In the immediate aftermath there was just a moment or two where the alertness of the gun crews faltered, and for just a short period of time the Tunguska’s fire control radar remained aimed in the direction of retreating fighters. Its search systems were still operating – the parabolic dish above its turret continued to rotate, although no one paid it any attention – and that momentary, uncharacteristic lapse in concentration left them all blind to another formation of enemy fighters approaching from the north at extremely low level. Thorne himself was still standing inside the M101, Morris beside him, and both were also watching the remaining J-4Ds powering away to the south-west, the aircraft now no more than dark specks low against the horizon.
They were as surprised and horrified as the rest as the sudden, terrifying howl of turbojets approaching from the north-west assaulted their ears. There came the hammering of a heavy-calibre machine gun and Thorne snapped his head in that direction to see a shower of red tracer engulf the hull and turret of the still-moving Tunguska.
He didn’t immediately register fear over the attack – the vehicle was after all designed to be proof against machine gun fire, after all – but his stomach lurched with dismayed disbelief a split-second later as a single, sizzling streak of pink hurtled down out of the sky at incredible speed and struck the 9K22 square on the front glacis plate, just ahead of the turret ring.
The Tunguska mobile flak vehicle, also known (in its Pantsir S-1 Upgrade form) by its older NATO reporting name of SA-22 ‘Greyhound’, had been designed to withstand direct attack by small arms fire and be immune to hits from weapons up to the old Soviet-standard 14.5mm heavy machine gun calibre (the ballistics and design of which had been closely copied to produce the ammunition used by the Sweepers’ 15mm weapons).
Against an 88mm HEAT shell able to penetrate two hundred millimetres of hardened armour however, its steel skin offered about as much resistance as rice paper. The stand-off fuse mounted at the very tip of the warhead’s elongated nose detonated perfectly against the glacis plate, producing a powerful jet of superheated, molten copper travelling at hypersonic speeds with enough heat and brute force to punch a hole straight through the thin armour and release most of its substantial remaining blast inside the hull.
That there was no ammunition left to cook off made little difference. Every hatch on the vehicle burst open simultaneously, releasing bright tongues of flame into the sky as the flash of the initial detonation tore the forward section of the Tunguska apart. It rolled sharply to a halt, black smoke pouring from the damage forward and from every orifice. There was absolutely no possibility that anyone inside could’ve survived.
Even at sea level, the S-15 at full throttle could travel close enough to the speed of sound for the noise of its approach to only become apparent as the aircraft were literally right on top of the target. Willi Meier, of course leading is flight in, had withheld fire until he’d positively identified the target that was their primary objective. It wasn’t all that hard in truth – the Tunguska looked so unlike anything they’d ever before encountered, even from the air, that there could be no other choice; the only difficult part had been picking it out of the howling clouds of dust and sand that were now swirling and coursing across the landscape below and doing their best to obscure everything.
Coming in from a shallow dive, Meier had lined up his gunsights on the 9K22 and fired his 13mm ranging machine gun at a range of about a thousand metres, carefully walking his fire forward until the stream of tracer could clearly be seen bouncing off the vehicle’s hull and turret. A single press of the secondary firing stud on his joystick had then fired the huge cannon mounted beneath his belly which in turn had expelled a blast of flame and smoke rearward beneath the Dragonfly’s tail as the 88mm shell streaked away from the muzzle in the opposite direction. The opposing forces of the departing shell and the rearward blast were close enough to even as to all intents and purposes eliminate any recoil, without which the mounting of such a large weapon in an aircraft would’ve been nigh on impossible.
He roared past above the burning wreckage at an altitude of two hundred metres, immediately pulling into a wide, banking turn that allowed him to maintain most of his airspeed as the full roar of his twin jet engines finally struck the convoy below in all is deafening glory. Unable to control his elation, he released a long, ecstatic whoop of joy and executed a textbook victory roll as he powered out of the turn at full throttle.
At the same time, Rudel – still a long way behind his commander and intentionally so – was only just lining his sights up on his own target. He pressed down his triggers and the machine gun beneath his fuselage began hammering. The recoilless rifle fired a second later, but the aircraft hit a small pocket of turbulence in that moment that disrupted his aim slightly. Frowning with displeasure at the miss, Rudel increased his angle of dive slightly and fired again before he too swept past above the convoy and another vehicle exploded in flames.
The turrets of the Sweepers were rotating now, desperately trying to turn in time to force some of the new attackers to break off or retreat, but as Thorne watched on in horror, he already knew they’d be far too slow. He didn’t see the barrage of machine gun slugs as they fell all around the M101 but he felt Morris’ arms around him as the NCO tackled him heavily and dragged him down to relative safety below the line of the APC’s hull. Neither he nor Thorne were prepared in any way however as another HEAT shell smashed into the side of the M101’s slab-sided, angular nose.
The APC was relatively light at less than twelve tonnes, and the force of the blast that followed was enough to slam the vehicle sideways into a narrow ditch running along the right side of the track. It threatened to tip over for a moment, at which point Thorne and Morris were both thrown clear – something that ultimately saved their lives – before gravity took hold once more and the M101 crashed back down to earth the way it had come, landing heavily on its tracks in a cloud of thrown up earth and dust.
A second shell struck right inside the centre of the open passenger area a second later and quite literally blew the vehicle to pieces, sending debris and deadly shards of torn metal whistling away in all directions at incredible speed. Several metres away, having rolled down the opposite slope and into the bottom of another low hollow in the earth on the other side, a stunned Max Thorne’s last memories before unconsciousness finally took him was the sight of one of the Sherman’s further down the column take another hit and also burst into flames as a third jet screamed past low overhead. Everything went black then as the world around him disappeared and the darkness took him.
17. Mêlée
F-35E Lightning II ‘Harbinger’
Southern Sinai, East of Abu Zenima
He could ‘see’ the engagement near the Genaiva Road termination now on his powerful AN/APG-81radar. In truth, if he wanted, Trumbull could take in almost everything that was going on across the entire battlefield for up to a distance ahead of almost two hundred kilometres or more but he limited his search systems to focussing on only his objectives as it would’ve been impossible for one man to keep track of so much information at any one time.
He’d watched as the gunships of SHG3 had been blasted from the sky by Thorne’s Tunguska and he’d also monitored the approach and subsequent decimation of III/JG2 by similar means a few minutes later. Hope had begun to build in Trumbull’s heart at that point: he was drawing closer with every passing second, and so far Thorne had managed to hold off every attack. The pair of Sentinels would soon be able to engage the forces threatening Eileen’s group and with any luck, the rest of the main force would quickly be able to catch up and also join the fray.
The utter dismay he suddenly felt as his systems picked up the low-flying attack jets of SG2 was that much more disheartening as a result. Their detection came so late that there was no time to call a warning – they were already upon Thorne’s force before his mind could even register the information – and although no warning cry rose from the open channel the
y’d all been using, what he could see happening on his display screen was clear enough. Trumbull cursed his decision to retain his external fuel tanks as long as possible (and thereby limiting his maximum speed), despite recognising full well that the loss of that extra capacity was going to present further problems in the near future.
With a grimace and a softly-uttered, rather uncharacteristic profanity muttered under his breath, he reached out and manually activated the mounting releases for the inboard pylons beneath his wings. The pair of 600-gallon tanks instantly fell away as the Lightning surged forward on full afterburner, tumbling end-over-end and smashing themselves to pieces in a spray of twisted aluminium and unused jet fuel moments later against the rocky desert below.
By contrast, the F-35E – now released from their substantial excess drag – quickly accelerated to its maximum sea level speed of 800 knots as it roared northward. With the fuel tanks attached, Trumbull had been forced to adopt a low-level approach to avoid detection by the significant number of long-range search radars he’d been picking up for some time on his EW systems. Now that his aircraft was ‘clean’ however (i.e. devoid of any external stores or protrusions), it had also reverted to its usual stealthy configuration, making it basically impossible for German radar to detect.
He could now safely return to high altitude without feat of detection, and height meant desperately-needed extra speed, which rose steadily as he climbed to thirty-thousand feet and topped out slightly higher than the F-35E’s official maximum of Mach 1.6 – around 950 knots or thereabouts. He was now less than five minutes away from Thorne’s position… he desperately hoped it would be fast enough.
South of the Genaiva Road termination
North-West of Suez, Egypt
Meier’s elation at seeing the Tunguska explode as his first shell struck had dissipated somewhat by the time he’d brought the Libelle around in a wide, banking turn, coming back around for a second pass. The fact that it was becoming increasingly difficult to control his aircraft at low level in the face of the building dust storm was also a contributing factor in the very sudden departure of his initial feelings of elation. Heavy low-level turbulence very much akin to wind shear, combined with the growing danger of foreign object damage (FOD), were issues he’d not considered in his earlier moments of excitement upon hearing of his unit’s revised and very tempting targets.
He was considering them now however as he dragged his stick back and sought a bit more altitude, his airframe shuddering in the buffeting winds all the way. He also suspected the engines were beginning to falter slightly, something else that was of more than a little concern. All jets operating in North Africa were fitted with sand filters and other such countermeasures to prevent excessive ingestion of dust or other heavy particles that might damage the engines. No system was perfect however, and even if his intake filters did prevent the passage of dust and grit, he might still suffer a flame out purely from air starvation alone – something that would almost certainly be fatal at such low level.
“Alarm… alarm… losing power…!” The warning cry came across his intercom as Meier came out of the wide turn and headed back toward the target area. Craning his neck around, he barely managed to catch sight of one of his pilots – Hirsch in aircraft ‘Emil’ – spiral out of control and plough suddenly and quite terminally into the ground in a ball of flame and spray of debris.
“Damn it…!” He snarled angrily under his breath, cursing the pointless loss of a good man. “This is flight leader to all units… flight leader to all units…” he continued instantly over his squadron channel, turning his own aircraft back around to the west once more in a shallow climb. “Abort mission… I repeat: abort mission. Low level conditions are no longer safe. We’ve done enough damage and lost Joseph into the bargain: I’ll not risk any more of you. Abort mission and return to base.”
Meier received a chorus of acknowledgements form his remaining pilots as each one followed his lead and banked away toward the west, forming up at higher altitude where the air was still clear and conditions were far calmer. There was a more than vague concern that his decision might well be considered premature by HQ, particularly considering from whom the directive had originated, however he was willing to take that chance: Meier had never shied away from standing by the welfare of his men, and he wasn’t about to change now.
Death in combat was sometimes an unfortunate reality of war, but death because of something so senseless and avoidable as dangerous flying conditions was another thing entirely. The flight cruised away at altitude, completely unaware of how narrowly some – if not all of them –had avoided almost certain death.
At the same time that aerial attack had commenced against Thorne’s convoy, the remaining survivors of Donelson’s group had been making the most of their five-minute deadline and had – much to their own surprise – managed to gather together enough shoulder-launched antitank weapons to present something resembling offensive capability.
“What’ve we got?” Eileen hissed nervously as Evan slid back down into the slit trench beside her.
“Eight M72s, three ‘Charlie Gutsaches’ with a dozen rounds between ‘em, and two captured RPGs with six rockets,” Lloyd replied breathlessly as he brushed himself down, having just scrabbled his way across fifty metres of open ground between trenches on his belly at a cracking pace. Neither he nor Eileen thought twice about the fact that they’d used Realtime titles for weapons known by quite different names in that era. “Enough to turn a few into ‘Spam-in-a-can’ if we can land a hit or two,” he added with an evil grin.
“We’ll need more than a ‘hit or two’,” Donelson growled with soft sourness, the truth of that statement bringing the younger man’s mood down to a more serious level once more as his adrenalin began to settle. “We’re out o’ time and short on firepower to take this lot on…” She stared into his eyes with some intensity, as if his greater training and combat experience might give her an excuse to change the decision she’d made and that they’d all agreed on. “It’s not too late to surrender, you know… I mean really surrender…”
“What, and let those bastards win without a fight?” Lloyd replied with partially-forced bravado, and for a moment the faint quaver in his voice gave away his own misgivings. The moment passed quickly however, and the professional confidence of SAS training returned. “We’re all behind you, Eileen… right behind you. Most of ‘em aren’t front line troops, but they know which end goes ‘bang’ well enough to point it at the bad guys.” He managed an almost-convincing, cheeky grin. “We’ll leave ‘em a few bruises to remember us by.”
Eileen felt her own confidence buoyed then, a smile faintly softening her outwardly serious expression, but any response she might’ve given was cut short as the radios at both their belts suddenly burst into live simultaneously.
“Captain Donelson: your five minutes are over… you and your men will throw down your weapons immediately… come out of your trenches with hands raised or we will open fire!”
“You ready, ‘Jimmy’?” Eileen asked finally, the nerves and fear she felt showing through false bravado and an unintentionally-exaggerated accent as she hefted the assault rifle she carried and drew back the cocking handle, releasing it with a loud, metallic snap. “Let’s give these scunners a run for their money, eh?”
“Yes, ma’am…!” Lloyd grinned. Lifting the one-shot, disposable Bazooka rocket launcher he’d brought with him from the other trench, he unfolded the rear sight, flipped down the end cap and used both hands to pull the weapon out to its fully-extended length.
“Last warning…ten seconds…!”
“They don’t want to kill us if they can avoid it,” Lloyd observed smugly, raising his head just high enough above the lip of the trench to allow him a view of the nearest enemy tanks and infantry. “They’d already be blasting us all to Kingdom Come if that was all they wanted. Need to get a bit bloody closer though… we’ve Buckley’s of getting a hit on anything at this range.”
He watched as a troop of four Thors crested the Genaiva Road and began to trundle slowly toward their position, flanked by several Valkyries and four squads of men on foot. Dust and grit were whirling about borne by hot, howling winds, although visibility was still – barely – good enough to see as far as the line of armoured vehicles beyond the road.
“Ask and ye shall receive…” Eileen observed softly, quoting the Book of Matthew. “I do believe they really do want to take us alive… maybe we can use that to our -!”
Her words ceased prematurely as a Thor at the very eastern end of the enemy line suddenly and quite violently exploded, its entire rear end engulfed in flame and smoke as it disintegrated under the impact of a 105mm HEAT warhead.
“Sentinel One to Beatrice… Sentinel One to Beatrice… come in please, Beatrice…” The sound of Jimmy Davids’ voice over that same open channel was music to the ears of each and every man (and woman) dug in at that abandoned airfield by the Genaiva Road. “Dogberry suggested we go on ahead and pay you a visit...” There was a slight pause, during which time a light APC close by the wreckage of the shattered tank also blew apart in quite spectacular fashion. This time however, the deep, solid thud of a distant tank gun was also audible a second or two later. “…Looks like we’re just in time for the party… mind if we come in…?”
“Make yourselves at home, boys,” Eileen replied quickly with obvious joy and relief in her tone, fumbling the microphone at her lips as she spoke. “Do mind your feet on the hall rug, though…”
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 77
