Paradox Hour

by John Schettler

  Beckov waved at the MG mounted sidecar, wanting it to come forward, and then gathered together five men with SMGs to make his attack. They gunned their engines, speeding forward in a mad charge, firing as they went. There he saw that they were greatly outnumbered, as there had to be at least twenty Tartars up ahead all wearing black overcoats and heavy woolen Ushankas. His squad engaged, their sub-machineguns spitting fire at the enemy, and the DT-28 hacking away from the sidecar. The horsemen had not expected this bold attack from the same men they had recently sent fleeing east on this road, and they were surprised.

  The gunners shot seven dead in the first wild seconds of the duel, with three others falling from stricken horses and running for the cover of the nearby woods. The rest thought to mount a counter charge, with their leader drawing his sabre and shouting out deep throated orders. His horse reared up as he waved the flashing sabre overhead, until the DT-28 shot his mount right out from under him and he tumbled to the ground in a hard fall. This sent the remaining ten men scattering in all directions, vanishing into the treeland to either side of the road. Beckov had cleared the way and waved for the remaining bikers to surge ahead. They rode forward, SMGs still spitting out cover fire to make certain the enemy could not reorganize for an attack, and soon the squad was well away, speeding down the road.

  They rounded a bend, elated, thinking the way was clear, but they were wrong. The twenty men they had surprised were just an outlying squadron of the Tartar formation. A large group of enemy cavalry was assembled up ahead, the men quickly mounting their horses when they heard the sound of the firefight to the east. Now they were shaking out in to a long line, many with bolt action rifles, and others with those cruel sabres. They saw the commotion up ahead, their leader grinning balefully when he watched the small squad of motorbikes come to a sudden halt, shrouded in their own road dust.

  “What now?” Volkov shouted, but Sergeant Becker had only to point. Now they could hear the sound of rifles in the distance, and a machinegun firing.

  “Damn!” said Volkov. “Is there any way around them to the south?”

  The road was following the rail line here, in a wide clearing. There were heavy woodlands to their right, and a small hill that was another obstacle to any movement to the south. Volkov gritted his teeth. He had twelve men here, and there looked to be a hundred horsemen forming up ahead. He could see his men ridden down in his mind, trampled beneath the charge that was sure to come any moment now. And these barbarians would not even know who was in front of them, Ivan Volkov, a prize so great that they might all be given their weight in gold to capture him. They would roll over his little squad in a heartbeat, and leave him dead on this god forsaken road, slashed to pieces by those sabres. It was no way for the General Secretary of the Orenburg Federation to die.

  He saw the horses rear up, heard the sound of more gunfire to the west, but it was not what was in front of them that concerned the Tartars now. To his astonishment, he saw the cavalry turn and charge west, away from them, leaving only a single squadron which was dismounting and taking up a blocking position on the road ahead. What was happening?

  My troops, he suddenly realized! That gunfire must be the men off Pavlodar and Talgar on the road to the west. That’s why they turned. We’re a threat they have already sized up, and of no apparent concern to them now. But I have two full companies on the road up ahead, though we’re on the wrong side of the action here. He nudged his motorbike up to the MG mounted sidecar, which also had a small field radio, as this was his reconnaissance unit off the Orenburg, and well equipped for their role as fast moving scouts.

  “Corporal! See if you can raise the men on the ground up there. Tell them a senior officer is here, and I need to get to them as soon as possible—but do not mention my name.”

  “Yes sir!”

  Now the sound of rifle fire and the throaty shouts of the Tartars was heard, and Volkov knew that the commander up ahead was going to have his hands full soon enough.

  “Belay that order. Send to Pavlodar instead. Tell them to maneuver along this road and look for us here! Have them make ready to lower a cargo basket and take on ground troops. Talgar is also to stay at low elevation and provide ground support fire for those troops up ahead. Understand? They are not to climb under any circumstances until I am safely aboard Pavlodar.”

  That’s my only chance now, he thought. The sight of an airship low over this road will hearten my men, and Pavlodar can give those ruffian Tartars a taste of her heavy rifles. If they stay low, then it’s likely Karpov won’t be able to spot us here. He’s off north to my diversion, and let him deal with my Admirals. If Gomel and Zorki can buy me a little time, then I can turn this situation around.

  A little time…

  I thought I would have eternity within my grasp by now, and look at me here, counting on a few hot minutes, and these twelve men, to save my skin. Heads will roll after this. Yes, heads will roll when I get back to Orenburg and pull together the rest of my fleet.

  This is far from over.

  Chapter 2

  Colonel Levkin could see that his battle for Ilanskiy was not going to end well. After three hours of hard fighting, they still had no support from the airship fleet, and the Siberians out gunned them badly, with good artillery and heavy rail guns pounding his positions outside the town. The sudden appearance of armored cars and light tanks had also been a shock, as his troops had little more than old AT rifles to try and fend them off. One section had some AP rounds for one of the recoilless rifles, which they put to good use, disabling two of the nine enemy armored cars, and forcing the rest to withdraw.

  He had finally driven the stubborn defenders from the farm house, and cleared most of Sverdlova. Now his men were within sight of the rail yards, but the fighting in the town itself was fierce, and his companies had taken heavy casualties. The Siberians were dug into well prepared positions, with machine guns well sighted, mortars, and squads of tenacious infantry holding buildings from the cellar to the attic. It had taken his best unit, the guard legionnaire company, all of forty minutes to take a large brick warehouse and foundry on the southern edge of the town, and now they were clinging to the position under heavy fire.

  The unexpected arrival of the General Secretary had been another surprise. That meant the tumultuous wreckage that had fallen south of the town was the fleet flagship! It was no wonder the remainder of the fleet had withdrawn to the north. Now Volkov was trying to get west on the road to Kansk and reach Pavlodar. That was going to be dangerous, and he knew that those two companies he was expecting as reinforcements might not reach him any time soon, if at all. So what to do here?

  I can’t take the damn place, he thought. Even if we do push through to the rail yard, there’s that damn armored train sitting there to deal with. Taking that out will be a nightmare, but suppose I do. Then what? I’ll be sitting there trying to hold an old railway inn that is half demolished as it is. There will be no cover in a light wood building like that. They’ll be getting up reinforcements from all compass headings, and that will be that.

  He looked at his map, realizing that his only real move now was to pull out and get his men into the woodland north of the town. At least there we will have room to maneuver, he thought, and a chance to link up with our airships, assuming we still have a fleet out there somewhere. This whole operation was mere vanity on Volkov’s part. We’re just sacrificial lambs to his voracious appetite for power. Why he needed this place is still beyond me. We’ve paid dearly in blood and material here, and for what, that damn farm house?

  “Sergeant Major!”

  “Sir!”

  “The brigade will execute a phased withdrawal to the north. We will regroup in the woodland. Get on the radio and pull our men back from that hamlet south of the town. Once they are here, wheel the line back, and reinforce the hinge on that road to Kansk. This ends now.”

  He strode off, looking for another radio man to get a message to the fleet. As far as he knew, they st
ill had airships up there. Admiral Gomel was supposed to be parked right over the town, and if he was, that would put a speedy end to those damnable rail guns. If wishes were horses…

  * * *

  “Ships ahead! Watchman on the forward bow has sighted three airships. They looked to be about 500 meters below us sir. We have the advantage of elevation!”

  “Excellent,” said Karpov. “Do we still have rockets?”

  “No sir,” said his master of arms. “We expended the last of those on… in that last attack.”

  Karpov noted how the man stumbled with that. Yes, we fired everything we had at old Big Red, but the ship was doomed as it was. I just made a speedy end to things, and took down Orenburg in the bargain.

  “Very well. Ahead full. Ruddermen will prepare to make a hard turn to port on my command. All gondola mounted guns to bear on the nearest ship.”

  Karpov stepped to the viewports, his field glasses up as he looked for the enemy ships. There they were, hanging over the charcoal cotton of a rising thunderhead, their noses up now, with the telltale drool of water from the front of the ships indicating they had just dropped ballast. Three heavy cruisers, he thought—easy prey. Each one mounted a pair of 76mm guns on the top platform. Their remaining six guns would all be on the gondolas, and therefore out of the action unless they could make a rapid ascent and gain elevation on Tunguska. That wasn’t going to happen.

  “Get the nose up, Bogrov. Match their elevation gain. Let’s see how high they’re willing to climb.”

  He would surge in at his best speed, over 120kph, and then execute his turn to bring his ship broadside to the enemy formation. That would bring all twelve of his bigger 105mm gondola mounted guns to bear on the target. All his remaining guns, the lighter 76mm caliber, were airframe mounted, two in the nose, four on each of the two top gun platforms, and two more in the tail. It was a configuration that made the ship a deadly foe at any elevation relative to the enemy.

  Karpov had as much firepower topside as all the guns on one of these enemy heavy cruisers. And the fact that he had built his top gun platforms perpendicular to the long trim of the ship also allowed them to depress downward, and engage targets at lower elevation. It was a design of his own making, unique in the airship fleet. Most ships would mount their topside platforms right over the center of the long fuselage. But Karpov built in reinforced platforms on either side of the rounded fuselage, mounting his guns a few meters down the long curve of the ship to allow for this downward firing angle.

  Even though they had less sheer lifting capacity, the heavy cruisers were lighter, and would gain elevation quicker than Tunguska. But let them try, thought Karpov. I’ll blast any ship that climbs right out of the sky.

  They were trying, but it soon became evident to Karpov that his enemy wanted no part of a real fight with Tunguska here. They were already turning as they climbed, their engines straining in the wind. Yet they were rising fast, the convection of the thunderheads beneath them aiding their climb. The long years at sea had given him an uncanny sense for range. He estimated they were no more than five kilometers off now, turning tail and revving their engines for all they were worth. Even though Tunguska was bigger and heavier, it had six powerful engines, and could actually out-run the small airships in good air. Yet they would be some time closing to decent firing range if they ran, and now his thoughts turned again to Volkov.

  He must be down there trying to get aboard that last ship. In fact, these three here may be trying to lead me on a wild bear hunt, while Volkov slips away.

  “Signal Abakan,” he said coldly. “Ask them if they have that fourth ship in sight yet.”

  Minutes later he had his answer. “Sir, that last ship has been identified. It’s the Armavir, part of that same division we ambushed on arrival. Abakan says they’ve grounded the ship, but there’s no sign of a loading operation underway. They’re still fighting that tail fire.”

  A tail fire? That was always a difficult thing to overcome, as the crucial rudders and stabilizing rear fins were at stake there. Was Volkov down there? Did he scramble here only to find another burning airship that would be useless to him? If he is there, he’s seen Abakan by now, and he’ll know there’s no way Armavir will ever get airborne. I’ll make it simple for him.

  “Tell Abakan to engage. Pound that ship to a smoking wreck, and then climb to 5000 meters.”

  “Topaz station two reporting,” said the signals watchman. “contact reported west over the rail line to Kansk!”

  “West? Could that be Talmenka?”

  “No sir. That ship is still well to the south. They estimate another three hours flying time to reach us.”

  Karpov’s eyes narrowed. Then Volkov has brought in reinforcements. Either those were the two ships he detached earlier, or they are new arrivals. Remember, Volkov has twelve more airships out there somewhere. What to do here? He knew that his enemy could not be on any of those three heavy cruisers running north. And if he was on Armavir, he would be having a very bad afternoon to go with the morning I gave him today. Then he thought, striding over to his map table and throwing the charts aside to get at a map of the local area.

  “What’s happening on the ground, Signalman?”

  “Sir, last reports indicated the enemy was attempting to disengage. They’ve pulled out of Sverdlova, and they are falling back to the north of the rail line to Kansk.”

  So we’ve beaten them, thought Karpov. Either that or Volkov managed to make contact with them and the whole lot is forming a security perimeter around him. In any case, this attack on Ilanskiy has failed, just like the first one.

  “Is that contact to the west approaching the town?”

  “No sir. It appears static, and at low elevation. We only just picked it out of ground clutter returns.”

  That could mean only one of two things, thought Karpov. They were offloading fresh troops, or… Volkov didn’t run north as I first suspected. Of course! Look at the terrain down there. It’s impossible for vehicles, and can you imagine sixty year old Ivan Volkov huffing it all the way up here on foot? No. He’s either down there with his troops near Ilanskiy, or else he ran west instead, along the road to Kansk!

  “Helmsman, execute a hard turn to port. Steer for that new contact!”

  “Hard to port!” The helmsman was heavy on the wheel, and Tunguska rolled with the turn as Karpov braced himself on the plotting table.

  Damn you, Volkov. So you can read a map after all! You nearly fooled me, didn’t you. But I’m on to you now. Of course! There was no way you could get this far north. What was I thinking? You had to run west on the road to Kansk. You knew you had ships there waiting. Well I have men there as well.

  “Don’t we have Semenko on that road to the west?” He said that as much to himself as to anyone on the bridge. He had three squadrons of Tartar cavalry at Kansk when this began, and they had been given orders to move east along that road and rail line. Perhaps they’ve run afoul of this little maneuver by Volkov. I’ve got to get there as soon as I possibly can.

  He smiled now, realizing how desperate Volkov must be in this situation. He can probably still smell the smoke and fire from Orenburg’s fall, he thought. Well I have news for him now, even if he does manage to slip away here. This war is only beginning. I have an entire Army up north of the Ob river line, and we’ve finally mended fences with Sergei Kirov over Perm. Now those troops can join the Soviets there and move south. Together we’ll have enough force to cross the upper Volga and actually begin an offensive there. That will force him to abandon his campaign on the Ob and fall back west. Yet all that in good time. I’m coming for you, Volkov. I’m coming as sure as winter, and my revenge will be harder and more biting than a Siberian blizzard. Just you wait.

  * * *

  Ivan Volkov was waiting, feverishly pacing behind the thin screen of his small security detail, even though his Sergeant was pleading for him to get low and out of harm’s way.

  “We’re well within their rifle
range here sir!”

  “Damn their rifles,” said Volkov. “I’ll not wallow on the ground like a common pig. Just keep them busy until Pavlodar gets here.”

  The recon squad had formed a makeshift line astride the road, actually using their motorbikes for cover as they fired at the blocking force that had been left to stop their approach. Then Volkov finally saw what he had been hoping for, the looming shape of a great airship rising over the small hillock to the south. The hard crack of a recoilless rifle split the air, and shells began to fall on the road near the enemy cavalry.

  “Sergeant! Show our colors!”

  His men quickly deployed a flag, emblazoned with the black eagle and red V symbol of the Orenburg Federation. The Captain on the airship spied it easily enough, and at this elevation they could also make out the dark sable uniforms of the recon section below. The heavy gunfire easily dispersed the last of the Tartars blocking the road, and Volkov smiled again when he saw there were more of his men up ahead now. His two reserve companies had made short work of the more lightly armed cavalry. Bravery aside, sabres and rifles could not stand long against the heavy machineguns his men could deploy in well practiced drills.

  Already he could see the men on the airship above preparing to lower a cargo basket. Down it came, the pulley wheels squeaking, engines buzzing fitfully as the basket lowered. Then the airship above revved its smaller maneuvering engines, slowing to come to a stable hover point above the scene. The movement of the basket slowed, then it came scudding along the ground, right on the road. The shadow of the great airship darkened the scene, and Volkov strode boldly forward into that shadow, making for the container.

  “Carry on, Sergeant,” he said perfunctorily. Then he stepped through the open gate and into the basket, where two men saluted stiffly, their eyes wide behind their black rimmed goggles. They knew who they were saluting, and were stunned to find the General Secretary here on this lonesome road to nowhere.