Authors: John Schettler
T1! The new T class the Siberians had built this year… This was
Tunguska!
It could be nothing else. Yet that ship was reported lost over the English Channel just last week. How could it be here? Were all his network reports in error? Impossible!
“All guns to bear on that ship!” he pointed, and the rifle crews began to return fire in the chaos of the command bridge. The sharp report of the guns was deafening, the shell casings ejecting and falling from the ship as they fired, and smoke from their fire wafting up to the bridge level above.
Kymchek was on the voice tube to Volkov with the bad news. He knew he would have to answer for what was happening here now, and did not know how he could explain the presence of this ship, other than to say the obvious.
“Sir! That ship out there—it’s the T1—
Tunguska!”
* * *
Volkov heard the clamor on the bridge, and the firing of the guns on the main gondola. Then Kymchek’s voice was loud in the tube again, and his eyes widened with surprise.
“Tunguska? Karpov? How is that possible? What in hell are you saying, Kymchek?”
“Sir… The reports we had … Well that must have been a deception, false information. There is no other explanation.”
The heat rose on Volkov’s neck, his eyes bulging with anger. “Damn your soul, man! False information? Are we that stupid?” Yet even as he shouted this his mind began to piece together the truth of what must have happened.
Tunguska
had been over Germany, rashly bombing Berlin before it made for the English Channel, apparently bound for London. Then the news was on the BBC of the airship lost in that storm, but they had never found evidence of the wreckage.
Yes, that was it. Karpov! That bastard must have been in league with the allies all along. He had just come from that meeting with Sergei Kirov, and there must have been some secret arrangement made with London at the same time. Perhaps he never sailed west at all, but turned about to come here. Could Karpov have learned of my plans? We were pulling airships off the front lines and assembling the fleet for this operation just a day after we got the news that his airship had gone down. The news was still fresh. Probably too fresh to really blame Kymchek for this lapse, though I’ll give him hell in any case.
But what to do now? The roar of the battle was growing and he felt the ship shudder with a direct hit. He craned his neck, seeing the forward gondola had taken the blow, with smoke and fire there.
Karpov! That son of a bitch! Look what he did to the Caspian Division. The skies were black with the smoke of
Salsk
and
Sochi
as they fell to their doom.
Armavir
was burning badly from her tail, unable to maneuver, and descending as rapidly as she could.
Anapa
had fallen off and dropped elevation as well, intent on fulfilling its mission and putting her valuable troops on the ground.
Armavir
was trying to get down, but now he saw the skies dotted with the tiny dark shapes of men leaping from that ship. The flutter of parachutes followed, and Volkov took some solace to think that battalion might also get men on the ground. He would need everything he had to press a credible attack on Ilanskiy.
That is the key, he thought. I must get the ship to Ilanskiy. Once I control that place on the ground, I’ll have the one thing Karpov prizes most.
“Kymchek! Break off this attack. Make for Ilanskiy, all engines ahead full.”
“But sir… That will take us directly into that storm front!”
“Damn the weather. All ships to Ilanskiy! Signal the Southern Division ahead to do the same. The fleet will regroup there. Understood?”
“Aye sir, signaling fleet regroup orders now.”
* * *
Aboard
Tunguska
, Karpov smiled when they scored the first hits on the
Orenburg
. The enemy flagship had been trying to climb, and maneuvering to bring all its gondola mounted guns to bear.
Tunguska
took a direct hit from the lighter 76mm rifles on the ship’s forward gondola. Then she returned a well aimed 105mm round there, and took her revenge.
Yes, revenge, vengeance, vendetta. That was what Karpov had in hand now. Was Volkov on the
Orenburg?
Was he looking at what I just did to those little airships of his below? Look at those fires!
Bogrov turned, a warning in his tone. “They’re breaking off, sir. It looks like they’re going to run for that squall line.”
Karpov saw the unwieldy bulk of the
Orenburg
veering off, the ship’s great nose coming around, and heard the fitful thrumming of engines.
“Shall we come round and pursue?”
Karpov thought quickly, his eyes moving from the silver-grey mass of
Orenburg
to the more distant battle where he could vaguely see Big Red in action at lower elevations ahead. Another ship was burning there, and reports indicated that they were going to lose the heavy cruiser
Tomsk
. He looked at the storm front ahead, thinking that the weather had its own dark pact with the tempest that had sent him here from 1909. If he pursued, what might happen to
Tunguska
? Was that front energetic enough to affect the ship’s position in time? Might he vanish from the scene right in the midst of the fight here, even as he had appeared to the great surprise and bewilderment of his enemy?
“No!” he ordered. “Do not follow
Orenburg
. Avoid that storm front. Make for Big Red, and all ahead full!”
Chapter 9
“Old
Krasny” was hanging in the skies above the small hamlet of Karapsel, half way between Kansk on the River Kan and Ilanskiy to the east. The day was late and the setting sun finally fell low enough to send its amber gleam beneath the cloud deck. The light painted the dull red canvass in a tawny shade of port as the airship battled on.
The skies about Big Red were ripped by explosions. The ship’s aft gondola had been hit, the number four engine burning there. And above, on the broad flanks of the ship, three holes had been torn in the outer skin of the airship, one a large gash where singed canvas still fluttered fitfully in the wind.
The ship seemed to gasp, and then a rain of water fell from the bulbous nose as more ballast was vented. Big Red was struggling for elevation now, with at least two interior gas bags pierced by enemy shells and leaking helium, one on the verge of collapse.
Three enemy airships hung in the violent airs about her, two ‘S Class” airships at 120,000 cubic meter volume, the
Samarkand
and
Sarkand
. Above, and slightly behind was the
Angren,
a ship of equal size in the same “A Class” as Karpov’s old flagship
Abakan
. The last ship in this division, heavy cruiser
Tashkent
, had taken a full broadside from
Krasnoyarsk
, and was damaged so badly that it was forced to break off and run north for the open taiga. And
Angren
had taken hits as well, a deep gash gouged in the brow of the ship where crews had struggled to put out a fire that threatened to burn away the outer skin.
Big Red was well named at 180,000 cubic meter volume, with six 105mm recoilless rifles and another ten smaller 76mm guns. Yet it was still outgunned by the combined weight of enemy firepower. Now the odds were about to take a dramatic shift as
Tunguska
loomed on the scene, bringing another twenty four main guns to the battle, with half of those being the bigger 105mm caliber. To make matters worse for the enemy, Karpov had a thousand meter elevation advantage as he approached, so all his gondola mounted rifles were going to have perfect fields of fire, while the enemy could only bring its topside mounted guns to bear on him, and these totaled only six lighter 76mm guns between all these enemy ships.
Tunguska
came in with a roaring broadside against the
Angren
, the skies about the enemy ship blooming with dark, fiery explosions. The gunners had the range, and the next salvoes were beginning to tear into the hull of the ship, the big 105s ripping holes through the outer shell, piercing the gas bags within, and blasting away fragments of the duralumin frame. Already fighting fires, the engineers climbing the interior ladders to damage control platforms, found themselves shaken and riddled with shrapnel. Some fell from their perches on the upper interior superstructure and plummeted down into the voids between the massive gas bags.
The forward nose bag had now taken so many hits that it collapsed, and the greater buoyancy of
Angren’s
tail set it drifting skyward, as if the airship was going into a nosedive, even though it still hung suspended in the tumult of the raging battle. Shocked by the sudden appearance of
Tunguska
, a ship nearly twice its size, the frantic topside gunners on
Angren
were turning every weapon they had on the enemy, sending thin streams of machinegun fire up in futile defiance.
“Main gondola gunners,” Karpov shouted through the voice tube to the men below. “Hold fire until all tubes are reloaded. Hit that damn ship amidships with one salvo on my command…. Ready… Fire!”
The resulting fire from all the rifles on the main gondola blasted into the heart of the enemy ship, tearing a massive hole in her side to expose the interior frame. There Karpov could see that the number three gas bag had been rent asunder, and was collapsing like a wet rag, the linings burning and soon engulfing the ship in choking black smoke. It was a fatal blow, and then there came two secondary explosions when the fires found reserve oxygen tanks. The resulting infusion of oxygen fed the flames, and the bridge crews watched the one nightmare they all secretly feared, the rapid, burning death of the airship, as fires engulfed it from bow to stern, and men fell, or leapt, from gondolas, preferring the headlong fall to the terror of a fiery death.
Angren
hung in the sky, seeming to roll to one side for one brief moment, and then began to fall, the weight of the duralumin frame and gondolas overcoming all remaining buoyancy. It was now a fair fight, at least where ship numbers were counted. Yet with the loss of
Angren
, the captains of the two S Class ships could now clearly see that they were overmatched.
Tunguska
might have easily beaten them both, and though bruised and bleeding, Big Red was still throwing hard punches with its 105s.
Samarkand
was the first to turn north, thinking to follow in the wake of the now distant heavy cruiser
Tashkent
. The Captain of
Sarkand
saw his sister ship turn, and knew that speed and maneuverability was now his only salvation. Both ships ran for the nearest cloud they could find, the skies about them pocked with explosions as they fled. The gunners began to cheer as the enemy turned, and Karpov smiled.
Big Red would live to fight another day. He was already re-writing the book Tyrenkov had found in that excursion up the stairs of the railway inn.
“Tyrenkov!” Karpov ordered. “Signal all ships to make for Ilanskiy. Tell them Vladimir Karpov is back, and ready for a fight!”
* * *
Kymchek
stood in the open hatch to the armored command capsule where Volkov huddled. He saw the broken bottle of brandy on the deck, the sharp shards of glass a cruel microcosm of what had befallen the fleet. Volkov had thought to sip his brandy as he watched the battle in sedate isolation here, but the appearance of
Tunguska
had shaken the fleet to its core.
Two ships,
Pavlodar
and
Talgar
, had already been dispatched home after the initial battle that downed the enemy battleship
Yakutsk
.
Salsk
had been immolated by that dreadful fire bomb Karpov had deployed, and
Sochi
was smashed by those rockets. Now news came that
Angren
was down,
Tashkent
battered and fleeing north with the two S Class ships of that division.
“
Samarkand
and
Sarkand
are still battle worthy,” said Kymchek, trying to soften the blow as he reported. “They are steering for Ilanskiy as ordered, and will join our division there. If
Tashkent
can control her fires and stay in the fight, that will still give us six airships there when we reform.
Anapa
was the only ship to escape that surprise attack on the Caspian Division and got her troops down safely. She’ll join us directly.”
“Half the fleet is out of action!” Volkov blustered. “Where did Karpov come from? How did he manage to get a ship of that size in here without a single sighting from anyone in the fleet?” He shook his head, deeply bothered, his eyes moving about the confined space of the capsule as if he were a caged tiger, glowering to break free and get at his enemy. Then he clenched his jaw, a smoldering fire in his eyes beneath the thick gray hair, and reached for his map.
“What is happening on the ground?” he asked tersely.
“Most every ship was able to deploy troops,” said Kymchek. “We got 1500 men down, some northeast of Kansk, and the main body north of Ilanskiy.”
The “battalions” that the airships carried were really no more than large company sized units, though they were well armed, and among the best troops in the army.
Orenburg
could deploy about 200 men, with most of the other ships capable of lifting between 100 and 150. Volkov’s air mobile “division” would therefore not be much more than a single brigade in actual size, until fresh troops could be air lifted from the western front. Kymchek had warned him they would be outnumbered on the ground, with a full Siberian division occupying the area from Kansk to Ilanskiy. Yet Volkov had assumed he would quickly overpower the smaller Siberian airship fleet, and therefore have complete air superiority over the battlefield to pound the enemy from above.