Grand Alliance (Kirov Series) (5 page)

“It’s a
very good platform for search and rescue,” said Fedorov. “And it is excellent
in reconnaissance. Let’s get up there and have a look around.”

Small
steps, thought Fedorov. Get the man airborne and see what develops. Every bird
learns to fly in due course. He would have to take things one step at a time,
and see if O’Connor would eventually come to the same conclusion Tovey did—that
there were things in front of him that no man could build in this world. That
would be the moment to ease him over the final line to the real truth. For the
time being they would tell O’Connor that Kinlan commanded a detachment sent
here to reinforce Siwa, and leave off the details, which would become apparent
over time.

“Fergusson
has been begging for reinforcements,” said O’Connor. “It’s a wonder Wavell had
anything left in the cupboard to send out here. How many are you? It was night
and the bloody sandstorm made it impossible to see much, but it certainly
sounded like there were a good number of vehicles in your detachment.”

“Yes
sir,” said Kinlan. “They got the 7th pulled back together, though you are
correct, we’re just off the boat, in a manner of speaking.”

“Well
it’s about time we got support from England. I realize its all of 40 days to
get here round the cape. Where were you serving back home? Were you with 1st
Armored Division?”

“What
else?” said Kinlan, as he knew that most of the armored reserves in early 1941
had been cannibalized from that division back home in the UK, and his own 7th
Brigade was, in fact, still a part of the British 1st Armored Division in
modern times.

They
were out over the desert, and heading southwest. Fedorov was worried Kinlan
would get talked into a corner by O’Connor, so he tried to keep the man
distracted with the reconnaissance, and it was not long before O’Connor spotted
something, his eyes keen enough to recognize movement on the desert, as he had
spent many hours airborne over a battle zone himself.

“There,”
he pointed.

The
thin streams of dust were telltale evidence on the desert floor below.
Something was moving there, the first probing outriders of an advance heading east.

“That
has to be out from the Italian Garrison at Giarabub,” said O’Connor. “Just one
little fish I couldn’t net when I moved west earlier.”

When he
made his sweeping attack to smash the Italian position in Cyrenaica, a small
garrison under Major Salvatore Castagna had been marooned at Giarabub, well
over 200 miles south at the edge of the Great Sand Sea. It was one of the most
isolated outposts the Italians had established, and was largely held to keep
watch on the British controlled oasis at Siwa, some miles to the southeast. It
was also a holy place, where a mosque and tomb of the founder of the Senussi
sect attracted small groups of pilgrims from time to time, but now they were
all gone. The Italian Army had come in their place.

“Look
there, General,” Fedorov pointed as he handed Kinlan a pair of field glasses.
“What does that look like to your eye, Berbers?”

Kinlan
had a look and could see more than he wanted there. Those were obviously small
patrols of armored cars, though he had never seen anything like them out here
before. O’Connor seemed to know what they were, however, and shook his head.

“Damn
little Autoblinda 41s. They’ve a nasty 20mm autocannon and a pair of good Breda
8mm machineguns. But those scout vehicles that rounded us up looked to be
enough to handle them. What were they, something new?”

“Just out
of the oven,” Kinlan smiled.

“The
Captain says he can get you photography of those buggers to look over later,”
said Popski. “But I’m more concerned with what’s behind those patrols. See that
dust column there?” He had a keen eye for movement on the desert as well,
having spent many days with his small patrols in this desolation.

“That
has to be a larger force.” Popski did not know it at the time, but he was
pointing at an unusual new arrival, the 136th Giovanni Fascisti Regiment, the
fanatical Blackshirts that had been sent by Mussolini to try and put some
backbone into the Italian infantry. They were here early, not having arrived in
Libya until July of 1941 in the old history, and now they were out to begin
writing the stubborn chapters they had etched into that history, by holding out
in the face of overwhelming odds at places like Bir el Gobi. The British would
come to call them “Mussolini’s Boys,” and they would soon reach Major
Castagna’s garrison, adding three more battalions of tough infantry to the two
already there.

“If
that is what I think it is, then that Colonel Fergusson down there at Siwa is
going to have more on his hands than he realizes soon.”

“Fergusson?”
O’Connor remembered now. “Yes, 6th Australian Cavalry was out here keeping
watch on Giarabub, but this looks like a strong reinforcement. I hope your boys
are ready for a good fight,” said O’Connor. “If they get up some real strength
here they just might get a notion to pay a visit to Siwa. It’s got much better
water sources, and a couple decent airfields.”

Kinlan
smiled inwardly, realizing that Fergusson was the name the Russian Captain told
him to ask for at Siwa. Dobie’s section of the 12th Lancers had scouted down
and found the man there, along with a company of Australian motorized cavalry
and a battery of 25 pounders freshly arrived, and commanded by Jock Campbell,
the man who had given his name to the famous ad hoc “Jock Columns” the British
had used so successfully in these early desert forays. He gave Fedorov a
knowing look, realizing the Russian had been straight with him all along,
though it was still hard for him to believe what was happening to him, and to
all the men of his brigade.

“That’s
a large force,” Kinlan agreed. “At least a regiment. Can we swing over for a
better look?”

They
maneuvered discretely, and Kinlan was treated to a good look at the troops on
the march, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Looks
to be an infantry unit,” said Kinlan. “Not much transport, but that’s a good
support column behind them.”

“Agreed,”
said O’Connor. “Most likely supplies to relieve the garrison at Giarabub.”

When
Popski translated Fedorov passed another moment of anxiety. This was not
supposed to happen, but the facts on the ground were now making the strongest
possible argument to the contrary. The history had changed again, another small
eddy in the stream here.

When he
was cut off by O’Connor’s attack, Major Castagna knew he was isolated and could
only receive meager supplies by air at the small airfield serving the oasis,
but he stubbornly determined to hold out, encouraged when he received a
personal message from Rommel promising reinforcements and supplies. With six
machinegun companies and a number of light guns, Castagna set about fortifying Giarabub,
digging trench lines, laying barbed wire and mines, and building small gun
positions to resist any attempt to take the place by storm. In the heart of the
oasis, there was also an old fort, which he strongly reinforced, determined to
hold out indefinitely. He put his troops on rations, knowing lack of food would
be his greatest liability in time, but he did not have long to wait.

Rommel
would keep his promise.

This
had never happened in the history, and Fedorov now knew that the small battle
that was fought here by the Australian Divisional Cavalry and other units might
soon take a frightening new form.

“They
will take Siwa if they come in strength,” he said through Popski.

“That’s
no bloody good,” said O’Connor. “We need the place as a staging zone for our
long range desert patrols. But Fergusson won’t be able to hold on here. He’s
only a single battalion, and he’ll soon be bottled up or simply sent packing
east, and it’s a long way to the Nile.”

“We’ll
see about that,” said Kinlan with a grim smile.

“That’s
the stiff upper lip,” said O’Connor, “but unless you’ve at least a full brigade
with you, you may find the going rough, General. We’ll have to warn Fergusson,
and then inform Wavell.”

Fedorov
thought on this for a moment when he got the essence of O’Connor’s reaction
from Popski. Then he ventured something. “You managed to capture or destroy an
entire Italian Army with a much smaller force. Perhaps we can do more here with
what we have in hand than you may realize at the moment.”

“I’m
all for it,” said O’Connor. “At the very least we must give them a good punch
in the nose if they come east for Siwa. Discourage them.”

“Why
General,” said Kinlan. “That was exactly what I was thinking. I’ve a battalion
of good Gurkha light infantry that can strengthen that garrison.”

“Gurkhas?
Bloody good troops. I wasn’t aware they were here.”

They
moved off, not wanting to draw anti-aircraft fire, and scouted the way north as
well. Fedorov knew the real battle was there, and that much would hinge on the
fate of Tobruk at this stage in the fighting. If the Germans could take the
place, then their lines of communication back to Benghazi and Tripoli would be
cleared, and they could move east. But he did not know that Rommel had already
made that decision, and was even now about to engage the thin defensive line
Wavell had established south of Sidi Barani with the 2nd New Zealand Infantry
Division and what was left of his armor. News of that battle would come to them
soon after they landed, and it would pose another thorny question for both
O’Connor and Kinlan.

O’Connor
had a good look at what was on the ground now, amazed at the size of the force
Kinlan had at his disposal.

“You’ve
a good deal more than a battalion of Gurkhas! A full brigade? Here? Whatever
for? Siwa is useful, I’ll grant you that, but the real fighting is north on the
coast. That’s where this force should be, and as soon as possible. Whatever possessed
Wavell to send you here? I must speak with him directly.”

He had
not yet seen the tanks close up yet, as the helo deliberately landed several
miles from the main column where Major Isaac was waiting with a Sultan Command
Vehicle and two Dragon 8-wheeled scout cars. Fedorov knew that each passing
hour was going to raise more and more questions in O’Connor’s quick mind, and
he wondered what to do about it. He pulled Popski aside to confer with Kinlan
one last time.

“General,”
he said. “I think it is fair to say you are now convinced of what I have told
you?”

“As
loony as that sounds, the evidence is hard to deny. Yet my men know nothing of
this, and I’ve a long road to walk with them.”

“You
mean to go north?”

“Where
else? We can’t sit out here indefinitely.”

“You’ll
be needed there. My guess is that Wavell has his hands full. One good battle
there could smash Rommel’s Afrika Korps, and buy the British the one thing they
desperately need now—time.”

Kinlan
nodded. “Ironic,” he said. “Time…”

Fedorov
gave him a knowing look. “Then am I to assume I can collect my Marines and operate
as I please?”

Kinlan
hesitated, wondering whether he should let this fish off the hook just yet.
Something still rankled at him about this whole situation, and the presence of
this Russian team at the very moment his force was attacked by that ICBM. In
spite of the man’s apparent sincerity, there had been long years of growing
enmity with the Russians, ever since Putin started trying to patch the old
Soviet Union back together again when he annexed the Crimea and meddled in
Ukraine back in 2014… Back in 2014? If any of this were true, that time was now
decades away, in the future. He still struggled with it, in spite of the
obvious evidence.

“What
do you propose to do?” he asked Fedorov.

There
it was… The question Fedorov had been struggling to answer himself.
He was in a real quandary over how to handle the issue of O’Connor.
The evidence he had presented to Kinlan had been enough to establish that all
important factor of great doubt in the man. He knew from his experience aboard
Kirov
that he had to find some key evidence that was wholly inexplicable by any other
means, and this would leave time displacement as the only possible solution
that could resolve that issue, and also account for all the other evidence.

The
presence of Popski, the men from the LRDG, and O’Connor with his downed
Blenheim were strong local evidence as to their position in time, but they
could be easily dismissed, just as Karpov had tried to dismiss the Fulmar
fighter that first overflew the ship, and even the radio intercepts of local
era news broadcasts, thinking it was all an elaborate hoax staged by NATO as a
deception. He knew Brigadier Kinlan was likely to come to the same conclusion,
unless he could present the man with incontrovertible evidence that could not
be easily dismissed or explained away. When they had first displaced in time,
so long ago it seemed now, that evidence had been obtained by reconnoitering
Jan Mayen Island for the weather station that was located there. When that
facility was not found, along with the modern airstrip that should have been
there, it strongly argued that they were not where they belonged.

Sultan
Apache had been that same inexplicable dilemma for Kinlan. The only possible
solution had been the impossible notion of time displacement. It was the only
thing that explained what could have happened, and also account for Popski,
O’Connor and all the local era evidence.