot sun and scoured by the harsh desert winds for ages. It was no place for any man to be, if he wanted to live very long, and O’Connor’s Blenheim was fortunate to have avoided it on his run south.

Fedorov was stooped over a good map of the region, checking signal coordinates from O’Connor’s last known position just before the plane went down. He squinted out through the forward view panes on the helo, seeing the dull brown silt in the air, and knowing that if they found themselves in the thick of it, the engine filters could clog up and they would be in the same position as O’Connor. At the moment, they were in a void between two great arms of brown blowing sand and silt, and Fedorov thought they had better look for a safe place to land. Even technology from his future time would have to bow before the wrath of Mother Nature, and so he began to look over the map for a suitable spot where they could ride out the last of the storm.

“This feature looks interesting,” he said, fingering a high plateau surrounded by sheer escarpments. “Come to 170 southeast, and we can set down on that plateau. The map indicates firm ground, some gravel and scattered sand over hard stone. It should take the weight of the helo easily enough.” He showed Popski the map, indicating the spot he had in mind in case he had any advice.

“Put down here,” said Popski. “Bir Basúre. There’s a water cairn there that feeds from an underground artesian spring. It’s not much, but better than nothing. There’s a road that passes close by that place, and runs here, all the way down to Siwa. These other roads shown on that map of yours don’t even exist, as far as I know, and that’s a good deal when it comes to this desert. But what’s this bit here?” He pointed to a shaded zone on the map sitting square atop the escarpment fringed plateau, a large triangle spanning some 50 kilometers.

“Old map,” said Fedorov, quickly folding it and putting it away. In fact it was a very new map, printed in 2021, and the features Popski had asked him about were new developments northwest of Siwa, and the roads that serviced them. Fedorov reminded himself to keep that map under wraps in the future. Popski was not aware of their true origins and identity. He had only been told that they were ‘allies,’ a catchall category that would hang on the citizens and soldiers of many nations before this war was over.

“The desert shifts and changes every day,” said Popski. “At least the bugger got Bir Basúre right when he drew that map. There’s three hills north of the place. If you get down low it should be easy to spot. That will put us about 70 kilometers northwest of Siwa. I can radio the lads there and have them come out with a few jeeps.”

“Well the storm can’t last forever,” said Fedorov. “We’ll be conducting the search with the helicopter.”

“No, it won’t last forever,” said Popski, “but it may damn well come to feel that way once it sweeps in. I’ve seen these storms bury field phone wire six feet deep in an hour. That’s stony ground where we’re landing, well up on the plateau, so we’re safe from sand drifts. But if it’s no bother to you, I’d feel better with some vehicles at hand. Just in case.” He gave Fedorov a wink and a nod, and the young Captain could see no reason why he shouldn’t make the call.

As they made their approach, Fedorov spotted the angular plateau ahead, recognizing it from an article he had read the previous year… so long ago it seemed now, in the year 2020. That was the place where BP made that great breakthrough. He was not thinking of Bletchley Park this time, but of another BP, British Petroleum. Yes, that was the place that was supposed to save the Western world for the next twenty to fifty years with flows of light sweet crude that must be hidden there even now, deep beneath the forbidding terrain. What was the name? He remembered it now, a strange handle for the world’s newest superfield in 2020. It was called Sultan Apache.

“Troyak calls it the Devil’s Teardrop,” said Orlov.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Zykov. “The Devil never weeps. He’s too busy laughing.”

The other men chuckled at that as they huddled near their field tents. The helo was down, safely landed with the engines capped off and secured from blowing sand, which wasn’t bad yet. The men had established a camp to wait for Popski’s comrades and their jeeps. Popski thought it might be wise to have a look around while they were on the ground, and Fedorov agreed. If the Italians had patrols out, they might stumble on them by surprise.

Popski assisted the Marines in getting ‘desertized’ as he called it. He had them tuck their trouser cuffs into the top of their boots, and made sure each man had a good pair of goggles and a scarf. Thankfully they had brought these things at his request, and they now proved their worth when the sand started blowing. The Marines then set up tents that could be well sealed off, but Troyak knew they would have to mount a security watch, and he took the post himself, along with Popski, who seemed restless and ill at ease the moment they were on the ground again.

“You expecting the night witches any time soon?” Zykov asked their guide, ribbing him a bit.

“If they come, they’ll be in an Autoblinda-40 armored car with a pair of nasty 8mm machine guns mounted in the turret.”

“Oh?” Zykov smiled. “If they do, they’ll get a nice little RPG-30 for their trouble, and I’ll blow them half way to hell.”

Popski gave him a stolid grin. “You men might be well armed, and I can see you’ve been well trained, but understand one thing here. You’re never safe in the desert. Never. Look around, we already are half way to hell. If any place on this earth could be called that, it’s right under your ass as we speak. Your Sergeant Troyak knows as much. I can see it in the way he took his post the moment we landed.” Popski nodded to Troyak, who was standing off a ways out from the helicopter, his assault rifle unshouldered and at the ready.

“Hey Popski,” said Orlov. “What do you make of this?”

He tossed their guide the strange object he had found in Siberia.

“One of your grenades?” Popski gave it an odd look.

“Naw, just something I happened across on another mission. Troyak calls it the Devil’s Teardrop. Ever seen anything like it?”

“Can’t say as I have. Damn thing is smooth as silk, so it is not any kind of rock I’ve ever seen. Good name for it, given its shape. Where’d you come by it?”

“Siberia, another kind of desert. Dangerous there too.”

“Scared the shit out of Orlov,” said Zykov. “That’s for sure.”

“Zavali yebalo!” Orlov swore in protest, but Zykov just gave him a wink.

“Maybe I’ll get there one day and we’ll see,” said Popski. And he tossed the object back to Orlov, who held it in his hand, fiddling with it like a man might play with a marble. Then he suddenly had a strange look on his face, his eyes widening, hand opening quickly as he dropped the object to the stony ground.

“Yob!” he said loudly, shaking his hand. “What did you do to the damn thing? It’s hot as hell!”

They all stared at the object, amazed to see that it was glowing with a strange luminescence, a phosphorescent green. Then there came a roar that sounded like a peal of distant thunder, and Popski looked over his shoulder, his weathered eyes laden with concern.

He reached for his submachine gun where it rode easily on his broad round shoulder. The other Marines acted on sheer instinct, weapons ready and up on their feet at once. A second crack of thunder was heard, then eerie green lightning scored the darkening reddish brown sky, which was suddenly alight, backlit with a bright glow.

Any explosion in the desert could mean only one thing, thought Popski. They had been found. It had to be artillery. They were under attack.