Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  Thorne turned on his heels and strode across to the room toward the exit, checking the radio at his belt as he moved to ensure it was still on and tuned correctly. Without another word, he threw open the door and stormed out and launched himself up the steps outside as the others moved quickly to follow. As he reached ground level, Thorne was greeted almost immediately by the deafening howl of the C-5M Super Galaxy thundering past low overhead, no more than 500 metres above as it carried out a simulated landing approach from south-to-north.

  “For fuck’s sake…!” He snarled in angry surprise, clutching at his ears and glaring up at the huge, receding bulk of the aircraft as it climbed slowly away to the north-east once more in a wide, ponderous circuit that would bring it back around for another approach.

  “Good visibility at low level, Phoenix-Leader,” Weems advised excitedly over the radio mike a moment later as Thorne muttered an angry “No shit…!” and the others gathered around him at the top of the stairs. “Coming back around to line up on Runway Fourteen-Right in approximately five minutes…”

  Thorne turned to glare at Hacking in that moment, not at all pleased regarding the exceptionally poor timing of the enemy force arriving from the west and even less pleased about the fact that there was absolutely nothing he could do about the situation.

  “Squadron Leader, if its clear enough here to restart flight operations then its won’t be long before the skies are clear over Cairo as well, and about ten minutes after that happens we’ll have the every German warplane in North-fucking-Africa down on our arses like a ton of bricks. We need to get those fuckin’ fighters off the ground, and I mean now!”

  “Yes, sir…!” Hacking snapped sharply, fully aware of the urgency of the situation as he immediately turned and dived back down into the bunker heading to issue the appropriate orders.

  “Eileen… Evan… get as many in as you can…” Thorne continued, addressing both of them. “For God’s sake, don’t place yourselves in any unnecessary danger, but get as many through as you can before it gets to bloody hot. I’ll be wherever the bloody Galaxy is, but get me on the radio if you need me!”

  With that he was gone, jogging off eastward toward the runways as Donelson and Lloyd gave each other a single, simple nod of acknowledgement and both headed off in the opposite direction.

  Reuters’ command vehicle

  Genaiva Road, enroute to Kibrit

  “We have no artillery within range as yet, Mein Herr,” Nehring advised quickly, part of a radio headset pressed against one ear as he received further reports from Dietrich regarding the current disposition of the Leibstandarte’s forces. “Ten Battery is moving up but is being hampered by the extended supply lines and – like everyone else – by this verdammt sandstorm. They expect to be ready to fire on the Ismailia Road in approximately twenty minutes… another ten to bring Kibrit into range.”

  Like everything else within the Marder command vehicle, his voice shook violently as the vehicle thundered across the desert at as high a speed as the driver could manage considering the lack of visibility. All three men sat facing each other on hard, fold-up metal seats running along either side of the rear interior, with the radio operator and his equipment placed in a central position further forward, directly behind the driver and powerplant.

  “Too bloody late by far, Herr General…” Reuters snarled with frustration, “The Liebstandarte will reach the base perimeter within minutes… we need bombardment support now…!”

  “We have no artillery in range and our aircraft cannot fly, Kurt,” Schiller countered, trying to placate from the next seat along, mostly successful in keeping the building frustration from his own tone regarding his CO’s increasingly irrational behaviour. “The skies over The Med are clearing, and we have two entire air fleets fuelled and waiting to take off, but until this godforsaken sandstorm lifts here we don’t have any other options available to us.”

  There was a long silence during which the Reichsmarschall was lost in a moment of deep thought, his eyes staring unfocussed at a random point slightly to the right of Nehring’s shoulder on the opposite inside wall of the APC (something which, it had to be said, did leave the general feeling vaguely unnerved for some inexplicable reason). Snapping back to the present as quickly as he’d ‘left’, Reuters turned to stare directly at Schiller, his features hardening into a grim expression of cold determination (which subsequently also vaguely unnerved his 2IC).

  “Albert…” he began as softly as was possible within the raucous confines of the command vehicle, leaning in toward his aide as he spoke “…I need to speak to Headquarters Mittelmeerische Flotte at La Spezia… vessels U-1401and U-1404 are currently on station off Alexandria and we need them prepared for action…”

  “Kurt, you can’t be serious,” Schiller blurted immediately, knowing exactly what the man was suggesting as his eyes widened in shock. “The Führer considers the A-4 to be a strategic weapon… he retains complete control over their use: one of the reasons we have had none available for use during this campaign…”

  I believe his exact words were that they were ‘not to be used in this theatre of operations…’…” Reuters countered evenly, choosing his words with care. “As the Mediterranean Fleet is headquartered in Italy, its operations are not technically within this theatre.”

  “We don’t ‘technically’ have to have done anything wrong to end up on the Führer’s schwarzen Liste either, but I doubt that’ll make any difference whatsoever when we’re being strung up with meat hooks and piano wire!”

  “Albert, you and I have come a long way together in this over many years…” Reuters observed coldly, the intensity behind his grey eyes stark and powerful even within the dim confines of the rumbling APC “…so I will take this one opportunity to make my intentions completely clear to you… as a ‘courtesy’ to someone I have considered a friend and colleague through all of this…” He paused momentarily, gathering his self-control. “I intend to do whatever it takes to either capture Max Thorne or rid myself of him once and for all…” Reuters continued, the previously even tone quickly becoming a snarl of barely suppressed rage “…and you can either assist me in this task by following my orders exactly as I give them, when I give them, or you can relieve yourself from duty right now so that I can have you replaced by someone capable of providing me the assistance I require!”

  Those last few words were hissed with such venom that they struck home with incredible force in spite of their lack of any real volume. So shocked was Schiller that he found himself struck dumb, too stunned in that moment to manage any true feelings of anger or indignance. Instead he could only stare back in wide-eyed disbelief at the friend and mentor he’d known and worked for his entre military life.

  “Do you wish to be relieved…?” The direct question was spat at him with such vehemence that Schiller flinched visibly, yet although his lips moved faintly as if in response, he was still unable to form any kind of coherent reply.

  “Do you wish to be relieved…?” A shout this time from Reuters, bellowed with such force that Nehring also jumped, momentarily unable to maintain the pretence of disinterest he’d feigned during the rest of the uncomfortable exchange.

  Suddenly overwhelmed by feelings of abandonment and betrayal he himself could barely comprehend, Generaloberst Albert Schiller’s remaining resistance faltered and collapsed in that moment. His mind was flooded with the forlorn and final realisation in that split second that there was nothing whatsoever he could possibly say or do in that moment that could in anyway affect or influence his commanding officer, and that the only two alternatives left for him to choose from were either to acquiesce completely and utterly to Kurt Reuters or choose the total destruction of his own career and throw away fourteen years of hard work and everything he had built for himself in that new Germany of the New Eagles’ devising.

  “N-no, Mein Herr… I do not…” Schiller stammered finally, his words broken and hollow as he stared at the steel floor of the com
mand vehicle, unable to meet the other man’s eyes.

  “I want you to speak to the commander of the Mediterranean Fleet immediately…!” Reuters hissed savagely, the unwavering nature of his burning gaze almost daring his aide to show some hint of resistance of disobedience. “They will need exact coordinates for the runways at Kibrit, and they need to be ready to fire in ten minutes. Actual release will be on my direct orders only.”

  “Jawohl, Mein Herr,” Schiller nodded dully, his body rigid as he instantly turned his attention to the terrified radio operator in order to relay the Reichsmarschall’s orders.

  19. Vengeance

  1st SS Panzer Division, Liebstandarte SS Adolf Hitler

  Al Sweis-Ismaileya-Al Zerai Road, west of RAF Kibrit

  Michael Wittman released a stream of profanity at some poor, unprepared staff NCO at the other end of his radio link and flinched in his seat as another of his precious P-4Ds – the third so far in as many minutes – brewed up under the devastating impact of rounds fired from an as-yet unidentified enemy tank dug in close to the airbase’s main gates.

  “I don’t fucking care what your fucking problems are, oberscharführer…!” He howled angrily, his face turning red with rage and exertion. The verdammt Tommis are blowing my men to bits while you’re shining your arse there in front of your pile of bloody requests you’re having trouble getting to, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t sound all that fucking sympathetic…!” He paused and took a deep breath to calm himself somewhat before going on. “Now…” he continued in a slightly calmer tone, speaking as if he were explaining something to a particularly dense four-year-old “…the Reichsmarschall himself wants me to take this bloody airfield, and to do that I need either artillery or air support. Now ideally…” he paused for another moment in order to keep his temper in check “…ideally, I’d have both at my disposal, but as this seems to be beyond the capabilities of our mighty Wehrmacht at the moment, either-fucking-one will have to do. Now you will get me my mobile guns or a staffel of bloody Libelle within the next five minutes or my next mission will be to make the rest of your army career and life very short and very fucking unpleasant!”

  He didn’t bother waiting for a reply, cutting the transmission in disgust and returning to his command periscopes, swivelling them back and forth to take in the situation once more. The slightly-raised line of a railway lay across their path running north-west to south-east with the Al Sweis-Ismaileya-Al Zerai Road beyond that as it followed a similar path before turning to run parallel with the canal further south. The railway was disused and shattered by regular bombing over the last few months, its tracks cratered, broken and twisted at numerous points along its visible length, and scattered on either side of it, the burning hulks of more than a dozen tanks and armoured vehicles lay strewn and, releasing diesel-fuelled pyres of greasy, black smoke into an otherwise ever-clearing blue sky.

  The loss of that many vehicles in such a short period of time was bad enough, but to have also already lost, as part of that number, three of his new Panther-D models was an even greater blow. They’d encountered the first lines of the Kibrit outer defences just five minutes earlier as they’d driven straight into an ambush sprung by anti-tank batteries firing from the line of the distant road, using the cover of a small, deserted village and its surrounding plantations and, so far, knocking out every German vehicle with the temerity to push east of the raised line of the railway.

  Artillery was also falling about here and there fired from mortars and – of course – the ubiquitous British 25-pounder, but the barrages were remarkably light for all that and were largely ineffective. Although it was too early to say with any certainty, Wittman suspected that British ammunition supplies might well be limited, which was fortunate, as a concentrated bombardment against their stalled forces at that point might well have dealt a telling blow. The supposition was to some extent backed up by the fact that the defenders facing them generally seemed happy to simply hold position and only fire on units trying to push across the railway line rather than waste fire on more difficult targets on the other side.

  Grenadiers into the rear of the formation had dismounted to set up their own mortars and were now returning fire against the dug-in guns ahead, but 81mm mortar bombs were a poor substitute at best for real artillery support and unless he was provided some air support or heavy artillery, forcing a path through to Kibrit might well prove very costly indeed.

  The situation was exacerbated by the fact that they were also taking direct fire from weapons that were significantly more powerful than just the 17-pounders dug in around the village ahead. Wittman suspected one of the new, unidentified enemy tanks Dietrich had warned them all about was also hidden in the palm groves ahead, somewhere off to the right of the main defensive line. Fire from the unidentified behemoth had been infrequent, but every single shot had resulted in the total destruction of the target in a display of power and accuracy the SS tank commander would otherwise have thought barely possible.

  That the weapon was only being used, very effectively, against the most valuable targets only served to exacerbate the problem. In addition to the three Panthers lost so far, two Wirbelwind mobile flak and a Brumbär assault gun had also been completely destroyed, making a severe dent in their ability to defend against aerial attack into the bargain. A haze of smoke already hung across the entire area, making it difficult to determine exactly where the fire was coming from, but mortars were shelling that general area also in the vain hope it might cause some disruption.

  “No love from our ‘friends’ at headquarters, Mien Herr…?” Merkel enquired with a darkly cynical tone, his 2IC’s Panther positioned almost a kilometre further north at the left flank of their line.

  “The only ‘love’ we’re likely to get today, Kamerad, is that which we make for ourselves,” Wittman grinned in spite of the situation, the insinuation raising a few thin smiles from others from their unit listening in on the same open channel.

  “Just your luck, Konrad…” Merkel remarked to his gunner with false sincerity, making sure the transmit key was still down “…all that practice will come in handy at last!”

  “Leck mich…!” Came the man’s unpleasant response over that same channel before the line was cut, drawing a chuckle from the rest of the crews and helping to lighten the tension just a little.

  “All right, boys… concentrate now…!” Wittman warned them all, still grinning all the same. “I made it clear to HQ that we are going to have some kind of support within the next five minutes… Three Platoon: assume position on the right flank and keep any eye out for more of our boys coming up from the south – HQ advises there are Makkaroni armoured units advancing from that direction. Two Platoon: take the left flank and be prepared to push north-east to the canal – we need to make sure we cut off any chance of retreat in that direction also. The rest of our units will advance in force as soon as we can get some heavy artillery down on that village – we’re going to start laying smoke to at least keep the bastards off our backs until we’re ready to move…”

  Within another moment or so, mortar fire coming from the rear of the column changed from high explosive to smoke rounds and began lobbing fire into the open space between the railway and the line of palm groves beyond. Already hazy from gunfire, the air was soon thick with the hiss of white-grey clouds that quickly obscured any clear vision from either side. For the defenders it was a sobering eventuality, as it was a clear warning that a renewed advance was imminent.

  Trumbull was bringing the F-35E into final, vertical touchdown near the southern end of the main runways as Thorne drew near, standing upright in passenger seat of a hastily- commandeered Jeep and hanging onto the windscreen frame with both hands for support. The Lightning hovered unsteadily over a small, clear section of concrete taxiway and descended slowly as the computer-aided flight controls fought their electronic battle with the gusting winds that continued to bluster about in spite of the dissipation of the sandstorm itself.


  Beyond them both, a quartet of Mustangs clawed their way skyward on Runway 14 Left, seeking desperate altitude as they rose to join the ranks of those already in the air. More stood in clusters at the end of that nearer strip with their engines turning over as they patiently awaited their turn to take off; a collection of more than three dozen aircraft of various types (mostly American-built) that included Mustangs, Sea Furies, gull-winged Corsairs and Douglas A-6 attack bombers.

  Gathered beyond them between the twin, concrete strips, several hundred non-essential base personnel and family had already been assembled and were now milling about in clusters of varying size and disposition, most looking similarly frightened and confused over what was to be their fate in the fate of the German attack. Many turned, mouths hanging open in outright wonder and disbelief, as the Lightning II lowered itself toward the ground nearby on powerful pillars of jet exhaust.

  “Nice of you to join the party, mate!” Thorne yelled over the howl of the F-35E’s engine as it settled to the ground and the cockpit canopy opened forward.

  “Can’t say too much for the guest list, old chum,” Trumbull replied with a dry smile as he tossed a long rope ladder over the side and began to climb from the front seat. “Some rather unpleasant ‘neighbours’ appear to have popped in…”

  “Thank Christ you’re here, Alec,” the Australian exclaimed on a far more serious note as the pilot reached the ground, clasping the man’s hand in both of his and shaking it fervently. “We damn sure needed you… I needed you…!” He added, softer this time and with clear recognition and gratitude in his tone.

  “Don’t mention it,” Trumbull dismissed with a smile and an imperceptible nod. “Were none of us out of the woods yet in any case: thank me when we’re all safe on friendly ground again.”