Hammer of God (Kirov Series Book 14) (32 page)

Popski
had been the first man up, and was in the forward cabin. Now he shouted back
some most welcome news, a gleam in his eye. “I’ve just got word from those
other fellows—the Argonauts! Here they come!”

Three
black shapes appeared, moving swiftly through the night like angels of death.
Then they erupted with fire, each one with another minigun that raked the
oncoming German tide. The men had a long cable down to the trench where Troyak
had linked up the fallen Marine, Now the two men were hauled rapidly up through
the downwash, and the three Marines on the tower above hitched up a canister,
two men riding it up while the third, Zykov, took a last look over his shoulder
before whistling for the final rope.

The
X-3s had quickly broken the attack, their fire so devastating that the German
assault company seemed no more than frozen corpses on the barren hill, like
human magma that had issued from the stark volcanic cone. Zykov clipped the
metal C-Ring to the cable, his boot in the bottom foot harness, and up he went,
the motor whirring as it pulled the last man out. Then the heavy rotors growled
with renewed power, and the helo began to climb away from the tower. They were
up into the covering cloud deck, the three dark angels rising with them as the
helos headed east.

Fedorov
looked to where Troyak sat, with the fallen Marine still cradled in his arms.
He met the Sergeant’s eyes, and saw Troyak slowly move his head in the
negative. The man’s name tag was burned into Fedorov’s soul that night—SYMKOV.
It was the only man they lost, but one life too many. My fault, he thought.
What possessed me to think I could use these men to win the war? What did
Symkov die for? He was a long time thinking about that as the helos moved east.

Later
that night, when the silence had again enfolded the land, Colonel Wolff went up
the hill himself to the Fortress of Fakhr ad-Din. He had many more names to
linger in his soul that night, their bodies darkening the stony hillside. He
realized he had used his men like a lash, in a vain attempt to strike at his
enemies as they fled. The thought that he had wasted these men was also heavy
on him, but he was to receive one odd consolation when a young corporal came up
the stone stairway, holding something he did not recognize.

“What
is that?” he said as the corporal saluted, handing him a long tube with an
ominous looking diamond shaped end that he knew was some kind of ordnance. The
corporal explained that he had found it in a lower chamber, hidden in the
shadows.

“I
tripped on the damn thing before I saw it,” said the Corporal. “What is it Herr
Oberst?”

Wolff
took the object, hefting it in his arms, and noting the small tube like
eyepiece that was fitted on the long metal shaft. The whole thing was some
three feet in length, and weighed no more than 25 pounds. He did not know what
it was, but Fedorov would soon learn that it was missing—an RPG-7, with a
PG-7VR Tandem HEAT round mounted on the end.

Chapter 32

Brigadier
Kingstone was a
massive angry presence at T3 when he arrived there. His operation had run into
much more trouble than expected, and now he had some difficult decisions to
make. He sat with Nichols, Popski and Fedorov, not knowing quite what to make
of this Russian Captain. As for Popski, General Clark’s word was all he had to
go on now, though the General had been taken ill in the desert, and had to be
hospitalized in Palestine. So it was down to Kingstone in overall command of
Habforce now, an irascible man on a good day, and this was not a good day.

“We
saw that little theater at the old Arab fort,” he said to Popski. “What sort of
aircraft do you men have?”

“I
call it a helicontraption—a helicopter, General, though I can’t say I know much
more than that. That big blue bird there comes off the Russian battlecruiser
that’s thrown in with the Royal navy at Alexandria. Don’t know much about the
others, but I’m sure glad to have them handy.”

“Yes…
We saw how they gunned down that German company trying to make that last
assault.”

“Bloody
business, sir. They paid a high price for that one. The only thing is this—the
damn things shoot so fast they run out of ammo in a pinch. Now they’ll have to
fly back to Rutbah where they’ve stowed supplies and reserve fuel. But they’ll
be back, sir. You can count on them.”

Fedorov
said something in Russian, and Kingstone gave him a sideways glare. “The
Captain wants to know whether you plan to fight on here,” said Popski.

“Does
he now? And are the Russians to have their nose in all our business here?”
Again the harsh look Fedorov’s way.

Popski
thought he might smooth things over, and did what he could. “Begging your
pardon, sir. This man here is thick as thieves with General Wavell. As you
know, Wavell speaks Russian, and to answer your question—yes sir—Captain
Fedorov was right there at the table alongside the General for the planning of
the Syrian campaign. In fact, sir,” and now Popski leaned in very close to the
General’s ear, lowering his voice. “He’s even met with the Prime Minister.” He
raised his eyebrows to emphasize that point, which seemed to have some pull
with Kingstone.

“Very
well,” said Kingstone. “General Clark has vouched for you, Major, so I’ll give
you some latitude here. If what you say of this man is true, and he stands well
with General Wavell, then he stands well with me.” Now the general extended a
hand to Fedorov, shaking it firmly.

“The
Captain is fairly well versed in intelligence matters,” Popski put in.

“That
so? Then he’ll want to meet our own man, Somerset DeChair. He’s about somewhere.
The two of them should get on well. But the question now, gentlemen, is what to
do about this mess we find ourselves in. Now, we just got up King’s Own Rifles,
so that gives us four battalions of infantry, and what’s left of the cavalry.
God only knows where Glubb Pasha is, but his men amount to another light
battalion. As I see it now, and particularly from your report on that German
column arriving, we’re up against two good sized German units.”

“Two
regiments,” said Fedorov in English.

“Yes,
well one was more than enough. Nobody expected them out here. We knew about the
single Foreign Legion battalion, and we’d be half way to Homs by now if that
was all the they had at Palmyra. But German troops are another kettle of fish.
Now, Colonel Nichols here is of a mind that any further move west would be
inadvisable, and I tend to agree. At the same time, we’ve got another battle to
the east shaping up at Dier-ez-Zour on the Euphrates. Here’s the map our man
DeChair sketched out.”

He
briefed them on the Euphrates operation, indicating that two brigades of 10th
Indian Division had pushed up from Iraq, with the intention of driving all the
way to Aleppo, which is something Fedorov knew they had accomplished in this
campaign.

“Now
the Germans in front of me at Palmyra are the 22nd Luftland Air Landing
Division. We know that much. It seems they also stuck their thumb in the pie
over here at Dier-ez-Zour. Another full regiment flew in by air, and it’s been
reinforced in the last two days. There’s been some thought given to the idea of
our pulling out here, and getting northeast to the Euphrates to help out the Indian
troops. At least between both forces we might trump the enemy in at least one
spot, and then we can get up north.

“May
I suggest alternatives?” said Fedorov, again in English. “Here, this town,
Raqqah. It is north, yes? But any force at Dier-ez-Zour must be
supplied—through this town.” He pointed to Raqqah, which was about 180
kilometers up river from Dier-ez-Zour. “Can we go there?”

Kingstone
eyed the map, thinking. “Yes… If we could manage to get up north, we’d cut
Jerry’s supply off alright, except for anything they can get in by air. That
won’t be much as soon as the Indian Division gets its artillery up and starts
pounding the airfield at Dier-ez-Zour. I suppose if we do move north, even that
movement itself might compel the Germans to withdraw up river. The problem is
getting there. I see very little in the way of roads on this map, and that’s
Jebel country north of Sukhnah—rugged mountains, badlands, volcanic debris and
stony ground. We could get the whole column lost out there, or stuck, and
without a good rout of supply. We’d only have what we can carry. Without Glubb Pasha
and his scouts, I’d hesitate to move my force north. Nichols?” Kingstone wanted
another opinion.

“I
like it better than trying to slug it out here. We’re a desert maneuver force.
That’s our real virtue. We’ll find Glubb Pasha, wherever he is now, and Major
Popski is here, both well schooled as desert scouts. And we’ve got the
Captain’s helicopters out there.”

 “True,
and no offence Major Popski, but have you seen that ground? It’s no place for a
wheeled column, and I’ve hundreds of trucks and vehicles to look after. On the
other hand, there is a relatively good road from here to Dier-ez-Zour, and it’s
no more than 125 kilometers. If we leave now we could arrive there tomorrow,
and possibly have a major impact on that battle. The 10th Indian Division is
fighting there now, and, if we can’t fight here, then my inclination is to
march to the sound of the guns. I would, however, permit a flying column to try
the roads north to Raqqah, but it would have to be fast, light, and well
supplied. Would your Russian Captain care to volunteer to have a look up north.
If there are any prospects, I’ll hand this one off to Glubb Pasha when we find
him. You can take Number 2 Armored Car Company, a battery of light AA guns on
portees, and perhaps a company of the Essex Battalion. As for the rest. I think
I have my mind set on Dier-ez-Zour.”

“Very
well sir,” said Popski, translating all this for Fedorov. He nodded his
understanding. Then told Popski that he and his helicopters would be honored to
scout the way north.

“Good
then. Let’s pull out and get moving. If we can take these two places, it will
cut off the whole limb of the tree where the Euphrates is concerned. The
Germans will have to fall back on Aleppo, and the only question is whether they
can get there before us when they learn what we’re up to.”

Kingstone
folded his arms. “One last thing, gentlemen. What is to stop this German force
here at Palmyra from getting into mischief?”

“Where
would they go?” said Nichols. “Certainly not Rutbah down south.”

“If
they tried, they might cut the pipeline to Haifa,” Kingstone cautioned.

“Yes,”
said Nichols, “but we still have troops near Fallujah and Ramadi, and we can
get them there in time to stop such a move, or at least hold them off until we
can do something about it.”

“Alright,”
said Kingstone. “I’ll inform Jumbo Wilson what we intend to do, and unless he’s
got something to say about it, then we’re off as soon as we can pull the men
together. Get anything you have north of that airfield back west. I’ll post the
Cavalry as a rearguard, and will somebody find out where the Arab Legion is?”

“We’ll
have a look about when we take off to fuel the whirly birds,” said Popski.

And
so it was that the battle of attrition that was in front of them would now
evolve again into a battle of maneuver, and both sides would soon be in a race
to control the upper Euphrates. Fedorov felt a little better in thinking he had
given some sound advice here, even if it wasn’t entirely taken, yet he had to
rely on the experience of these men in the here and now. This wasn’t just a
reading exercise. He realized he was well outside his history books now.
There’s nothing written about this, he thought, nothing at all. But someone has
to write the new book, and it may as well be us.

“Will
you be departing to resupply immediately?” Kingstone asked Popski.

“More
or less. We were four days up on that hill. The French tried us once, and Jerry
tried us twice. They’ll be regretting that for some time, but we lost a man
during the extraction, and the Captain wants to have a burial ceremony here.”

“I
see… Sorry we couldn’t do more. Damn Bedu raiders were nipping at the column
the whole way here. ”

* * *

Fedorov
decided to move
the supply cache at Rutbah to the T2 Pumping station along the pipeline to
Tripoli. The line itself had been closed since the onset of hostilities, but as
each pumping station had a makeshift landing strip, a small fortified outpost,
and communications back to Iraq, it would serve as a good local base for their
next operation. Now they had the X-3 helos, and two platoons of the Argonauts,
together with the Marines. The “Mobile Force” was reconstituted, and they could
front what amounted to a well armed company, airmobile, and with the
considerable support of the helicopters on attack or defense.

The
conference ended, and the Argonauts, still well armed and fueled, departed to
secure T2, while the Marines gathered for a burial ceremony for Symkov. It felt
very strange to them to see their comrade, born and raised in 21st Century
Russia, and now laid to rest in the empty desert of Syria in 1941. The thought
that in that future time, should it ever come, he would be born again, and walk
the earth while his remains still lay buried beneath those sands, was somewhat
confounding in Fedorov’s mind.

The
whole team was surprised by the unexpected arrival of Brigadier Kingstone, with
a small rifle detail. He stood respectfully at the grave site and, when the
burial was concluded, he nodded to the riflemen, who stood stiffly to
attention. They shouldered their arms in unison, and fired three volleys into
the open desert in tribute. When the salute was concluded, all the Marines felt
something that they had not felt since coming to the Mediterranean sector
again. They had fought, many times in this wild sojourn, but the sound of those
rifles was a kind of bond between men of war that all understood, and felt
deeply. Brigadier Kingstone turned to Popski, and asked him to thank the
Marines for what they had done.

“Now
we’re off to make that man’s life count for something,” he said, saluting
before he turned and led the rifle team off.

Fedorov
wasted no time. He wanted to depart for Rutbah immediately to load the supplies
and remaining fuel, and move everything to the new base at T2. It was during
that flight that Troyak decided to take inventory on the canisters they had
used at the fortress.

“Chenko…
Didn’t we bring four RPG-7s along with the RPG 32s?”

“Yes,
Sergeant. But we didn’t get the chance to fire them.”

“Oh?
Well I count only three.” He turned, eyeing the men where they sat in crowded
rows in the helo. After batting it around for a time to find out who was
carrying what, it soon became apparent that something had simply been
overlooked in the hasty withdrawal under fire at the top of that fortress.

“My
fault,” said Zykov. “I thought I had checked every room below, but it was dark,
and things were heating up fast. I saw nothing, but that doesn’t matter. I was
the last man up the ropes. The blame is mine.”

When
Fedorov got the news, he raised an eyebrow. “An RPG-7? Was there a round
mounted?”

“Yes
sir,” said Troyak. “I’m responsible. I should have double checked—”

“Never
mind who’s responsible,” said Fedorov. “We all know you were preoccupied trying
to save Symkov. Well… this is interesting. The Germans will certainly find that
RPG. The only question is, what will they do with it?”

“If
you want to go back for it tonight, I’ll lead the assault.”

“No.
I think that would be most unwise, Sergeant. The Germans have learned what the
sound of our rotors means. They most likely have men in that fortress now, and
probably at least a company. Besides. If they found it, as I’m certain they
did, then they would have passed it up the chain of command. It may not even be
in the fortress now, and we certainly can’t land and politely ask for it back.
We’d have to search the whole German encampment otherwise, so we just have to
let it go. What it may do to the future course of events will remain unknown,
but if anyone is responsible, it is me, Troyak. I led the mission, and we’re all
in the thick of things now. God only knows what the history will look like in
the years ahead for all we’ve done here. If it’s any consolation, remember
there’s a full modern British mechanized brigade out there. So one RPG-7 doesn’t
seem that much in the balance—a grain of sand in the wheelbarrow.”