Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6)

by Colin Gee

  Charles, eyes glued to his optics, opened his mouth, as a dark shape grew into something more tangible.

  The 20-pdr lashed out and the dark shape became light as fire consumed it.

  “Nice one, Pats. Prepare to engage to front. Driver… take the tank right… pass down the right of that burning tank… on the other side of the hedge… not too close.”

  The Centurion moved to the right and dodged behind the hedgerow as Patterson brought the turret to the inline position.

  Charles was gambling that the other enemy tank would avoid the fire and would use the hedgerow for cover, placing the vegetation between it and the growing illumination of its comrade’s funeral pyre.

  He was partially right.

  A shell struck the front glacis of Godiva, smashing the spare track links housed there and burrowing into the armoured plate.

  The Centurion’s armour won the battle and prevented full penetration.

  Faced with the imminence of death, Wild lost control of his bladder.

  “Driver, reverse, angle front! Where’s the bastard at?”

  No one answered Charles.

  Another shell streaked past the wounded Centurion, missing high and wide down the right side.

  Wild spotted their tormentor.

  “He’s in the fucking hedge, Pats! Left two… see ‘im?”

  The tank lurched as Patterson fired and stabilisation system failed to compensate in time, sending the shell into the ground twenty yards short of the enemy vehicle.

  The Soviet tank stayed still, the tank commander electing to give himself the best chance of a kill whilst risking his own by being an easier target.

  “Jink, Laz, for fuck’s sake jink!”

  The 100mm shell missed the nearside front by a whisker, a small manoeuvre by Wild undoubtedly saving his own life.

  However, it didn’t miss everything.

  Firstly, the shell hit the top of the last but one road wheel, which deflected it slightly upwards, again deflecting off the drive sprocket, which altered the shell’s course once again, and it nearly vertical, punching through the track before it exited through the nearside exhaust system and flew skywards, still in search of more resistance.

  Laz Wild instinctively touched the brakes, which imposed enough strain on the damaged track for it to separate.

  Not that anyone needed to be told, Wild shouted automatically.

  “Track’s gone!”

  Patterson held his breath and fired.

  His aim was true and the Soviet tank commander’s gamble with his and his crew’s lives failed.

  Charles stuck his head out of the cupola and grimaced, as the driving rain and increasing flashes of lightning made vision difficult.

  He could see nothing, except the shattered remnants of the exhaust system.

  “Laz, make an assessment. I’ll cover you. Commander out.”

  He pushed himself up into the driving rain, and immediately felt chilled to the bone, as his uniform provided little protection against the elements.

  He dropped into the mud and took a quick look at the damage.

  Wild moved past him and knelt in the quagmire, running his hands over the shiny scars that marked the enemy shell’s progress.

  His assessment was short and sweet.

  “Workshops job, Sarnt-Major. Sprocket’s cracked… track’s well shot… exhaust’s non-existent… plus, there’s summat else… not sure what… but the engine don’t sound right.”

  Charles concentrated and realised he could detect a rhythmic knocking that was not normally present.

  Lazarus Wild volunteered a little more information.

  “So long as the engine holds out, we can move on the spot, but we ain’t going nowhere, Sarnt-Major… not without proper kit to mend this feckin lot.”

  The coaxial machine gun cut through their conversation, and Beefy emerged from the turret, exposing his considerable upper body to the elements.

  “Sarnt-Major! Looks like some of their infantry bastards are on top of the hill where we were earlier. Pats thinks he saw a bazooka or summat like it. Can we move?”

  Charles shook his head as he turned to view the high ground they had vacated.

  The shape was barely discernible in the rain.

  He saw no movement, but sensed they were there.

  A bullet came out of nowhere and pinged off Godiva’s side armour.

  “Right, Laz… back in the tank with you. Not healthy out here.”

  Both men clambered back into the tank, dripping water everywhere as their uniforms rid themselves of the rain.

  “How many, Pats?”

  “Saw three for sure… next to that felled tree trunk just off the top… one with what looked like a bazooka… took a chance burst… don’t think I hit the buggers… went to ground and ain’t showed their noggins since.”

  “Load canister, Beefy… can you pepper the spot with a shotgun round, Pats?”

  “No problem, Sarnt-Major.”

  “Do it.”

  Patterson gave himself a little more elevation and the breech flew back as the 20-pdr’s purpose-built canister shell sent its deadly little projectiles into the general area around the tree trunk.

  Even through the rain, both Patterson and Charles saw a red mist as at least one enemy suffered a telling hit.

  Four men rose up out of nowhere and ran in all directions, desperate to escape a second shot.

  The .30cal followed two of them, chasing at their heels, as Patterson walked the coaxial into their defenceless bodies, putting both men down.

  “Didn’t see your bazooka man, Pats.”

  His reply was lost in a horrible sound from the tank engine, one that was immediately followed by silence, as Laz Wild killed it to prevent further damage.

  As the sound of the Meteor died away, the storm reasserted itself, and the wind and constant battering of heavy drops created a soft and comforting sound that, had they not been in the middle of a battle, would have sent Godiva’s crew to sleep.

  The sharp crack of a 17-pdr to their right announced that friendly vehicles were now closer than before.

  Charles stuck his head out of the cupola and swept the hillside with his binoculars, seeking something, finding nothing.

  A growing sound of distress caught his attention, and he lowered the binoculars in time to see an Allied Mustang fighter, belching smoke and flame, sweep low overhead, the pilot clearly desperate to find somewhere to land his crippled aircraft.

  A few seconds later, the sound of an explosion betrayed the unfortunate American’s failure, although the rain and storm kept its location a secret.

  Charles shook his head, wondering how many men had already died this day.

  He wiped his eyes and resumed looking for…

  “Infantry to front, 11 o’clock, Pats, hit the bastards quick!”

  The turret whirred to the left but the rocket was already in the air.

  The Soviet version of the panzerschreck was every bit as deadly as its German forebear, but only if it hit.

  The rocket sped past as the main gun flew back on its trunnions once more, Patterson electing to put a canister shell on the target instead of using the coaxial.

  The three-man crew and their weapon were utterly destroyed, the heavy ball bearings wiping through man and metal without feeling any resistance.

  Even through the rain, it was an awful sight.

  “Fucking hell! I mean… fucking hell!”

  Wild had his head out the hull hatch and had the closest view of the carnage created by the canister shell.

  He dropped back in out of the rain and added the contents of his stomach to that of his bladder.

  Silverside, the only man who had not seen the after-effects of the canister shell, went to lighten the obvious tension.

  “’Ere Sarnt-Major… seeing as wee’m unable to keep a tank for more’n one bleedin’ punch-up nowadays… do yer think if this one’s totally fucked, we may not get another fucker, and they’ll have to se
nd us home?”

  Charles laughed without too much humour and stuck his head back out of the cupola, announcing his views into the intercom.

  “Buggered tank or no, the Gods of War ain’t finished with us yet… not by a long chalk, Beefy.”

  As if by reply, the Gods of War decided to redouble their efforts at creating the perfect thunderstorm, as the lightning and rain took over their every sense.

  1559 hrs, Sunday, 28th July 1946, Friedensstrasse, Spornitz, Germany.

  Less than an hour had passed, but much had changed for both sides.

  Lieutenant Colonel Sarkashian was part apoplectic with rage, part stoical in the face of the inevitable.

  His driver had received both barrels for crashing into a friendly tank, despite the fact that he had been stationary at the time, and the other tank had cornered at the highest possible speed.

  Under a tarpaulin, Sarkashian knelt down at the side of his command tank with his 2IC and examined a damp map.

  “Vadim, we’re fighting here, but the situation is unclear.”

  He circled Dütschow, where his lead elements had been stopped by another British tank force arriving on trailers. Information had stopped flowing from the commander some while ago, and Sarkashian had sent out reconnaissance teams to establish what was going on.

  They had yet to report back.

  “Behind us, the British have withdrawn into the area south of Neu Matzlow and our boys cannot shift them back further.”

  Guards Major Vadim Rozhinsky nodded, seemingly more concerned with keeping his cigarette dry than contributing to the discussion.

  However, looks were deceiving, and he tapped the map with a decided flourish.

  “That may be our opportunity then, Comrade PodPolkovnik. We’re already around them. Perhaps we should strike into their flank up this road.” He screwed up his eyes to better make out the detail, “…Route 59 will take us further behind them, and then turn right onto Route 9 and we have them by the balls.”

  “Maybe, maybe not, Vadim. I have no knowledge of what is here… at Matzlow… and the units I sent out to scout our left flank have not reported in.”

  Rozhinsky understood the dilemma and put it into words.

  “So, if you advance to isolate the British here, you risk exposing the flank to whatever may be here, or whatever defenders the enemy has in Matzlow… and there has to be something there, yes?”

  Sarkashian nodded.

  “Also, the situation in Dutschow is unclear, and we may have an enemy mobile force to our rear?”

  Sarkashian took a long drag on his cigarette, trying to see a solution.

  “The solution seems clear to me, Comrade PodPolkovnik.”

  “Enlighten me, Comrade Mayor.”

  “We cannot advance at this time, for fear of losing everything we have already paid for with the blood of our soldiers. Information is key here, and this fucking storm isn’t helping either side, but I think it hinders us more here, even if it is keeping their fucking aircraft off us for the moment.”

  Rozhinsky took a final puff and threw the dog end into a large puddle.

  “So I think we must send out more probes… find out what we face…”

  Sarkashian interrupted after adding his own cigarette butt to the rainwater.

  “And if we let the British force escape, when we could’ve encircled and destroyed them?”

  Rozhinsky shrugged as only the Russians can shrug.

  “Whatever you do will be criticised, Comrade PodPolkovnik… this you know. So perhaps the decision should be one that you know won’t endanger your soldiers and make sure they’re ready to fight for the Motherland on another day?”

  A heavy burst of rain made conversation momentarily impossible, as the tarpaulin resounded to the constant strikes of heavy rainfall.

  It gave Sarkashian time to think.

  He found many reasons to support his decision.

  “We will stop here until I get better information as to what is to my flank and ahead. This will also enable us to restock our fuels and ammunition… and for our artillery to reorganise itself.”

  Sarkashian was still smarting from the loss of his valuable artillery reserve, a major contributing factor to his perception that his attack had, thus far, failed to properly progress.

  The thunder was supplemented by a growing Allied artillery barrage, fired blind at likely areas of concentration or routes of advance.

  A drenched signals officer slipped under the tarpaulin.

  “Comrade PodPolkovnik. Comrade General Golov on the radio, demanding a situation report on the attack’s progress.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Sarkashian shared a silent look with his 2IC.

  “Relay my orders to all units, Vadim. Send out more patrols… get me information that I can use to make a better plan. I’ll speak to Golov. He’ll understand.”

  They shared a quick salute and went their separate ways.

  As it happened, Golov was not at all understanding, but the advance had stalled for a number of reasons and, eventually, the plan was abandoned as Allied reinforcements arrived, all set against the back drop of one of the worst European storms in living memory.

  By the time that night arrived, it had not yet abated, and kept many a soldier awake into the small hours.

  One soldier who managed to find the solace of sleep was rudely awakened by his commanding officer, who produced a priority air transport order and documentation guaranteeing two full weeks leave in Sochi, the Soviet holiday resort on the Black Sea.

  Whilst his mind was full of questions, Yuri Nazarbayev assumed it had something to do with his wife and, in any case, refused to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Within twenty minutes, he was on his way, leaving the harsh realities of war and the bloody stalemate that was Parchim-Dutschow behind him.

  0053 hrs, Monday, 29th July, 1946, Hotel National, Moscow, USSR.

  Nazarbayeva, her mind cloaked in a protective wrapping of vodka-induced carelessness, opened the curtains and sat watching the display.

  Overhead, Allied bombers plied their trade, as they visited the Soviet capital with thousands of pounds of high-explosive and incendiaries.

  Below, the anti-aircraft batteries sent shell after shell into the sky, seemingly without any reward, save that their bark boosted the resilience of the Muscovites who cowered in their cellars and shelters.

  Moscow had seen the war up close before, but of late, the Allied visits had become more numerous, and more devastating.

  Advances in radar technology meant that their cargoes could be laid more accurately, even in the darkest and cloudiest of nights, something that Soviet repair engineers understood only too well, as the factories, offices, and worker’s accommodations suffered heavily over the weeks.

  But not the Kremlin.

  The decision had been made not to target the Soviet leadership.

  Nazarbayeva’s nakedness was constantly illuminated by the flash of gun or bomb, but she swiftly concealed it as she elected to dress herself and take to the balcony, the better to see what damage was being wreaked upon her Motherland’s capital city.

  The attack abated markedly, and she went out into the cool air expecting the illuminations and firing to fall away.

  But the second wave of bombers arrived, and the battle was joined again.

  She enjoyed the cooling breeze, so took a seat and poured herself another drink.

  Poboshkin’s face flashed through her mind and she raised her tumbler to his memory.

  A flash, larger than most, caught her eye, and she was treated to the spectacle of a large burning bomber falling from the sky with all the grace of a dead pigeon.

  Instead of toasting her dead aide, she made a small gesture, offering her drink up to the men who were dead or about to die in the fiery fuselage.

  She refilled the exquisite crystal tumbler and paid tribute to Poboshkin, raising her glass to his memory before sending the fiery liquid down her throat.

  And t
hen, in turn, to each of the other members of her staff, claimed by Beria’s orders.

  She quickly tired of the display and the alcohol, and the bed drew her into its embrace… and sleep came…

  … a sleep with lost faces…

  … a sleep with vivid memories…

  … a sleep with awful demons…

  … a sleep with unexpected questions…

  0948 hrs, Monday, 29th July 1946, Vnukovo Airfield, USSR.

  The DC-4, an original USAAF VIP transport version that had been captured intact during the early stages of the new war, held twenty-two souls, not including the crew.

  Decked out as a military hospital plane, it had plied its trade without a single incident for months, despite frequently encountering the enemy aircraft that roamed deeper and more freely into the Soviet heartlands.

  Not that a single casualty had ever been carried in its comfortable interior.

  The markings remained in place purely to protect the important passengers.

  As the modern transport aircraft taxied out to start its take-off, Nazarbayev eased her damaged foot out of her boot, feeling the relief immediately, and looked around her, assessing her travelling companions.

  She recognised the sole naval officer, but wasn’t sure from where and when.

  Putting him to the back of her mind, knowing that trying to recall the man would occupy her later, she examined the others, who were mainly military men.

  Some she had exchanged nods with, acquaintances from meetings in the Kremlin and elsewhere.

  Some she had exchanged nods with, but was none the wiser as to their identity or role.

  Nazarbayeva suddenly realised that the man in front and to her right had turned round and was looking directly at her.

  “May I, Comrade Mayor General?”

  He indicated the seat directly across the aisle from her.

  “As you wish, Comrade Leytenant General.”

  The old man repositioned himself, allowing Nazarbayeva to weigh him up… his decorations… his difficulty in moving… his shortness of breath.

  He flopped into his seat and extended his hand.

  “Gurundov… Vassily Gurundov… People's Commissariat for Foreign Affairs.”