Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “I doubt they care, particularly,” Thorne observed softly with a grimace, attempting to sound interested but unable to conceal the hollowness in his voice. “Still no word from Suez?” At the very least, the subject had finally broken through the shutters of withdrawal that had gathered around his mind.

  “None whatsoever,” she answered immediately, shaking her head sadly. “Last reports were that the streets of the city were in complete anarchy with thousands of rioters pouring in from the surrounding camps. Formidable has been forced to move out into the gulf after coming under fire from the guns of our own harbour defences and they’re reluctant to allow Malaya or any of the other ships to return fire for fear of civilian casualties or hitting our own troops still fighting there.” She sighed softly. “We’re trying to cut through the constant jamming, but I’m loath to use the radio now anyway in case we give even more away about what we’re doing.”

  “I think they’re probably right across it anyway,” Thorne countered with dark irony, trying desperately to push the image of Morris’ dying face from his mind and retain his own sanity.

  “How are you feeling?” She added with equal softness, as if reading his mind.

  “Like shit,” he answered honestly, almost managing a smile for her benefit “but I’ll feel a bloody-sight better when we’ve got on that bloody plane and gotten the fuck out of here…”

  “Your neck still hurting…?”

  “Like a motherfucker,” he snapped angrily, feeling too much pain and in too foul a mood to make any effort at moderating his language, even in Donelson’s presence. “…And no, I don’t want any more morphine…” He grimaced again, this time flashing the hint of one of his more characteristic wry grins for a split second. “That cocksucker fuckin’ bit me, for Christ’s sake! Ten million fuckin’ Krauts under arms against us and I have to run into one that thinks he’s Hannibal fuckin’ Lecter…!” He shuddered visibly as he recalled all-to-vividly the horrific sensation of another man’s teeth tearing into his flesh.

  “And you forgot to bring the fava beans...!”

  “‘Fava beans and a nice Chianti’ my ass...,” Thorne growled, not allowing himself to be amused at the attempted humour. “I hope the fuckin’ cunt choked on me!”

  “Don’t kid yerself, ‘Jimmy’,” Eileen whispered, seeing the long-awaited opportunity to break his mood and leaning in so no one else could hear, “…you’re not that big, trust me…!” The unexpectedly lewd remark obtained the desired effect in breaking Thorne out of the self-pitying funk into which he was sinking, and his eyes bugged as he snorted with laughter and glanced self-consciously around to make certain no one else had overhead.

  “Don’t make me laugh, for fuck’s sake…!” He added, lifting a steadying hand to the bandage at his neck and fighting unsuccessfully to smother his chuckle “…I’ll really will pop a bloody artery…!”

  “Nice to have you back,” she grinned back, meaning it on several levels. “Maybe you should have this as well, while I think of it.”

  She reached behind her back and drew his Heckler & Koch USP from her waistband, having retrieved it from where it had fallen during his fight with Schreiner. He accepted it readily and checked the breech as a matter of course before removing the empty clip and slotting in a loaded replacement.

  “That bloody thing cost me a grand and a half,” he muttered to himself as he holstered the weapon, trying not to show how pleased he was that it hadn’t been lost. That the sentiment might’ve been ludicrous under the current circumstances didn’t occur to him for a moment.

  Something also didn’t occur to him was the reason behind why Eileen hadn’t handed it over earlier – that the terrible sense of hollow emptiness she’d been reading from him prior to that moment had left her afraid he might use the weapon to do some harm to himself. Thorne would’ve undoubtedly been mightily offended had he realised the truth of it, although he’d not have been able to give an honest answer if asked whether or not her fears had indeed been unfounded.

  “He saved my life…” Thorne breathed suddenly, horror returning quickly to his voice as he saw every second of the scene unfold once more in his mind. “He knew he’d never make it in time… never reach the guy before he fired… but he did it anyway… sacrificed himself knowingly for me…”

  “…And you’d have done exactly the same…” Eileen assured, shifting position so she was now snugged in against his right side. “You’re telling me you weren’t thinking about it?”

  “I… I was…” he admitted haltingly, as if unwilling to consider his own actions in the same league as those of the man who’d saved his life. “But I think that was out of sheer bloody-mindedness as much as anything else. I don’t remember thinking anything so noble as ‘laying down life and limb for my fellow man’…” He paused, thinking hard over his recollections, and gave a shrug. “I think I was just pissed about finally being caught and didn’t want to give the Krauts the satisfaction of capturing me alive.”

  “You’ve always been good at self-deprecation, Max Thorne,” Donelson observed kindly after a long silence, knowing him far too well to allow him to get away with a statement that was at least a partial lie. “You’d have done the same, were the situation reversed.”

  “Would I…? Would I, really…?” He stared into her eyes then, his voice pleading as tears formed at the edges of his vision once more. “I wish I was so sure.”

  “Take my word for it,” she suggested with a smile, giving his shoulder a friendly nudge with her own. “Listen to your elders for once…” She immediately noted the raised eyebrow from a man who’d been sixteen years old on the day of her birth. “Mental age,” she added quickly, a smirk threatening to crease the one corner of her lips.

  “Ahh, fair enough then…” he nodded sagely, graciously conceding the point as the convoy rolled on across the stony desert toward Kibrit.

  Genaiva Road termination

  North-West of Suez, Egypt

  Sturmbannführer Michael Wittman accorded his full attention to the piles of smoking, wrecked vehicles littering the landscape all around, some still burning furiously, as Panther-121 threaded a path through the cluttered battlefield along with the other lead units of the 1st Panzer Regiment of the LSSAH. From his usual position riding with half his body projecting of the commander’s hatch, he needed no great leap of imagination to visualise the power of the two tanks that had reportedly wrought most of the carnage.

  Just fifteen minutes earlier the 1st Panzer had encountered the remnants of 1FSK withdrawing west in full rout, and a short but extremely informative conversation with the unit’s commander, Witzig, had provided him with more than enough reason to accord these prototype Allied tanks a significant level of respect.

  The enemy’s supposed ‘invulnerability’ against the P-4D’s high-velocity gun was yet to be proven, but it was nevertheless a sobering thought that direct hits from the 88mm recoilless weapons of 1FSK’s Thor reconnaissance vehicles had apparently had no effect whatsoever. Wittman understood the tendency for exaggeration in post-combat reports, particularly those given while still affected by the hysteria of defeat, yet there were too many similar accounts for all of them to be spurious.

  It was clear the battle had not long been over, and that meant that 1st Panzer was hot on the heels of the retreating Allied unit that Witzig had referred to as ‘Rückblickend’ (‘Hindsight’ in rough translation). It was true that they were currently advancing at a speed faster than their mobile guns could match and would therefore be lacking artillery support until they were able to catch up, but resistance had been so light so far that mortars and direct fire tank guns had been more than sufficient to deal with any threat yet encountered.

  Their latest orders, just received, were crystal clear: the Leibstandarte was to push forward for Kibrit airfield at best possible speed which, if successful, would effectively cut the remaining Allied forces in two while regular infantry units followed behind to shore up their flanks against counter
-attack. Their primary objective was the capture of that airfield and to prevent the departure of any aircraft based there.

  With Ismailia effectively cut off it should also only be a short time before the defenders there either surrendered or were completely overwhelmed. Wittman gave a dry, knowing grin. Every plan sounded perfect and simple on paper, but the reality would undoubtedly be a far more complex and costly venture in execution. All the same, the Wehrmacht possessed ample forces on all fronts to carry the day convincingly.

  Adjusting his goggles, he turned his face toward the heavens and cursed the howling sandstorm once again for the debilitating effect it’d had upon the Luftwaffe’s ability to fly. Well trained and equipped as the 1st Panzer indeed was, a commander was always happier with plenty of air support ready to hand, and it was galling indeed that there were literally thousands of powerful, potentially decisive aircraft across the North African theatre at that very moment that were currently completely useless due to the prevailing adverse conditions.

  “Headquarters to Panzer Leader… Headquarters to Panzer Leader… respond… over…” That call came in suddenly over the divisional command network, echoing scratchily through his headset. It wasn’t hard to recognise the voice all the same.

  “Panzer Leader reading you loud and clear, Mein Herr,” Wittman responded instantly. A direct communication from Sepp Dietrich himself was unusual enough to warrant an immediate response.

  “Weather reports suggest an easing of the storm within the next hour, Panzer Leader, and it is expected that you will have taken the objective before this occurs.” The intent was clear in that remark – that failure would most definitely not be accepted.

  “Acknowledged, Mein Herr,” Wittman replied with equal speed. “Resistance is non-existent at present – we are advancing at best possible speed and expect to reach the outer perimeter in approximately twenty minutes.”

  “Very good, Panzer Leader… do not falter in this. The assault has slowed to the north and has stalled completely outside Suez. It is expected that an attack on your objective will split the enemy’s defences and draw forces away from both fronts in response. Also…it is possible that you will encounter some extremely large aircraft on the ground upon arrival at the target; these must not be allowed to take off at any cost. A great deal rides on your success, Herr Sturmbannführer, and the Reichsmarschall has taken a personal interest in this: I trust you understand what that means… Headquarters over and out…”

  “Orders acknowledged, Headquarters,” Wittman growled in return, knowing exactly what that last statement implied: that his success (or failure) in this could either way become the defining moment in his career.

  He grimaced and gave a silent shrug of resignation. So the latest forecast suggested the storm would ease within the next two hours, and in his own mind – whether imagined or otherwise – it did indeed seem that perhaps the intensity now wasn’t quite so great as it had been earlier. No matter: they would press on regardless – it was clear now that he’d been given no alternative. The tanks and armoured vehicles of the LSSAH 1st Panzer Division rumbled on at a steady pace, leaving behind the shattered wreckage of 1FSK’s defeat as they continued eastward, hot on the heels of the enemy force that had inflicted the crushing blow.

  RAF Station Kibrit

  30km north of Suez, Egypt

  The chaotic situation that confronted Hindsight as they arrived at Kibrit couldn’t have been much better than that left behind by many of the refugees heading south. Built on a large peninsula of flat land bordered by the canal to the east and the Small Bitter Lake to the north, RAF Station Kibrit was a major base of operations for the Royal Air Force which in Realtime would have become the original birthplace of the Special Air Service.

  Twin concrete runways, each more than 2,500 metres long, ran parallel at 140°/320°, while the main admin and accommodation buildings covered a stretch of land approximately a kilometre or more wide to its north-western corner; buildings that included a the control tower, barracks, an armoury, infirmary and even a cinema for the entertainment of the men stationed there. Already a large installation, it had seen much expansion over the last two years, the improvements including the two runways already mentioned and also some somewhat beefed-up defences along its western perimeter.

  A pair of iron gates two metres tall stood across the road leading into the base, fixed to thick pillars of reinforced concrete while similarly-tall fences of iron framework and barbed-wire stretched away into the distance in either direction. Inside the perimeter behind the wire lay a series of trenches and dugouts while several rows of concrete dragons teeth lay outside the wire, following the line of the fence as far as the eye could see to both the north and south. A squat, low concrete pillbox also lay behind the wire on either side of the gates, the muzzles of a 17-pounder gun and several heavy machine guns projecting from the wide, darkened firing slot of each.

  At that moment, the approaches to those main gates were jammed with hundreds of displaced and dishevelled civilians, some with their life’s possessions and many with nothing but the clothes on their backs, all clamouring for entry with no real idea what possible sanctuary might actually be provided within. Men, women, children and families in groups all shouted together, their mingled cries an unintelligible chorus of discontent that gave voice both to the pain and loss they’d already experienced and also the reality that the days ahead held no foreseeable relief to their suffering.

  Amongst them were also a fair number of injured British and Commonwealth troops also seeking succour behind the base’s defences, some carried in an assortment of commandeered or purloined military and/or civilian vehicles while others also trudged slowly along on their own two feet. The servicemen at least were more accustomed to the age-old military tradition of ‘hurry-up-and-wait’ and were therefore better able to maintain their patience as a small but determined group of well-armed base MPs fought desperately to make some semblance of order out of the chaos milling before them.

  The sight of Hindsight’s approach however did elicit an immediate response from the base guards. With much shouting of their own – again backed up by the necessity of shots fired into the air to enforce compliance – they slowly pushed the madding crowd to either side and forced a path wide enough to allow passage, one vehicle at a time.

  Thorne and the others looked on with something akin to mild horror as the tanks and trucks pushed slowly through, howls of anger, defiance and despair assaulting them on either side. Some spat and screamed and shook their fists in rage while some, slipping through the struggling cordon of British troops, hammered against the sides of the trucks only to be quickly dragged away once more before they fell beneath the wheels or, worse still, beneath the tracks of the rumbling tanks.

  Others made no move toward them, yet stared on with the cold hardness of accusation in their eyes and in the end, for Thorne and many of the others, the images that would last longest, burning deep into their minds, were those of the ones who simply looked on in silent, despairing resignation: men, women and children whose pleading gazes spoke more of their fear and the horrors they’d seen than any words could ever describe.

  Those few wild, chaotic minutes seemed to stretch for an age and then, suddenly, were gone forever as the last of the trucks and armoured vehicles thundered through the entrance and the iron gates were pulled closed behind them, allowing the crowd to once more surge up against the bars as the howling cries of fear and anger continued unabated.

  The convoy left the gates behind and headed for the near end of the main runways, the trip of no more than 2,000 metres taking probably twice as long as it should have due to the constant weaving, circuitous round taken around bomb craters and the smoking wreckage of ruined buildings and shattered aircraft that littered the surrounding landscape.

  The sandstorm had curtailed aerial operations above Kibrit just as it had everywhere else across the theatre of battle, but it was clear to all that the base had taken a severe poun
ding prior to the cessation of Luftwaffe operations. Smoke and the stench of death filled the air, their pervading presence too strong for even the howling gale to completely eradicate as the Hindsight crews looked on with a sense of deep foreboding.

  The troop eventually ground to a halt at the base’s main vehicle park, not far from the southern end of the twin runways. There were few vehicles present for all that, save for a handful of outdated trucks and one or two khaki-painted sedans, all clearly quite old and some no longer operable, left there to quietly rust instead in the salt breeze blown in from the nearby canal.

  Thorne rose unsteadily to his feet in the bed of the GMC and stared around at the fading, indistinct shapes of surrounding aircraft, those more distant partially-obscured by the whirling sands. Even within his range of visibility – perhaps opening out to seven or eight hundred metres now – he could easily pick out the hazy silhouettes of at least two squadrons of fighters and perhaps as many bombers of varying size, all grounded by the raging dust storm. Many fires still burned here too however, and the all-encompassing reek of burning filled the air around them.

  It took some time for him to climb down from the rear of the truck, assisted by Eileen and an SAS trooper along the way, and within a moment or two of his feet touching the ground he was greeted by a freckled, red-headed young man in RAF uniform wearing the rank of squadron leader uneasily upon his shoulders.

  “Air Vice Marshal Thorne, sir!” He exclaimed immediately, coming to attention and giving a salute of almost comical rigidity that under different circumstances Thorne would’ve found highly amusing. “Squadron Leader Andrew Hacking, sir: we’ve been expecting you! Glad to see you made it through all right...”

  “Just barely, mate, just barely...” Thorne growled in return, making a huge effort to withhold the seething anger and frustration that still boiled close to the surface within him. “Where’s your commanding officer?”