Venom Squadron

by Robert Jackson

  Yeoman dived down again to strafe two lines of trucks, then pulled up sharply to avoid colliding with another Venom that flashed across his nose. Things were becoming dangerous. He sprayed a tank with his remaining cannon shells, seeing them bounce like live coals off its heavy armour plating, then ordered his pilots back to base.

  Behind them, the desert seemed to be on fire as shattered vehicles slowly cremated in pools of their own fuel. Strangely, there had been no fire from the ground, or at least none that he had seen, and he wondered if the previous attacks had deprived the Khoratis of much of their machine-gun ammunition.

  What was certain was that although the Venoms had dealt another telling blow against Khorat’s armoured might, it was equally certain to Yeoman that the fight was by no means over. The armoured column would marshal its survivors, regroup and move forward with the relentlessness of soldier ants. At best, the Venoms had bought a couple of hours’ respite for the men on the ridge — but at least, now, it would be dawn before the battle was joined.

  Then, as he approached Faraz, Yeoman received a radio message from Operations that turned all the carefully-laid defensive plans upside down at one stroke. On the right flank of Swalwell’s SAS troops, the Muramshiris were spiking their guns and abandoning their positions. There had been no warning, no indication of the wholesale desertion.

  Apart from the small and heavily outnumbered force of British soldiers that stood astride it, the road to Faraz was wide open.

  Chapter Nine

  The first glimmer of dawn over Faraz airport revealed a scene of intense activity as toiling ground crews strove to refuel and rearm the Venoms. Yeoman, in constant radio touch with Swalwell, learned that the Khorati armour had halted in the desert two miles north of the ridge; the SAS were expecting an all-out assault at any moment, and the minute it started to develop they would need all the air cover they could get.

  The Muramshiris who had pulled back from the ridge appeared to be assembling at an army barracks to the north of Faraz. No one, least of all the Muramshiri officers who were liaising with Yeoman, had any idea what their countrymen were up to; Ibrahim Al-Saleh had taken a jeep and had driven off with two other officers to try and make contact with the deserting troops, but as they approached the barracks they had been met by a burst of machine-gun fire and had been forced to turn back.

  Al-Saleh was beside himself with anxiety and confusion. Half the Muramshiri Army seemed to be in a state of mutiny for no apparent reason, and the word was spreading among the population of Faraz, who were taking to the streets in panic. Al-Saleh tried telephoning the Sultan’s palace, and got no response.

  ‘I am going to try and get through by road,’ he told Yeoman. ‘You will understand that the Sultan’s safety is of paramount concern to me. Until I return, I am placing all Muramshir forces on the airport under your command. I shall give instructions that you are to be obeyed without question. Have no fear: the men here are loyal to me.’

  The Muramshiri troops assigned to defend the airport numbered no more than seventy; they were equipped with outdated weapons and Yeoman doubted whether they would be of much use if the airfield came under attack. Nevertheless, he thanked Al-Saleh and wished him good luck. Then he summoned the commander of a ten-man detachment of the RAF Regiment, a young pilot officer who had flown in earlier with the ground crews, and spoke briefly to him.

  ‘I want every man you can find armed and positioned wherever you think fit around the airfield perimeter,’ Yeoman said. ‘I think there’s a real danger that we might be attacked, and I don’t know which direction it might come from. There’s something bloody funny going on. The Muramshiri Army seems to have mutinied, and I can’t discount the possibility that we might have to face a threat from that direction. Block the approaches to the airfield: do everything possible to prevent any hostiles, no matter who they are, from getting through to our aircraft. You know your job; I don’t have to tell you what’s needed.’

  The young officer hurried away, looking positively eager at the prospect of some action, and within half an hour everyone who was not needed to service or fly the Venoms had been issued with arms and was digging in at strategic points around the airfield under the direction of the RAF Regiment men.

  Yeoman had decided to hold 641 Squadron on immediate readiness, and had appointed one of its flight commanders, Flight Lieutenant Don Sutherland, to lead it in the absence of the injured Dalton. The two of them conferred over a map in the Operations Room, Yeoman tracing the salient points with his index finger.

  ‘Here’s the key point,’ he said. ‘The Khoratis are still going to have to advance by way of this narrow defile, running through the ridge here; the SAS are in position on both sides, but without the right kind of weapons they haven’t a hope in hell of stopping the tanks. So we’ll have to do the job for them, leaving them with only the infantry to cope with.’ He tapped the map with his finger-tip.

  ‘Now, the only way we can do it is to wait until the Khorati tanks are in the bottleneck. From their present position, there won’t be time to attack them in the desert with rockets; some of them would be bound to get through. That’s why I have ordered the Venoms to be loaded with 500-pound bombs. If we can wipe out the leading tanks inside the defile, the rest will pile up behind them; they’ll be coming on with a fair degree of momentum, and won’t have much chance of manoeuvring. Then we can really get at ’em. We’ll have to be very, very careful, though, because our target will not be far from the SAS positions. There’ll be no room for errors. Do you think you can handle it?’

  Sutherland smiled. ‘Yes sir. Don’t worry. We’ll do the job all right. But won’t you be leading?’

  Yeoman shook his head. ‘No, I’ve a feeling I’m going to be needed here. If you have problems, whistle and I’ll get 359 off to your assistance. If we can hold the Khoratis for another day, we should be okay. I still haven’t had anything specific from HQ, but our reinforcements should be starting to arrive soon. They’d better. Our fuel and ammunition will soon be running out. God knows what will happen then.’

  *

  Several miles to the south, Colonel Ibrahim Al-Saleh brought his jeep to a halt in front of the massive main gate that led to the inner sanctum of the Sultan’s palace. It was open and unguarded, the first time it had been so in Al-Saleh’s experience. He turned to the lieutenant who sat beside him, and a look of apprehension passed between them. Then, putting the vehicle into gear again, he drove slowly forward through the entrance.

  The courtyard beyond was completely deserted, apart from a pair of lizards that clung to the steps leading up to the entrance. They lay motionless in a shaft of early sunlight that filtered through a window in the stone wall of the fortress, awaiting the flies that would arrive with the morning heat.

  Al-Saleh unfastened the flap of his holster and got out of the jeep, telling the lieutenant to stay where he was and to leave the engine running. He walked slowly up the steps, his footfalls sending the lizards scurrying away, and passed into the shadow of the interior. The big reception room was empty; there was no sign of any servants. He stood for a moment, his head turning this way and that, at a loss what to do and where to go. Throughout his career, Al-Saleh had never been in any part of the palace other than this room, and a smaller one adjoining it which the Sultan sometimes used for conferences and ministerial meetings.

  It was from that direction, now, that Al-Saleh heard the muted murmur of voices. He walked hesitantly towards the door through which the sound came, then paused and smiled, for he caught a musical laugh that was unmistakably the Sultan’s. All must surely be well, he thought, as he went forward and tapped on the door.

  The hum of voices ceased. There was a moment of silence, and then someone called out ‘Enter!’

  Al-Saleh opened the door and paused on the threshold, peering into the room. Several men were grouped around a table, studying a map. One of them was a civilian, a European with closely-cropped fair hair; two more were Muramshiri infant
ry officers, men noted more for their corrupt lifestyle than their military prowess; and the fourth was the Sultan. He wore the uniform of a brigadier-general, and Al-Saleh realized with a sudden shock that this was the first time he had seen his ruler wearing anything other than civilian clothing. He noted, too, with a slight twinge of distaste, that the uniform was adorned with medals the Sultan’s father had worn. Then he chided himself mentally, telling himself that it was the right of a royal son to wear the decorations of a royal father.

  ‘My dear Ibrahim,’ the Sultan said before Al-Saleh could speak, ‘I wondered how long it would be before you showed your face. You are just in time to take part in the making of history.’

  Al-Saleh looked at the Sultan in perplexity. ‘Highness,’ he stammered, ‘forgive me … I do not understand. Where is the Sultan’s Guard? What is happening? Is Your Highness aware of the latest situation north of Faraz?’

  The Sultan laughed. ‘Oh, yes, Ibrahim, I am very well aware of it. Our troops withdrew from the ridge on my orders. Soon, there will be fighting in the streets of Faraz itself.’ He perched himself on the edge of the table and stretched out a hand towards the civilian — who, Al-Saleh learned a moment later, was far from being what he seemed.

  ‘I am forgetting my manners, Ibrahim,’ the Sultan said. ‘May I introduce Colonel Nikolai Soropkin, of the 57th Soviet Infantry Regiment.’

  Al-Saleh stood there dumbly, not comprehending anything, making no move. The Sultan laughed again at his obvious discomfort and pointed towards the window, where powerful binoculars stood on a tripod.

  ‘Take a look through those glasses, Ibrahim, and tell me what you see.’ The Sultan’s voice had a mocking ring in it. Al-Saleh crossed the room, conscious of the others’ eyes upon him, and bent down slightly to peer through the eye-pieces of the binoculars. Beyond the fortress walls, the horizon of the Gulf swam into hazy focus. Al-Saleh narrowed his eyes, for the reflected glare of the rising sun on the sea was fierce.

  ‘Come on, Ibrahim,’ the Sultan prompted. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘I see two ships, Highness, far away, hull-down on the horizon. They are big ships, freighters I think, but it’s hard to tell, for I can only see their masts and superstructure.’

  ‘They are indeed freighters, Ibrahim,’ the Sultan agreed, ‘although troopships would perhaps be a more apt description. On board those vessels are two thousand Russian soldiers, men of Colonel Soropkin’s regiment. Very soon, on my signal, they will land in Muramshir for the purpose of restoring order in my troubled country.’

  Al-Saleh stood upright and faced his ruler with incredulity written all over his face. ‘Russian troops in Muramshir? Highness, I must protest! You must be aware of what happens when the Soviet Union obtains a foothold in someone else’s territory. Our unhappy country is fighting for its very survival! I urge you to cast aside these notions and rally your troops. Call together your guard. They will fight like lions — ’

  The Sultan held up his hand imperiously, and Al-Saleh fell silent.

  ‘The Guard no longer exists,’ the Sultan told him. ‘It has been disbanded on my orders, and the men have gone home. They obeyed me without question, as is their tradition. There will be no opposition to my plans.’

  He looked at Al-Saleh coolly for a moment, then went on: ‘Ibrahim, you are a fine soldier, but a fool.’ The insult struck into the colonel’s heart like the blade of a dagger. ‘Have you never, for a single moment, suspected my intention? Have you never guessed where my political loyalties lay?’ He shook his head pityingly. ‘No, I can see that you have not. Well, then, I am a fair man, so I shall tell you.’

  He rose from his sitting position on the table and stood upright, his hands behind his back. There was nothing foppish about his demeanour; Al-Saleh slowly began to realize that here, standing before him, was a man of steel, a man who had deliberately hidden his true qualities for years. He was indeed his father’s son, although his next words would have caused the shade of his father to weep bitter tears.

  ‘Ibrahim, my years in Europe were more than just a scholarly education for me. I embraced, at first, the British way of life, and respected it for what it had to offer; but I knew at the same time that it could offer nothing for my people. The British code is based on decency, and justice, and the right of every man to better himself through his own ability, but such a code could never work in Muramshir, in this feudal society of ours. In five hundred years, perhaps, but not now.’

  He hesitated, as though gathering his thoughts, and then continued: ‘What Muramshir needs is a sudden and dramatic shock. It needs a system that will strip away the trappings of Islam, a system that will bring the whole of its people down to one basic level. Then, with new education, new technology, we can start to build again. We can short-circuit evolution here by a thousand years.’

  ‘Or bring about our destruction,’ Al-Saleh said quietly. He felt sick. All the values he had held dear over a lifetime, all the pride of his family’s loyalty to the Sultans of Muramshir, was being stripped away in a few sentences. ‘You are a communist.’ It was a statement, rather than a question.

  ‘I have been a communist for many years,’ the Sultan told him. ‘Communism is our salvation. There is no other way.’

  ‘And what part will you play in this communist state that you desire to bring about?’

  ‘I shall be its leader. I shall elevate our people to their proper place in the modern world.’ The Sultan spread his hands wide. ‘Ibrahim, consider this. The Soviet Union will provide us with schools, and hospitals, and arms. They ask nothing in return except for the right to set up a military base or two on our territory, just as they have done in Khorat. And there is more.’ Al-Saleh waited, noting with dismay the fanatical gleam in the Sultan’s eyes. ‘This war between Khorat and Muramshir is the best thing that could have happened. It will bring about General Orabi’s downfall, and when that happens our Soviet friends have promised that they will do all they can to create a single state out of our two nations, with myself as its leader.’

  ‘You have forgotten one thing,’ Al-Saleh pointed out desperately. ‘There are those of us who will fight to retain Muram-shir’s independence, with the help of the British forces at Faraz. They were invited here by your own Council of Ministers. Can you go against their wishes?’

  The Sultan gave a tigerish smile. ‘There is no longer a Council of Ministers, Ibrahim. They are in protective custody. And the British forces at Faraz will soon be destroyed by units of the Muramshiri Army who are loyal to me, and to my friends here.’ Al-Saleh looked at the two Muramshiri officers with contempt. ‘Loyal servants of Muramshir,’ he spat. ‘One who is a molester of small boys, and another who murdered his own father for personal gain. Only a blind and foolish man would tolerate such allies.’

  The two officers flinched, and one of them placed his hand on the butt of the pistol at his belt. The Sultan reached out and touched his arm, restraining him.

  ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Do we not all have the interests of Muramshir at heart? Ibrahim, we have been friends in the past, have we not? I need you. Do not desert me now. Stand by my side until I see this through.’

  Al-Saleh’s response was blunt and brutal. ‘I would sooner make love to a scorpion.’

  ‘That is your final word?’

  ‘That is my final word, except for one. I no longer acknowledge a Sultan in Muramshir.’

  The Sultan inclined his head briefly. ‘So be it. Go, then. We shall not meet again.’

  Al-Saleh turned on his heel and strode from the room, thankful that his back was turned to the Sultan. He had no desire for the man he had loved and respected above all others, and who he now despised, to witness the tears that were starting from his eyes.

  He never heard the shot that felled him. He was conscious only of a terrific blow high up in his back, on the right-hand side, and a force that propelled him through the door of the reception room and out into the morning sunlight. He reached out his arms as the steps ro
se up to meet him, felt a jarring pain as a wrist snapped.

  Sitting in the jeep, the young lieutenant jerked out of a reverie in time to see Al-Saleh pitch headlong down the palace steps. Without pausing to wonder what had happened, he jumped from the vehicle and ran over to where his superior lay, moaning softly, and only then did he see the spreading patch of blood on the back of the colonel’s khaki tunic.

  As he bent over Al-Saleh, he heard the sound of running feet, and looked up. A Muramshiri army major, a man hardly known to him, stood in the shadows of the palace doorway. Slowly, the man raised a pistol, and the expression on his face left the young officer in no doubt as to his intentions.

  Acting instinctively, the lieutenant rolled to one side, dragging his own revolver from its holster as he did so. He thumbed off the safety-catch, rose to a kneeling position and snapped off two rapid shots at the man in the doorway. There was a cry of pain, and the major dropped out of sight.

  Quickly, the lieutenant caught up Al-Saleh’s body and dragged it over to the jeep. The colonel moaned again as he was dumped unceremoniously into the passenger seat; at least he was still alive. That thought was uppermost in the lieutenant’s mind as he accelerated away through the main gate, pursued by a fusillade of shots. A bullet struck the metal side of the jeep and whined away; then the danger was past and he was out on the open road, driving faster than he had ever driven before.

  Back in the palace, the major staggered back to the conference room, grey-faced and clutching a shattered arm, stammering apologies for the fact that Al-Saleh had got away. The Sultan shrugged.

  ‘No matter. He can not alter the course of our plans now.’

  He stood looking out of the window for a moment, then bent to look through the binoculars. The dark outlines of the freighters were still there, shimmering slightly in the morning haze.

  It was perhaps fortunate for the Sultan’s peace of mind that his field of view on the right was obscured by the fortress wall. Had he been able to scan the horizon in that direction, he would have seen the sleek shapes of two destroyers, creaming through the sea on a course that would take them directly across the freighters’ bows. And even at this distance, the powerful binoculars would have been able to pick out the White Ensign that fluttered proudly over the stern of each warship.