Hammer of God (Kirov Series Book 14) (16 page)

Resham
was up, his back to the whitewashed masonry wall by the sun bleached wood door.
Then in a sudden motion he shouldered through the barrier, startling the two
men inside who had been drinking liquor from small shot glasses. It was their
last drink, one man caught with the glass poised at his lips when Resham became
death in the night, his cold blade ending the little party in a blur of motion
and violence.

The
farm secured, Havildar Druna Rai got his squad positioned at a low hedge
bordering the melon grove behind the farm house, and signaled his company
Subedar. He knew that two other squads were moving on his right, the dark
shadows of war creeping slowly forward over the landscape. Beyond this was a
high, bare hill that had been scouted just after dark to eliminate a mortar
team there. That flank secure, the attack was ready to move out in force. Druna
Rai’s platoon was coming in close to the road, but the main effort would be beyond
that hill on the right, where the other two platoons would flank the town,
approaching to either side of a secondary road. It was the Sergeant’s job to
open the attack and fix the enemy defense on his platoon. Behind his men, on
the main road, a column of Scimitar scout tanks waited in reserve.

At
19:00 the company weapons teams opened the action up with their mortar fire,
the rounds whistling in and exploding loudly as Druna Rai hastened his squad
forward. They rushed past a water cairn, across an open field into another
scraggly orchard that washed against a huddle of low stone buildings by the
thin dirt track. Then the harsh rattle of a BAR chopped out a challenge, and
they heard the high whistles of the enemy being called to arms. Legionnaires
seized their rifles, down from slung hammocks where they had just settled in
for the night, ready to join the defense. A French Sergeant cuffed one man who
was just a little too slow on the back of the head, but the soldier needed no
encouragement. It was time to fight.

A
squad of Gurkhas on Druna Rai’s left had broken into a long, blue roofed barn
at the edge of a flat empty field of bare earth. The French were on the other side,
and that squad opened a hot firefight, their assault rifles spraying the white
stucco walls and being answered by BARs and bolt action rifle fire. But the
Gurkhas had no intention of simply slugging it out against these prepared
positions. Druna Rai had two weapon’s teams with the short barreled AT4 84mm
light anti-tank weapon, which was also a perfect assault tool against a
fortified position. It was a shoulder fired, recoilless weapon that could be
fired by a single man, and his teams quickly blasted the white stucco walls
that protected the French troops, the rounds penetrating easily to kill most
every man within the small interior rooms.

The
Gurkhas moved again, fire teams laying down suppressive fire in the event any
of the enemy survived the shock of the AT4s. The troops were up at the run,
across the bare field and over the position in a few seconds. They were
entering the outlying blocks of the town, where similar houses sat in rows of
three or five buildings between the gully track and the main road. In crisp
urban fighting, they ruthlessly cleared the block, grenades taking out another
French BAR team there. Another barren field was the real obstacle, and a French
37mm AT gun had been sited to cover the road over that good field of fire,
protected by two machineguns that were now raking the positions the Gurkhas had
just stormed.

It
was time for the Scimitars.

The
main road had been cleared of enfilading enemy to that point, and Havildar
Druna Rai called back to the British troopers in the Scimitar troop under
Lieutenant Miller. He tapped the turret top with his gloved knuckle, two quick
knocks to indicate his intent, then slipped down through the open hatch,
sealing it behind him. The AT4 fire teams had one more job to do before he got
there. That 37mm French AT gun had blasted one of the buildings taken by the
Gurkhas, putting one man down with a shrapnel wound. The AT4 answered and
silenced the gun position with a shuddering explosion. The growl of the light
tanks on the main road was soon heard, the first tank halting right at the edge
of the buildings occupied by the Gurkhas. It soon put its 37mm autocannon to
work on those two French MG positions, and the Gurkhas moved forward over the
open field, rushing the position as they now began to work their way into the
center of the town.

But
a squad of Legionnaires had been lying low in a line of huts to the far right
of Druna Rai’s audacious advance. Now they opened fire with their rifles, and a
single BAR. The Sergeant could hear the sound of assault rifles off to the
right, and knew the main attack was going in on that flank now. He did not want
to waste time here, and ordered his men to suppress the enemy fire.

“Full
automatic!” he shouted, and the assault rifles of his ten man squad put out
withering fire on the enemy positions. Then, man by man, the Gurkha advance
continued. When the firefight subsided briefly the Sergeant listened in the
quiet and suddenly heard the rattle of enemy tank treads ahead.

The
French were bringing up their Renault 35s.

Part VI

Catch
22

“Destiny
is a good thing to accept when it's going your way. When it isn't, don't call
it destiny; call it injustice, treachery, or simple bad luck… There was only
one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's
safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a
rational mind.”
―
Joseph Heller:
Catch 22

Chapter 16

John
Bagot Glubb had “gone
Arab” long ago, another desert loving Englishman like the fabled Lawrence of
Arabia, who went off to the desert as a young man to seek his fame, if not his
fortune. He soon fell in with General Frederick Peake, then known as Peake Pasha,
and the founder of the Arab Legion. A fluent speaker of Arabic, and well
schooled in the ways of both the desert and the Bedouin tribes that inhabited
the place, Glubb proved most useful. He learned everything he knew the hard
way, in the desert itself, where he had once taken a 500 mile camel ride with
the tribes. Now he adopted their ways, earning their growing respect as he did
so, a leader from the British Empire that was embraced as one of their own.

To look at him one would not
think the man capable of the things history recorded in his name. He was a diminutive,
almost impish figure, with a round bulbous nose, deep blue eyes, sandy hair and
ruddy complexion, with a small mustache. A wisp of a smile was often on his
lips, and he listened much more than he ever spoke. The wound he had suffered
in WWI when a bullet grazed his chin gave him an odd, cheeky look, and he had a
quiet disposition that belied the inner strength of the man.

It took a strong man to lead the
Arabs, for they were a race of strong men, born to the harsh desert with the
stones in their bones, the wind in their hair and the never ending sun in their
eyes. Hard men all, they had been recruited into the legion, wearing British
uniforms, but with Arab headdress and the legion badge, of a Royal crown above
two curved scimitars. Their thick belts held a pistol on one side and a curved
dagger on the other to augment their rifle or sub-machinegun. Bandoliers of
ammunition were strung from each shoulder, the bullets jutting like sharp teeth
to complete the appearance of a determined and threatening man. How Glubb had
won their hearts is not entirely known, but they worshiped him, and would
follow him anywhere.

Once the legion rode exclusively on
swift camels, braving the sandstorms and sun to make their ceaseless patrols.
Now, with this new war in the desert, some would take to trucks and armored
cars, becoming “mechanized” as their British officers called it. They had six
locally customized armored cars, with Lewis guns, Boys AT rifles and a Vickers
machine gun. While not as colorful as the gilded saddles and colored blankets
of the Camel corps, the men still took to wearing the long robes over British
kit, and their dark hair flowed in the wind when they were on the move, which
prompted the Imperial soldiery to call them “Glubb’s Girls.”

But there was no mistaking these
soldiers for ladies when it came to a fight. They had a singular ardor for
battle, and could often be heedlessly brave, forsaking any thought of their own
personal safety in the interest of honor, and sometimes, vengeance. They were a
sharp sword that Glubb had somehow managed to sheath and carry on the hip of
the British empire, even though he was not technically in the service of His
Majesty’s armed forces any longer. He had resigned his commission to focus on
leading the Arab Legion, and that force would later become the nucleus of the
Army of Jordan.

It was this force that Fedorov
was now planning to meet with at the desert hamlet of Rutbah, well out in the
deserts of Anbar Province, Iraq. The place had been a frontier outpost where
the Iraqi police once held forth in a stone fort, but it had been quickly
seized by Kingcol on its advance to Habbaniyah earlier. That force had reached
the airfield there, finding that the enemy had been cleared from the plateau
and was fleeing to Fallujah. After linking up with the beleaguered garrison at
the airfield compound, “Habforce” had been able to ferry troops across the
Euphrates and surround Fallujah, which fell the next day.

In the history Fedorov knew, all
this action had occurred during the flood season, which had delayed the advance
on Baghdad considerably. Now, happening in the dryer month of March, the
British forces were able to make a swift approach to the city, and the rumors
of the terrible night on that plateau suffered by the Iraqi troops sent to lay
siege to the airfield preceded them. In the real history, it was rumor as much
as anything else that had enabled this relatively small force, a few battalions
in strength, to topple the fledgling regime of Rashid Ali and his Golden
Square. This had occurred when an Iraqi outpost was hastily abandoned, and the telephone
system was not destroyed as it should have been, allowing the British to listen
in over an open line to hear the dispositions and orders being given to the
Iraqi troops defending the capitol.

An Arab speaking officer in the
intelligence arm of the column had also played out a ruse by speaking over the
line that the outpost could not be held, because the British were coming with a
massive force of 50 tanks, when in fact they had no more than a few home styled
armored cars to support the trucks of lorried infantry. It was this rumor that
spread like fire through the suburbs of Baghdad, and allowed the British to
unhinge what could have been a stubborn Iraqi defense in this densely populated
urban setting.

That
captured open line telephone was a perfect example of a Push Point in Fedorov’s
research. Some Iraqi corporal in the detachment had simply dropped his
telephone receiver on the desk and taken flight at the approach of the British,
a small event, pure happenstance, that had enabled the clever British
intelligence section in the column to use deception and eavesdropping to topple
the Iraqi regime.

This
time, however, that incident had not occurred. Instead the awful rumors of
flying shadows of death, their wings beating the night airs like dragons, and
spewing deadly fire that destroyed all before it—these were enough to do the
same work. The Iraqis wanted no quarrel with these demon soldiers that had come
upon them in the night, and the result of the terror these stories spread
worked much the same result on the history. Rashid Ali and the German
Ambassador had fled to Mosul, and the resulting collapse of central authority
allowed the British to advance elements of their 10th Indian division from
Basra much sooner.

Kingcol
returned to Habbaniyah in a matter of days instead of weeks, where it waited
for supplies being floated up river from the 10th Indian Division stores.
Fedorov did not know that the Brandenburgers had already re-written their raid
on the river flotillas, and that those supplies were instead being carried off
by the Arab nationalist brigade they had raised, a force loosely affiliated and
sometimes led by a nefarious figure named Fawzi al-Qawuqji. The Russian Captain
had planned to rendezvous with Kingcol at Rutbah, and brief them on the mission
he had in mind for Palmyra, but Kingcol was nowhere to be seen.

When
the big KA-40 came thumping out of the skies to the west, there was quite a
stirring at Rutbah among the men of Glubb Pasha’s Arab Legion. They were
accustomed to flying machines by now, though they had never seen one like this.
They shirked from the sound and billowing dust kicked up by the twin rotors,
but otherwise stood by their horses and vehicles, watching the scene with great
interest and curiosity. What was this new war machine the British were using?

Fedorov
was out with Popski, looking to find Brigadier Kingstone, but soon learning he
was nowhere near. It was Glubb Pasha that held sway at Rutbah that day, for he
and a detachment of his Arab Legion had been scouting down the long desert road
from Habbaniyah as an advance guard. He came out, dressed in a great coat, for
the desert chill was still on the land that morning. Fedorov saw a short man,
his khaki coat fastened with five gold buttons and a flash of color over his
breast pocket where his medals and decorations rode. He wore the traditional Middle
Eastern headdress known as the Keffiyeh, tied off with a heavy twisted cord of
silk that was called an Aqal. His English boots reflected his roots, but he had
clearly blossomed to Arab ways in that headdress,

Popski
had heard of the man, and thought him to be a confederate at heart—another wild
desert scout and warrior like himself. “Well met,” he said. “Vladimir Peniakoff,
but most chaps call me Popski—a little easier on the tongue. This here is
Captain Fedorov, Russian Navy, and he’ll command that lot over there.”

He
pointed to the helo where the marines were filing out to stretch their legs, as
the ride had them bunched up tightly to get as many men aboard as possible. The
helo might normally be full with sixteen men, but they had managed to squeeze
in twenty, with weapons stowed in the exterior compartments or slung under the
helo where the weapons pods and torpedoes might ride on a naval mission. The
Big Blue Pig continued to serve well, fresh from the maintenance bays of
Kirov’s
fantail.

“Quite
an aircraft,” said Glubb, as interested in the helo as any of his men were. Now
they gathered round, eyeing the Marines with great curiosity, noting the
assault rifles they carried with much interest.

“Something
very new,” said Fedorov in English.

“He’s
Russian thru and thru,” Popski explained, “but he’ll manage a little English at
times. I’m signed on here as desert guide and interpreter, and I’ve even
commanded that group there in battle once or twice. Fine good soldiers, every
last one of them.”

“Glad
to hear it,” said Glubb with that impish smile. “ We can use all the help we
can get.”

“That
helicontraption will be heading out soon to make another supply run. They’ll be
bringing in some canisters of fuel and ammunition.”

The
helo had already landed here, before Glubb arrived, with reserve aviation fuel,
munitions and food. Then it took off to fetch Popski and the Marines, returning
now for the briefing before they set out for their objective.

“We
had hoped to meet up with Brigadier Kingstone here,” said Popski.

“He’ll
be delayed,” Glubb returned. “In fact, the whole column is still gathering at
Habbaniyah. It seems there was some trouble with their supplies from Basra. They
were attacked on the river, and never got through.”

“Iraqis?
Then they’re still fighting?”

“No,
I think they’ve had quite enough of us. These were men from the Arab Brigade,
insurgent raiders with little love of the British empire, and anything
affiliated with it. They’ve been vexing us for years now, off and on. Berbers
have a mind of their own, and take to pillaging anything that isn’t nailed down
or well guarded.”

“Oh?
We thought you had them all under your thumb, Pasha.”

“Not
bloody likely,” Glubb smiled. “My men are among the very few in country that
have stood by us here. Most every other Arab tribe thinks the British are
finished. They thought as much as soon as Rashid Ali had the cheek to go and
set up his Golden Square, but we’ve seen him off. He may be on his way to
Mosul, unless he failed to get up north that way before my men cut the rail
line. Otherwise he’ll probably head for Persia. As for the tribes, they aren’t
going anywhere, and most think the British are finished here. They halfway
expect the German army to come marching in at any moment.”

Popski
translated all of this for Fedorov, who immediately asked a question.

“The
Captain asks if you have seen any sign of German troops here yet.”

“Not
outwardly, but they’re here. There were upwards of five or six thousand German
nationals in country when all this business started. A good number of those
were fifth columnists, to be sure. This little raid on the supply flotilla was
very likely their doing. It was clear from the reports I had, that the Arab
Brigade had help. Some say they were led by German officers.”

“The
Brandenburg commandos,” Fedorov said to Popski. He knew they were here, the
first storm crows of the German army, seeking to exploit the volatility
inherent in the situation and harass the British as best they could.

“Brandenburg?”
Glubb had not heard the name. “Well they’re here alright, no matter what
they’re called. There are air units also operating from Mosul and Baquba,
though they’ve abandoned the field at Baquba and redeployed north. But from
Mosul its only 180 miles to the Euphrates, and a little over 300 to Palmyra
where we’re headed next. You can be sure they won’t forget us. Those Bf-110s
are rather nasty. I have one report that a couple may even be operating from
the airfield at Palmyra now.”

“We’ll
see what we can do about that,” said Fedorov when Popski translated. “How long
before King Column might return here?”

“That’s
anyone’s guess,” said Glubb.” Fawzi and the Bedouins have been nipping at the
heels of the column throughout the mission. We nearly got him in a good fight
three days ago, but he slipped away. And Fawzi or no, the Bedouins are always a
problem. Anything we leave here will have to be well guarded. Otherwise they’ll
slip in at night and steal the whole lot. Well now… You can set your men up
over there for the night. I’ve a spot of tea on the boil in the fort if you’d
care to come along.”

Fedorov
nodded appreciatively, then gave orders to Troyak in Russian to get the Marines
sorted out. Glubb’s troopers looked from him, to Troyak and to any other man
who spoke, listening to the harsh guttural tones of the Russian language, their
curiosity never ending. A few seemed like they wanted to parley with the
Marines, eager to get a closer look at their unusual rifles and other weapons.