Kirov Saga: Devil's Garden (Kirov Series) (4 page)

What
was it to be? Would he return to his old comrades on the ship; join in the
fight here against the Germans and embrace his old life again? Or would he
become a wolf in the fold, living among the sheep of this bygone era for the
rest of his life. He would know everything that would happen, but not the
details, not the dates and key times without his service jacket. He would be a
prophet of doom; the man who knew tomorrow, but no one would believe him until
something big happened. Then perhaps he could use his wits and make some decent
money. But with the jacket he was a God. He would know everything. Svetlana
could whisper in his ear and tell him what he must do, like a dark angel on his
shoulder. And he would be the most powerful man in the world…

He
decided.

* * *

Wellman
was on the radio again, screaming at
Kersten to keep firing “They’re cutting us to pieces with those damn mortars.
Where is your artillery? Resume firing!”

He
had worked his way north with his radio man Schmidt, following the line of the
railway tracks and then dashing across at a point beyond Becker’s burning
Panzer IIIs. By the time he reached the long, thin island that separated the
tracks, the bulk of his II Battalion was arriving. He immediately gave orders,
intent on renewing the attack.

“Two
of Becker’s Panzers are in the tank farm. Get your men in there and take the
buildings beyond that clump of trees!
Bewegen sie sich!
Get moving!”

Kersten
answered his call with renewed fire from the 105 batteries, and now the rounds
were adjusted fifty meters to fall in the open area behind the main depot. The
Russian mortar teams were too exposed there, and the First Platoon mortar took
a direct hit, killing everyone in the shallow earthen trench where they had set
up.

All
Wellman knew was that the fire from those damn 82mm mortars had slackened, and
his men were again making concerted rushes through the tank farm and into the
cluster of trees that screened a triangle of three buildings from the rail
yard. They managed to get an MG-42 into position, and it finally put out the
suppressive fire to allow the Germans to move again.

Grenadiers
reached the edge of the wood, close enough to hurl potato masher grenades at
the building where the Russian RPG team had blasted the German armored cars. It
was enough to force the Russians out, and they fell back on a dark roofed
building overshadowed by a tall, rusting water tank. The Marines in the forward
building at the apex of the triangle had also been forced to withdraw, the
MG-42 proving too effective as it chewed through the thin wooden walls. That,
and the grumble of two more German tanks grinding their way down the long rows
of oil tanks was enough to force that position.

Wellman
had rushed across the tracks from the island, waving on the arriving lead
company of II Battalion. Men were surging up on their motorcycles, leaping to
dismount and then running low, their rifles in hand and boots and equipment
clattering on the cold iron rail lines. He was building up good strength now,
and it would just be a matter of attrition. He lifted his binoculars to look
down the rows of oil tanks, seeing his men bravely fighting their way forward,
rushing from one blasted tank to the next. Then he saw something that he did
not expect, a strange looking armored fighting vehicle rounding a bend in the
coastal road, and beyond it, something else the like of which he had never seen
in his life. He could hear the whine of big engines, a deep roar as it came to
life, a behemoth from the sea!

* * *

Troyak
could see the same cold logic as he watched
the outermost building at the apex of his flank fall to the onrushing German
attack. One of the two 82mm mortars had been hit, reducing his interdicting
fire and allowing the Germans to build up strength and press forward again. The
ground between the main rail yard warehouse and that position was too exposed
to send another squad up, and it would not be enough even if he did. He was
being hit by a full company on that flank, outnumbered five to one there. It would
be all he could do to get his men out now, and safely back to the hovercraft.
He squeezed his collar mike and gave the reluctant order.

“First
Platoon. Execute a fighting withdrawal. Fall back on the second mortar team.
Leave nothing behind!”

What
he desperately needed now was more firepower to delay the German advance, but
all the APCs were engaged in the battle for the inland road where Sergeant
Silenko had been holding the line with the two PT-76 tanks the BTR-50s, and
another 60 Marines. All Troyak had close by was the hovercraft with its twin
14.5mm machine gun mount. Then he remembered Fedorov.

“Fedorov!
Where are you?”

The
reply came quickly in his earbud
. “Look over your shoulder, Sergeant.”

Troyak
looked and saw the ZSU-23 coming around the bend in the coastal road. Firepower!
He heard the turret motors whir, saw the four gleaming barrels depress and then
quickly gave an order. “All teams go to ground for covering fire!”

The
ZSU began to pour it on, the big 23mm shells ripping up the building the Germans
had just occupied, blasting through doors, shattering windows, riddling walls
and sending wood splinters flying like shrapnel. A German tank forging a way
along the rows of oil tanks was in a position to sight the Russian APC and was
turning its turret to take a shot, but not before the radar guided guns found
it first. The tank was jolted by a rain of metal, a sustained burst of 120
rounds that pot marked its frontal armor, leaving deep welts there, though it
could not penetrate the plating reinforced to a 70mm thickness.

The
shock and concussion of being inside a metal box hit by 120 rounds was
considerable, however, and it gave one of the crewmen in Fedorov’s APC just the
time he needed to shoulder an anti-tank missile and send it screaming at the
lead tank. The HEAT round made short work of the armor, the resulting explosion
literally ripped the turret off the tank’s chassis and sent it spinning against
a nearby oil tank with a loud crash.

The
Shilka
had saved the moment, and Fedorov looked to see Sergeant Troyak
pumping his fist as he ran up to the ZSU. “Good job Colonel! But we, can’t hold
here much longer if they’re willing to trade casualties for ground.”

“Prepare
to withdraw, Sergeant. I need to check with Zykov!”

He
slipped down into the interior of the ZSU and began to call. “Fedorov to Zykov,
come in. What is your status? Over.”

There
was a burst of static, and then Zykov’s voice was heard in return.
“We found
the camp commandant,”
he said.
“Quite dead, and with Orlov’s service
jacket.”

“His
service Jacket?”

“Yes,
sir. Stuffed in the Commissar’s mouth. The man’s neck was broken. It was clear
that Orlov may have been here, but there’s no sign of him. We’re still
searching every room, but without the jacket to home in on…”

“Keep
looking, Corporal. We’re running out of time. Dobrynin has the Mi-26 back up
and he says the Germans are turning the far left flank where the NKVD has been
trying to hold that hill. If they get round there then they will be south of us
on the road to Baku. Report as soon as you complete your search.”

The
situation was going from bad to worse. The Germans were lapping at his
defensive positions like a rising tide. They had paid dearly for the small
advanced they had made, but from Dobrynin’s report the force building up
outside the town was at least a full regiment. Thus far the superior rate of
fire from their AK-74s had been a real force multiplier in the defense, and
their missiles had stopped the German planes and tanks. But the enemy was
moving up their
Schwere
heavy weapons teams, and one of the PT-76s had
been hit by an 88 millimeter round. He had to give orders to plant demolition
charges, as they had planned in the event any of the APCs were hit and
immobilized. They would incinerate it beyond recognition, and leave nothing
usable behind.

They
were running out of time. His little invasion force had bravely defended the
town, but their primary objective was still not accomplished. Damn it! Where
are you Orlov? You must know we’re here for you? What in God’s name are you doing?

Part II

The
Eagle

“You
are proud because you live in a rock fortress and make your home high in the
mountains. `Who can ever reach us way up here?' you ask boastfully. Don't fool
yourselves!
Though you soar as high as eagles and build your nest among the stars, I will
bring you crashing down. I, the LORD, have spoken!”

—
Obadiah
1: 3-4

Chapter 4

50 miles
south east of Hokkaido, 1945

Captain
Yeltsin
, stared at
the rising mushroom cloud, amazed on the bridge of
Orlan
. He would not
have believed it if he had not seen it with his own eyes. It was the first time
he, or any of his bridge crew, had witnessed such a thing. They knew they
carried the weapons in the belly of the ship’s magazines, but had never seen
what they could really do when fired in anger. Everyone gaped at the horizon,
awe struck.

His
destroyer was alone now,
Orlan
, the sea eagle, alone on the rising
swells of doom. She was the first of the
Project 21956
class stealth
destroyers delivered just before the onset of hostilities. Yeltsin had been
proud to sally forth from Vladivostok with the fleet flagship, yet now there
was no sign of
Kirov
, and the distant, black hulk of the American
battleship
Iowa
was the only thing on his horizon, rolling like a stricken
whale.

 They
built them very tough in this day, he thought. No ship of our era could have
survived that blast. He remembered that the Americans had dropped a pair of
atomic weapons on fleets anchored off Bikini Island to see what the effects
were. Many ships survived the blast intact like this, sinking in time from slow
leaks and hull damage. That battleship will undoubtedly sink as well. It is
little more than a hunk of floating mangled steel now, and God go with the men
who died there today.

Yet
when it was over he was amazed to see that a second wave of aircraft was still
coming in from that same heading, the planes sweeping around the tall mushroom
cloud as it cauliflowered up into the gloaming sky. And further out to the west
there came another large group. Karpov had ordered him to cease fire so the
P-900 carrying the tactical weapon would arrive safely on target. What was he
planning now? Was he going to swat these remaining planes from the sky with
another tactical airburst, or were they to resume conventional SAM defense? The
question was moot, as the Fleet Commander was nowhere to be seen.

He
steadied himself, shaking the horror of the moment from his mind and ordered
his radio man to see if they could contact
Kirov
for further
instructions. Perhaps the ship had veered off and was lost in the haze. Yet
they had nothing on radar but those damn American planes. There was no initial
response but the hail continued, sounding more and more plaintive with each
repetition…
“Orlan to Kirov. Come in, Kirov. Requesting battle orders. Over.
Orlan to Kirov. Please respond. Over. Where are you, Kirov? Please come in.
Orlan to Kirov. Where are you?…

Frustrated
and knowing the enemy planes were just minutes away, Yeltsin stepped out of the
enclosed armored citadel of the bridge and onto the weather deck, binoculars in
hand. They had been steaming about two kilometers in front of the big
battlecruiser, but when he scanned the sea in his wake, there was no sign of
the ship.
Kirov
was gone! What had happened?

Yes,
they had felt the harsh wind from the explosion, the shock wave and swell from
the sea, but even his much smaller ship rode it out easily, and there were no
enemy planes in close. Could
Kirov
have suffered the same fate as
Admiral
Golovko
, struck by a late fired round from the stricken American
battleship? No, there was no sign of an explosion aft, and
Kirov
was a
very big ship. If there had been an incident, or even an accident aboard the
ship itself, he would have seen something. Yet what was that strange glow on
the sea? He would not have time to investigate further.

The
hard seconds ticked away, and now it struck him that
Orlan
was alone,
and soon to be faced by a massive air attack. Time was running out. He rushed
back into the bridge.

“Air
alert one! Resume SAM defense! Ready all close in defense systems!”

The
klaxon howled out the alert, and within seconds the first sleek SAMs were
ejecting again from the ship’s forward deck, streaking wildly into the sky to
seek and destroy the American planes. The roar of the missiles continued, one
after another, the skies streaked by ribbons of smoke as they sped away on hot
white tails. Then he heard the low, distant drone of many engines, saw the blue
specks in the sky drawing ever nearer amid the roiling explosion from his
lethal SAMs