Crescendo Of Doom (29 page)

The days of massed cavalry charges were long over, ended by the carnage a few good machineguns could inflict. But here, in the thick terrain and woods, broken only by occasional clearings, they could emerge unseen, and fall upon their enemies in a storm of violence. The men of that small motorcycle platoon were wary now, wondering if these were merely scouts at the far side of the clearing where they had set up their blocking position. They had two light 7.62mm MGs, the Degtyaryov DP-28, with a small circular cartridge on the top that had prompted the troops using it to call it the “record player,” as the magazine resembled a gramophone record, slowly revolving as the weapon fired. First in service in the year 1928, it was so reliable that many were still being used as late as 2011, where militants used DP-28s in the uprisings of the “Arab Spring.”

The gunners lay prone, seeing more movement at the far side of the clearing, and then sporadic rifle fire zipped into the ground nearby. They returned fire, spitting out rounds from their record players, a song of death that was the first mournful tune of the battle that was now beginning. Then, to their surprise, a thunder of hooves and deep throated voices came from the right. Their enemies had only teased them with rifle fire, while stealthily moving around their flank, covered by the heavy woods the MG platoon thought were impassible. The horsemen charged along the open ground at the eastern edge of the clearing, coming from the north instead of the west, rifles firing on the run, and cruel sabres flashing. Most of the platoon ran for their motorcycles, hoping to escape, and were ridden down.

Farther east, two recon companies of the 11th Siberian, motorized in light trucks, had formed up astride the main rail line about four kilometers west of Ilanskiy. The remainder of the regiment, all infantry, was deployed in a wide horseshoe defensive position around the town, which had marshy wetland to the northeast that made that flank impractical for any infantry attack. The three battalions, nine rifle companies in all, were enough to set up a good defensive perimeter on the exposed sides of the town. The rail line from the east bent around that marshy ground and ran north into the town itself, and it was also guarded by the regimental engineer company. For heavy weapons support, there were two batteries of artillery, positioned in the open ground around the main rail station.

Volkov’s forces had finally assembled east of the town, north and south of the rail line leading to Kansk. Colonel Levkin gathered his men, a tall officer in black uniform and grey overcoat. He had taken stock of his forces, four companies from the 1st Division, three from the Southern Division, and two more behind him, landing near Kansk and the last to arrive on the scene, as they had been harried by the Tartars that were skillfully dogging their march east. A man of forty years, Levkin was under no illusions that this would be the easy fight Volkov had hoped to find here. He had only seven companies in hand at the moment, and one look at the map told him what he needed to do.

“Lieutenant!” He shouted at an officer from the rifle company off
Sarkand
. “Take your entire battalion and occupy that hamlet southwest of the town—all four companies.”

There were two outlying features he wanted to control at once, one a small farm beyond a low rise just west of the town, and further south, a large hamlet called Sverdlova. Once he occupied that, his men would be just south of the main rail station, and also in a good position to strike due east and cut the Trans-Siberian rail line. Any help the enemy received would most likely come from the east.

His men moved out, swinging south in short rushes, while an MG platoon, supported by engineers and a 76mm recoilless rifle team, moved on the farm. Volkov’s men had little in the way of heavy weapons. There was no artillery, its weight precluding easy air transport. Instead they would rely on small sections of 82mm mortars, their machineguns, and three 76mm recoilless rifle sections. All the rest of their fire support would have to come from the six airships that were slowly emerging from the clouds, some still smoking from their earlier duels with the Siberian fleet. Colonel Levkin hoped the enemy would not have too much in the way of heavy firepower here, and that Volkov’s airships would tip the balance when they got down to a ground support elevation, but he was wrong.

Even as his men were gathering themselves, a small train was chugging along the rail line to the east. It was led by an armored engine, its top and sides bristling with machineguns and flak guns, Rail Security Engine #4. Behind it would come the first unexpected surprise, a pair of large railroad artillery pieces that had been dubbed “Siberia” and “Baikal.” They had once been machined for the 12-inch gun turrets of a
Kronshtadt
Class battlecruiser that had never been completed. The guns, 305mm monsters, had been captured from a factory in Omsk, and then rigged out as big rail guns by the Siberians three years ago. Both had been at Irkutsk, where Kolchak kept his watchful eye on the Japanese, as they could fire all the way across the wide sweeping curve of the great Lake Baikal. Karpov had wrangled them away, and was planning to move them to the Ob River line defenses near Novosibirsk. As it happened, they were only twenty kilometers east when this action started.

Now they were in the rail yards of Ilanskiy, their long barrels pointed west at the unsuspecting troopers of the gathering Grey Legion. There came a loud roar, and a resounding boom as the first gun fired, the whine of the shell coming quickly before the first big explosion fell just beyond the lines of the legionnaires. Colonel Levkin craned his neck over his shoulder, eyes wide with surprise.

“What in god’s name was that?”

‘Siberia’ had announced itself with that booming challenge, and the battle for control of this insignificant backwaters settlement, the crossroads of fate and time itself, was soon underway.

Chapter 26

High
above Ilanskiy, above the slate grey sleet of the rain, hovering over the gathering storm, the big airships climbed for the crucial advantage of elevation. The troops on the ground below would have to wait until the battle in the skies was resolved before either side would gain the support, or endure the wrath of fire from above.

Abakan
and
Andarva
had received the order to climb to their best elevation, and now they saw the enemy riding the rolling grey storm clouds ahead. Three S-Class Zeppelins,
Sarkand, Samarkand,
and
Saran
were formed in a great triangle, their silver noses pointed upwards as they climbed. Behind them, some distance off and much higher, was the fleet flagship
Orenburg
, bigger than any other airship over the town at that moment. Only
Tunguska
could outmatch her, but Karpov was still some ten to twelve kilometers to the south, completing the airdrop operation for Tyrenkov’s “Siberian Rangers.”

The three S-Class Zeppelins all carried eight 76mm recoilless rifles. Both the Siberian A-Class airships were similarly armed, except the gun on their forward command gondola had been replaced with a heavier caliber 105 when Karpov took command. They were fast at 130kph, but could only climb to a ceiling of about 9000 meters, which would not be an issue until a larger airship appeared on the scene. Unless
Orenburg
descended to join the action, the S and A class Zeppelins were of largely the same class, and the battle would be decided by skill and maneuver.

Already the Siberian captains were seeing their best chance was to take the fight as high as possible, without drawing
Orenburg’s
attention, and keeping both their ships in a tight formation to maximize firepower.
Abakan
led the way, followed closely by
Angara
, and they were maneuvering to try and catch one of the three S-Class ships in a position where its own bulk would shield them from the other two ships in the enemy formation.

The 76mm guns were effective out three to five thousand meters, but as in most ship to ship combat at sea, closing the range increased the probability of good hits. The duel that resulted saw
Saran
taking the brunt of the Siberian firepower, raked by ten of their combined 76mm guns, the others being top mounted and unable to bear on the target, given the fact that the Siberians had just a slight elevation edge.
Sarkand
and
Samarkand
reacted quickly, blowing ballast to pop up and avoid the intervening mass of
Saran
, and getting even elevation with the two Siberian ships. They blasted away, both ships concentrating on the
Angara
, and the result was that both
Saran
and
Angara
were soon smoking with heavy fire damage, and losing altitude with many punctured gas bags.

The new Captain of the
Abakan
, Melinikov, knew he could not hang in the fight long against both the other S-Class airships, but climbing presented him no easy escape with the massive
Orenburg
lowering over the scene. To make matters worse, the enemy had two other A-Class ships of their own,
Armavir
and
Anapa
, and they were only now arriving after dropping off those troops closer to Kansk. Melinikov would soon be boxed in by four enemy airships, but help was on the way.

From the south a great air horn sounded, the lowing roar of Big Red charging to the scene. Old
Krasny
had lost some buoyancy, but her massive 180,000 cubic meter volume and greater firepower was going to go a long way towards evening the odds. All the enemy airships mounted eight 76mm guns each, a total of 24 guns. Now Big Red brought her ten 76mm and six 105mm guns to the scene, and the odds were even at 24 guns each, with the Siberians having an edge in raw firepower with all those 105s.

Kymchek was on the bridge of the
Orenburg
, seeing the looming shape of Big Red emerge from a bank of clouds, smoke still trailing from her right side from the previous battle.

“That battleship will even the odds down there,” he told Volkov. “We should descend and attack at once.”

“What?” Volkov said immediately. “Without knowing where Karpov is? We’ll lose the elevation we’ve been fighting to gain for the last half hour.”

“True sir, but that’s the
Krasnoyarsk
, Big Red. It’s carrying heavy guns like our own, and one good broadside will rip one of those battlecruisers apart in no time. We’ve got to kill that ship, sir, then we can mass everything we have left against
Tunguska
.”

“Damn you, Kymchek! This is the fleet flagship!” Volkov was not happy to think that a big 105mm round might come crashing into his escape pod. It was well armored, but would not withstand a direct hit like that.

“Don’t worry, sir. We’ll be descending on that ship, in a good position to bring most of our guns to bear. And we’ll climb easily enough if
Tunguska
shows up. The emergency helium tanks will move us quickly.”

“Very well. Get on with it then.”

The sight of Old
Krasny
had already prompted Volkov’s smaller ships to break off their gun battle with
Abakan
and begin climbing. In any duel with a bigger ship, they relied on their ability to change their internal buoyancy quicker, enabling them to rise or descend faster. Getting an elevation advantage on a larger ship was really their only chance, and they had to do so early in the engagement, because the greater lifting capacity of battleships allowed them to eventually reach much higher service ceilings.
Tunguska
had shocked the Germans by topping even their highest flying bombers, skirting 15,000 meters over Berlin.

Aboard the Krasnoyarsk, Captain Alenin stood near the elevator man, urging him on. His right arm was bandaged with a bloodied shirt, as he had been nicked by shrapnel in the earlier battle when a round came right through the main gondola, killing two other men.
Krasny
had taken at least five hits, two in the nose of the ship, where the forward gas bags there had been penetrated. They would have completely deflated, had it not been for the rapid intervention of the “baggers,” a special team of engineers poised in the rigging, and on ladders between the big gas bags. With rolls of vulcanized rubber patches that could be deployed and sealed with a heated tar-like epoxy, they could seal off a bag breach in minutes in a long rehearsed emergency patch drill. The network of ladders around the shell of the airship allowed engineers to get to almost any position on the interior lifting bags, and for a breach that could not be reached, there was one last resort—the squealers.

There was a maintenance flap which could be opened on the top of each gas bag, and a man could go within if adequately rigged out in a protective diving suit with oxygen. It was extremely dangerous, for breathing in the helium could lead to a giddy delirium and asphyxiation so easily, that there would later be a method of suicide using a helium bag called “the suicide bag.” On the airships, any man brave enough, or skilled enough, to enter a bag and swing on a long cable from above was called a “squealer,” for a badly seated face mask might see them breathe in some helium, and their high voices on exiting the bag had led to the name.

Alexi Larionov was a squealer set for entry on the forward gas bag of Big Red. They had done what they could to patch two holes, but there was a shrapnel tear just big enough to defeat the self-sealing inner lining, and it simply could not be reached by any other ladder.

“Now don’t get heroic, Alexi,” said the Sergeant of Engineers. “And don’t get silly. Otherwise another round is likely to come blasting through the ship’s nose and knock you right off that cable! Get in the access pouch and be sure the outer seal is fully secured before you open that inner flap. And hook up well! That tear is about 50 feet below, and you’ll have to swing a bit before you can get hold of an inner seam hook, but don’t play around in there. And remember, turn on your red lantern when you want us to haul you up.”