The Chief got to the helicopter and he could see that it was already set up with a long range reserve fuel tank, and two air-to air weapons pods on the short outer pylons. The KA-40 was much bigger than its younger brother, the old KA-27 naval helicopter that had been used for so many years. It could be rigged out for ASW combat with torpedoes and sonar buoys, and also had the ability to mount short range air-to-air missile pods. There it was, the fat blue pig, as Orlov often referred to the KA-40 with its pale blue paint scheme. It wasn’t the sleek fighting airframe that was used on the faster KA-50/52 series helos, but it had twice the range, 1200 kilometers with those extra fuel stores, and it was a very capable platform for many roles: transport, search and rescue, AEW, ASW and more. The Chief wasted little time getting to the cables and configuring the infrared sensor suite for the unit hookups.
Troyak came over to check on things a minute later, frowning at the medusa cable clutter and shaking his head. “Six cables for one damn radar panel?”
“And two more for infrared,” said Orlov with a grin, glad that he could lord it over Troyak now, as he could install an Oko panel in his sleep, while the gritty Sergeant did not have the slightest idea what he was doing. The Chief fussed and cursed with the last cable, remembering he had to attach a special data feed link under the main cabin panels as a last step.
“What’s going on, Troyak. Why the radar?”
“Mission.” The Sergeant was characteristically curt. He had wasted too many words that morning trying to get that panel mounted, and was just glad the job was finally done.
“Desert safari!” said Zykov as he came up with a grin, his short cropped blonde hair soon disappearing under his beret. “We have a search and rescue operation, or so I hear.”
“To the desert? What the fuck are we doing on this ship? First we go floating off in that damn zeppelin, now it’s Lawrence of Arabia.”
“Yes? Well we need a sensor suite operator. You want the job, Orlov?” Zykov winked at Troyak. He was joking, but Orlov obviously took him seriously. He thought for two seconds, realizing all he would be doing here is wandering about with nothing to do, looking at reports on stupid clip boards, nodding his head when a mishman requested shift leave, rousting the matoc out of their bunks for the next shift. He could leave that crap to the section Chiefs and have some real adventure here. In fact, even though he deprecated the zeppelin mission, he had been thrilled to get off the ship, and the ride he had taken in the sub-cloud car was more fun than anything he had done since he decided to jump ship, long ago, or so it seemed now. Here was another opportunity to get out into the world and do something different, and he didn’t think long.
“Sensor man? Sure! I can read these systems easily enough. It’s simple. One small screen, two digital readouts—not like that stuff on the bridge Rodenko fusses over.”
“I was only kidding, Chief,” said Zykov.
“Who’s kidding? You want a good man on the radar? I can take that watch. It will give me a chance to keep an eye on you two bilge rats and make sure the job gets done, eh? Where we going?”
Troyak gave Zykov a hard nudge in the ribs. “Nobody knows yet,” he said. “And look, we can only take ten men, so—”
Orlov was quick enough to see that Troyak was trying to give him the brush off, but at that moment a most unusual man came into the helo bay with Fedorov, and the distraction was just what he needed to worm his way aboard the KA-40.
Chapter 23
At that moment Fedorov came up, talking with a heavy set, middle aged man in an odd looking uniform, with a black fleece beret on his otherwise balding head. He wore baggy battle dress trousers with wide thigh pockets, a thick canvass belt, and black dragoon ammo boots. Orlov caught a flash of silver on his cap, where an odd looking badge was affixed. It looked like a complex silver globe mounted on a stand, but it was actually an astrolabe, the ancient instrument used for navigation that Chaucer wrote about as early as 1391 in his treatise on the subject. Ancient mariners would use it ‘to know justly the four quarters of the world, as East, West, North, and South.’
“There you are, Sergeant,” said Fedorov. “Allow me to introduce a most remarkable man here. This is Major Vladimir Peniakoff.”
In spite of his Russian name, the man was actually a Belgian, born of Russian parents in 1897, which made him nearly 44 years old at that time. His unit was set up in Cairo in 1942 as Fedorov had learned in his research. Yet here he was, already thick as thieves with Wavell, who had a penchant for special operations types, and seemed to find this man very useful.
Fedorov learned that “Popski,” as Peniakoff was called, would associate with the famous John “Shan” Hackett, who would fight in Syria, North Africa, and later raise and command the British 4th Parachute Brigade for the big operation at Arnhem that would one day be called “Market-Garden.” It was Hackett who would be instrumental in the formation of the special unit designated Number 1 Demolition Squadron, PPA, and that last bit would stand for “Popski’s Private Army.” It served well as a long range reconnaissance and raiding group behind enemy lines in Libya, and though it was not presently functioning in that role, Wavell had encouraged Popski to “get some sand on his boots” and see what was happening in the lower desert.
While much of the real military action would be anchored to the main coastal road, both sides were always sending out long range patrols to scout the endless desert to the south. Some ranged as far as Bayhira and Fafra Oasis, and the Italians had a small force still garrisoning the oasis at Giarabub northwest of Siwa. The British had scouted Siwa itself, and Popski already had men there with the Berber tribesmen, finding them useful sources of information on the local desert conditions, hazards, and the activities of enemy troops in the region. Wavell had suggested Siwa as the natural place to take O’Connor if they could possibly find his downed plane. It was well watered, with stores of fuel, ammunition and food that were kept there for use by the British raiders.
Whether he ever spoke Russian in the world Fedorov came from was a moot point now, for Popski spoke it fluently in this world, as he also spoke Arabic and English, and he was apparently getting an early start on his career as a special forces raider in the Long Range Desert Group for Wavell in this retelling of his colorful tale.
He had come to Egypt in 1924 to operate a sugar mill, and there he learned to pilot a plane and navigate the Nile on his boat, named the Astrolabe. He also acquired an old Model-A Ford, which he called his ‘Pisspot,’ and he used it to learn to navigate in the desert with nothing more than a sun compass, a good timepiece, and the stars. When his marriage to an Egyptian born Belgian woman finally faltered at the outbreak of the war, Popski was a bit of a derelict for a time. The marriage broke up back in England, his two daughters shipped overseas to South Africa, and he walked into the Bank of England one day and deposited nearly every shilling to his name, but not to his account. It was a gift to the Crown.
He was a man burning his bridges after that, and like so many other lost souls, he immediately thought to sign up with the military. The R.A.F. and Royal Navy would have nothing to do with him at this age, even though he had learned to pilot aircraft. So he signed on with the Army, and soon found himself in Egypt again. Frequenting the bars in Cairo, he heard a great deal in the seedy warrens of that place, and he began to pass information to the British on things the Italian Army was up to in the desert, hoping to prove himself useful.
Aging for any real military work, Peniakoff bent the ear of a medical officer after he joined the British Army in Cairo. He convinced the man to certify him as fit for duty, in A1 condition, even though he had a gimpy leg that often bothered him on his long desert hikes. He eventually ended up in the 3rd Battalion of the Libyan Arab Force (L.A.F.) where he got his promotion to Major, though he soon realized the L.A.F. wasn’t destined to do much of anything in the war. So he thought to try a foray behind enemy lines to gather intelligence or blow up a supply depot or two, and this gave him his start in the special oper
ations he would become famous for.
It was there that he met up with Major Jock Cameron, who would become his steady right hand man and companion on many raids. It was there also, that he assumed the nickname history would know him by, Popski. It was actually the name of a dog, the sidekick of a Russian character in an old comic strip, and his mates found it easier to code for signals transmission than the name Peniakoff.
Fate had an odd way of weaving the fortunes of all these men together that day. Peniakoff would one day come to know and operate with another British commando of some note, Lieutenant Colonel John Haselden, the very same man that had led the small raid to find and capture Chief Orlov on the shores of the Caspian Sea. He would find himself mixed up in another rescue operation, the elaborate raid that had been planned by Fedorov using the Anatoly Alexandrov, and Troyak’s dogged defense against the encroaching German Panzer troops as they desperately searched for Orlov. And here was the burly, irascible Chief yet again, right in the thick of things, as if some inexorable gravity was gathering all these souls into the same well of fate and time.
“The British call him Popski,” said Fedorov, and he made the introductions, surprised to see Orlov inside the KA-40, as he had not selected him for this mission.
Troyak smiled at the name, but his discerning eye saw more in this man than he seemed on the surface. There was a weathered texture on the man, the product of long days and nights in the desert, and his features were well sculpted by time for his age, his face browned by the sun. Yet his eyes held a warmth that seemed very engaging when he looked at you, a softer soul behind that wrinkled face. He seemed to be taking everything in, the men, their equipment, the activity in the helo bay, and of course, the KA-40 where it sat beneath those long, drooping counter rotating props. There was just a touch of amazement in his expression, though he said nothing. Simply offering a firm handshake. Then Fedorov briefed them on the mission.
“A plane carrying an important British General has gone down in the desert—General O’Connor. We have every reason to believe that he has survived the crash landing, and that the Italians might be out looking for the crash site even as we speak. Our mission is to locate the plane and find this man. He must not be captured. In ten minutes I want to be airborne in that helicopter with this man here, Sergeant Troyak, and a select squad of his choosing.”
“And what about me,” said Orlov from the back of the helo where he was still fussing with the Oko panel cables. “Someone has to sort out this mess on the Oko panel. I’ve only just got the damn thing cabled. We’ll need to test it once we get airborne and then initialize the infrared module.”
“You know this equipment, Orlov?”
“Sure, it’s the one thing I studied well enough to actually learn in the Tech school. Then I decided it was easier to just become Chief of Operations.”
The Marines laughed at this, and Fedorov smiled.
“Besides,” said Orlov. “I can fly this thing too. An extra pilot is always handy. Yes?”
Fedorov had read Orlov’s report from the Zeppelin mission, and he had been pleased with the results. Yes, another man who could pilot the KA-40 would be a good idea, so why not, he thought.
“Very well, I’ll clear it with Admiral Volsky. It’s one thing to have the ship’s Captain on an away team. The Admiral can fill my shoes easily enough, but who’s going to knock heads together if you come along, Chief?”
It was soon decided that Orlov could be spared, and so the team was set and the men were mounting up minutes later. The quiet, pudgy man with the black beret entered the main cabin with the pilot and co-pilot in the front seats; Orlov and Fedorov were on the three seats just behind them. Troyak selected nine other Marines for the security detail, which made for fifteen passengers. Much bigger than the older KA-27, this helo could carry up to 24 men in total, though this was the typical mission load. Troyak’s squad was “heavy” this time, as they did not know what sort of opposition they might encounter on the ground. The men had assault rifles, two machine guns, a mortar, grenade launcher and a Ilga hand held SAM. Two men carried lighter RPGs instead of the heavier anti-armor weapons they had taken to Siberia, but they were more than capable of defeating any armor they might encounter. Fedorov explained that if they did encounter anything, there would be no real armor to speak of at this time in the war, and the light shoulder fired RPG-30 could blast through 600mm of armor with its shaped tandem charge.
Popski took a keen interest in the weapons the Marines were carrying, particularly the machine guns, which he eyed with a look approaching envy on his face.
“That looks to be one fine weapon there,” he said, pointing at Zykov’s assault rifle, which gave the corporal just the perfect opportunity to expound on its virtues.
“Bizon-2 SMG,” he said handing the gun to Popski. “High impulse Makarov rounds in a helical sixty-four round magazine—”
“Very good in a firefight,” Troyak had heard the litany many times before, and he finished it off for Zykov. “Particularly at close quarters.”
Yet Zykov was not deterred. He could see the light in Popski’s eyes as he looked at the machine guns, which were really the only weapons he ever respected in the work he did in the desert. “That one there is good for ranged suppressive fire—Pecheneg Bullpup 7.62mm.”
“Yes? And what about the rest? What’s that slung off the back of that pack?”
“Auto-grenade launcher. Great area denial weapon. It’ll pop off these little cherries thirty at a time.” He held up a small grenade, a wry grin on his face. He was obviously enjoying his little session with the visitor, a bit smug in his thinking that no weapon of this era could ever match his own.
As they took off, Popski smiled with delight. “Amazing,” he said to Fedorov. “Where can I get one of these? It beats my old Pisspot Model-A for getting around, and then some.”
“Where are we headed?” Orlov looked to the ex-navigator as the helo rose from Kirov’s aft flight deck and angled away in a heavy wash of churning rotors.
“South,” said Fedorov quietly. “South into the greatest desert on earth, the Egyptian Sahara. You’ll see things there that we’d never find in Mother Russia,” he said. “And this man Popski is our expert guide.”
At this Popski doffed his cap with a smile. Now it was his time to deliver a little lecture. “Scorpions and snakes are the least of it, sun and sand the worst you’ll ever find. The Western Desert is the most dangerous place on this earth, riddled with tombs and ancient grave sites, and haunted by the souls of the dead since the time of the Pharos, and ages past.”
“And will we get to ride a camel?” Orlov gave him a grin.
“Not likely,” said Popski, “but I’ve a squadron of nice rugged jeeps at Siwa if we need to move on the ground, all rigged out with some good 50-caliber machine guns. There’s also a detachment of the Aussie 6th Divisional Cavalry out here watching Giarabub, and they could be handy in a pinch if we need some help. We’ll be right on the edge of the real desert, the deep desert, the Great Sand Sea. Dunes there get to be a thousand feet high, star dunes, rumbling dunes, wind and sand storms that will take the skin right off your face if you don’t have protection.” He gestured to the yellow dyed cloth that he wore around his neck. “Not for decoration mates,” he said, his roots as a long time Anglophile steeped in British culture very evident, even though he was speaking Russian and he used the word ‘comrades’ in that language.
“Egyptians call the Western Desert the ‘Land of the Dead,’ the gateway to the underworld, and most anything you run across built by human hands out there is a temple, to some evil god, a cemetery or a tomb. Think of it as a border zone, a hot desert twilight zone between this world and the next, and believe me, many a man has slipped across that frontier, never to be seen again. You’ll need to keep your wits about you out there, and you’ll need good equipment too.”
He eyed the satchels and backpacks the men had assembled, and the arsenal of weapons. “And you’ll need more
than guns and ammunition to survive out here. The heat can be unbearable, unless you have a good source of water. Even the hills are scorched black in places, as if burned by some great fire long ago. The only humans you’ll find where we’re headed will be black clad Berbers, drifting about the landscape like ghouls, and looking for trouble. Some say they’re all in the service of demons, but I’ve managed to persuade a few to work for me instead. They aren’t much good at night, however. Berbers get spooked at night. They say the witches come, digging up the graves of the newly buried dead, and there’s plenty of them in that damn desert. Dig them up they will, and they’ll tear the bodies right apart, making off with a fellow’s head dangling from their mouth like a rabid dog. That’s just Berber talk, mind you, but no sir, you don’t want to get lost out here unless you know what you’re about. God help this General O’Connor if he’s wandered away from his aircraft, and God help him even more if he hasn’t. It will attract Italian patrols like flies on shit.”
All the men were listening, but no one said anything.
Chapter 24
When Rommel moved east after his lightning swift advance from Agheila, Wavell had to make the uncomfortable decision to leave one of his best divisions behind, the Australian 6th. He had meant to recall it to Alexandria for shipment to Greece, but O’Connor had convinced him that replacing it with the 9th Division, already in the Nile Delta, would be a waste of time and much needed fuel. So the 6th stayed on the line, with a Brigade at Benghazi and to others reorganizing as motorized units by trying to get as many captured Italian trucks as possible in good working order.
Two brigades of the division had been part of O’Connor’s column pointed west to Sirte when Rommel struck, and the instant the General realized what was happening, he had given orders for a withdrawal to Tobruk. Thanks to those Italian trucks, the 16th and 17th Brigades made the long journey back across the thin desert tracks to reach the fortress safely. The 19th Brigade had been at Benghazi, and though it had better roads through the mountainous Jebel country, it had to go on foot, barely managing to retreat through Derna to Tobruk before the Axis columns could cut it off. It joined the other two brigades and took up defensive positions in Tobruk, only to learn that Wavell was ordering a further withdrawal to Bardia and the Egyptian border—but the 6th Division would not be moving. Instead they would be assigned to hold out at Tobruk for as long as possible, supplied by sea, and to be evacuated by that route should their position become untenable.
Three Kings (Kirov Series) Page 20
