Impasse (The Red Gambit Series) (60 page)

Rainbow Red was a trap.

As dawn spread across the sky, aircraft started to come into contact with those that they sought.

In truth, only the Allied aircraft found their targets, as the Soviet ships and aircraft had nothing to find.

Hundreds of Soviet aircraft, and scores of naval vessels were on their way to the affected area, and clashes started before the sun was clear of the horizon.

Swedish Air Force aircraft made
a great play of policing their own air space against all comers, but it was unimportant, as the Allies had no need to overfly Sweden anymore, and the Red Air Force had other things on their mind than gaining a new and powerful enemy.

The Lembit was an early victim.

An absence of the noises of pursuit had brought her to the surface, anxious to breathe some fresh air, and get off a radio report to Baltic Fleet Headquarters.

She had failed to detect her killer as she rose to the surface
, and was slow to detect the approach of high speed screws.

The radio worked and started into the report, informing command of a large naval force and the loss of their comrade.

It was cut short permanently.

Two torpedoes struck her at either end of her starboard side
, and she went to the bottom in seconds.

HNoMS Utsira, once a British V Class submarine, had been as lucky as
the Lembit had been unlucky.

At the Baltic Naval headquarters, the incomplete message was interpreted correctly
, and Lembit was considered lost, although not in vain, as the radio message gave them a rough area of where the enemy fleet was now.

The Norwegian submarine,
having recently deposited some serious looking men on Mon Island, slipped away towards her assigned station in the Hjelm Bugt, south of Mon.

Istomin
’s regiment was one of those pulled from their own search area and sent towards the Island of Mon, just a few kilometres west of where Lembit had been sunk.

The latest r
eports on the commando raids all over Soviet-held Denmark were limited, and often garbled, but were enough to make them believe their own deductions and commit to them.

Contact between the air forces were expected
, and no-one saw anything out of the ordinary in the reports of clashes.

The Soviet pilots were ordered to bore in on the
enemy ships, regardless of loss, the considered naval advice convincing everyone that the destruction of any troop carriers and supply ships was of maximum importance.

So, being brave men for the most part, that is exactly what they did, accepting the casualties as they drove in hard, all the time searching for their prime targets.

Aircraft after aircraft splashed into the Baltic, the majority bearing the Red Star.

Istomin
’s Tupolev-2 led the mainly inexperienced men of the 911th Bomber Air Regiment, some of whom felt the pressure for no other reason than they were flying over water for the first time.

All could hear the reports of combat from an area ahead. None were of contact with the enemy fleet; all
described contact with the allied protective aircraft screen.

Istomin had taken his regiment through the gap between Sweden and Rønne.
They looked down, noting a number of the Baltic Fleet’s vessels carving white trenches in the blue water, as they raced towards the growing battle.

One, he thought it had been a destroyer, exploded and was gone
beneath the water, as quick as it took to focus the eye.

The water betrayed three white lines, the wakes of small vessels, certainly not Soviet, now heading at a very high speed towards the west
, and the entrance to the Øresund.

The Regimental commander
’s radio operator called in the details, as the rest of the unit snatched looks at the small but vicious battle that was developing off the shore of Sweden.

Istomin swept the sky to his front
, and saw them high and to his left.

“
Attention! Unknown aircraft, high, bearing 260 degrees. Come right 10 degrees. Increase speed on me.”

The 911th responded like veterans.

Casualties amongst the Soviet bomber crews had been extremely heavy since the first day in August, and less than a half of the original aircrew were still flying; the rest were either lying between clean sheets in hospitals or beneath freshly turned soil.

Those that were left lived by
their nerves, senses, and skills.

Istomin
’s senses told him they were in trouble.

His aircraft recognition skills confirmed it.

‘Mosquitoes.’

Fortunately for the 911th, the
Mosquitoes Mk VIs in question, 22 Squadron RAF, were already vectored in on a low-flying group of Tu2s, naval aviation versions equipped with torpedoes.

Each RAF aircraft sported four Hispano cannons and four .303 Brownings.

Their firepower was tremendous, and the torpedo bombers suffered badly, five of their number falling in the first pass.

Istomin focussed his young fliers on their own survival, calling them away from the sight of the fighting that now seemed to be spreading all around them.

Another Soviet vessel was blazing below them, but only two white wakes were speeding around, indicating that the enemy had been hurt too.

Excited shouts drew his eyes back to the torpedo bombers
, and he saw two Mosquitoes wrapped together, steadily whirling into the sea below.

He also saw a tell-tale flash.

“Attention! Unknown aircraft, high, bearing 280 degrees...”

His mouth stopped working.
These aircraft he knew too.

‘
Germanski bastards!’

And closing fast.

“Attention, gain height left, gain height left, stay together, stay tight. Attacking aircraft are Germanski!”

The
distinct FW-190s, D9 versions, were not so efficient at altitude, which the commander of the 911th knew, so he made the decision to gain height.

3rd Jagdstaffel was a mixed unit
, and the FW190s were more than happy for their enemy to go higher, where their other aircraft were waiting.

The eight Focke-Wulfs drove in hard and managed to pick off two of the Tupolevs with cannon and machine-gun fire, although the flight leader felt his performance drop off as one Soviet gunner put some rounds on target.
The FW190 side-slipped away, the Hauptmann watching his gauges with increasing concern.

3rd Jagdstaffel tore into Istomin
’s Regiment from above and below, and ripped it apart.

“
He’s dead, Comrade Mayor. The weapon’s fine.”

“
Stay there and use it, Fyodor. There’s two coming in on your right now. Rolling left.”

Fyodor Taw pulled the remains of his friend away from the Berezin machine-gun
, and took up position, just in time to get off a burst at something he had never seen the like of before.

It was one of six Dornier 335
Pfiels in the 3rd’s inventory.

The
Pfiel, or ‘Arrow’ as it was better known, was a push-pull aircraft with an engine on each end, capable of speeds in excess of four hundred and fifty miles per hour.

Two swept past Istomin
’s right side, having overshot.

They found other prey
, and employed the lessons of their first attack, the two inexperienced pilots throttling back to ensure that they put much of their cannon fire on target as possible.

The Tupolev came apart as 30mm and 20mm shells literally destroyed its structure, allowing the wind and forward momentum to do the rest.

Istomin spared the dying aircraft a quick look, recognising that it belonged to his one surviving crews from the old days.

“
Two more on our tail, Comrade. Ready to roll right... now!”

The Tupolev responded like the thoroughbred it was
, but the pilot still heard and felt impacts.

The defensive machine-guns hammered out
, and immediately squeals and shouts of joy filled his ears.

An orange shape almost caressed the cockpit as it shot past, the Dornier streaming fire from its wounds. 12.7mm shells had wreaked havoc on the nose area. The
German pilot battled with his aircraft, even as the front engine started to tear itself from its mountings. Fuel lines continued to deposit product throughout the area, and the flier realised that his craft was doomed.

Not soon enough
, as the nose came apart, and the engine parted company with the fuselage before coming back into contact with it, the propeller chopping into the right wing and causing it to fail.

The Dornier,
now as aerodynamic as a cardboard box , started to freefall in a gentle spin.

The pilot could do nothing but sit in his doomed aircraft
, and ride it into the Baltic, as the centrifugal forces kept him pressed into his seat and unable to bail out.

Istomin did not see the Arrow
’s end, his own concerns more pressing, as his control column started to shake uncontrollably and the Tupolev inexplicably lost height.

He checked his instruments.

‘Running hot?’

A quick look confirmed damage on the starboard engine cowling. Closer examination revealed a leak of something vital, possibly coolant, plus extensive damage to the right aileron hinges.

“Just you and me now, Comrade Mayor. They’re both dead.”

The Ta
-152 version of the Focke-Wulf was designed for high-altitude interception; sleek, deadly, and the ultimate killer in the Focke-Wulf series. Its performance at lower altitude was not so good, but it was more than adequate for the task of chopping down an injured Tupolev.

Unterfeldwebel Feinsterman drifted in behind the wounded Soviet bomber and lined up the shot.

A stream of tracer from the upper machine gun position angered him, and he shifted his aim, destroying the area with his cannons.

It was not until he tried to press his pedals that he realised that his
right thigh had taken a bullet, and that not all was well with the Focke-Wulf.

The smell of burning reached his nostrils at the same time as the iron smell of his own blood.

The smoke came next, and he overshot his target as he struggled to establish what was happening to his aircraft.

Istomin, following the path of the 152 carefully, decided to
manoeuvre upwards in a rapid rise, not realising that the enemy pilot had his mind on other things.

The tip of his port propeller clipped the rear of the German aircraft, adding to Feinsterman
’s misery.

As he wrestled with the virtually unresponsive aircraft, Istomin
also had his own problems, as the rise had unseated part of the starboard aileron. The port propeller also remonstrated against its rough treatment, and started to spin off centre, providing an equally interesting and terrifying problem for a pilot already struggling to keep his aeroplane in the sky.

A second 152 made an attack, producing many hits and making Istomin
’s decision easy.

He
reached for his parachute, but the aircraft bucked without his hands on the controls. He grabbed them again, and slipped into the harness as best he could one handed. Changing hands, he reached around and noticed the third 152 making a beam attack.

The stream of cannon shells virtually tore the canopy from the Soviet aircraft and Istomin found himself in an icy stream of air
, as the front of the aircraft started to disintegrate.

Snapping the harness lock, h
e took the opportunity provided, launched himself towards the growing hole, but found the air pressure defeated his attempt.

Bizarrely
, the Tupolev flew more steadily since the major damage, although the loss in height was faster now.

Istomin felt the jerk as the aircraft pulled up, rising sharply as one part or another of the control surfaces was destroyed by
the next attack.

The Tupolev stalled and
provided a moment of suspension; no forward momentum, nothing except a second of calm. That enabled the Soviet pilot to propel himself through the gaping hole, and into free air.

Once his canopy had opened
, he watched in fascination as the bomber slowly fell away into the sea.

Looking around, he saw the remains of his
regiment attempting to flee. The German fighters took them down one by one.

The last
surviving Tupolev simply fire-balled and described an incredibly bright orange arc across the sky, before extinguishing itself in the cold Baltic below.