Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (44 page)

Lieutenant Colonel Konstantin Djorov listened impassively to the instructions of his air controller.

Returned from his test pilot role to command of 2nd Guards Special Fighter Regiment, he now led the most capable fighter unit in the Red Air Force and, if things went as was hoped, he would shortly have an opportunity to lead them into combat for the first time in their new guise.

The 2nd, or to give it’s the full honorifics, 2nd Guards Special Red Banner Order of Suvorov Fighter Aviation Regiment, comprised two groups of aircraft, amounting to forty-seven craft in total.

Four companies of jet fighters, two of ex-German Me 262s, and two of MiG-9s, were lurking high above the city of Magdeburg, favouring a position slightly to the south-west.

Waiting…

At twenty thousand feet, the 20th Schwerekampfstaffel of the DRL’s 8th Schwerekampfgruppe was approaching its assigned target, the fifteen US-manufactured B32 Dominator bombers in perfect formation and untroubled by the modest flak that was thrown at them.

Two Jagdstaffels of late model ME-109K fighters flew above them, waiting for any Soviet interceptor response.

Behind the first wave came the second, a mish-mash of British four-engine heavy bomber aircraft, from the Vickers Windsor, Short Stirling, to the Handley-Page Halifax. The 22nd Schwerekampfstaffel brought another nineteen bombers to the party.

A further two squadrons of fighters shepherded their charges on the approach run to the Magdeburg rail yards, the target for today’s modest raid.

The DRL bombers reached Aschersleben, and turned hard to port, lining up their approach on a north-north-east course, to bring them directly down the line of the recently repaired marshalling yards.

Soviet flak was virtually now virtually non-existent and no aircraft were lost from home base to a point east of Sülzetal… where an easy mission suddenly became a bloodbath of monumental proportions.

“Attack pattern one. Dive, dive, dive!”

Lieutenant Colonel Djorov led his group of MiG-9s directly into a frontal attack on the approaching bomber formation, closing from above at an incredible speed, despite throttling back to gain more ‘time on target’ for his weapons, one 37mm and two 23mm cannons.

Despite his skills and experience, Djorov only managed the briefest of bursts before he was through and past the first wave of bombers.

His followers also failed to exact the price of their surprise attack, although one of the Dominators gradually fell from height, its flight deck flayed by shells and occupied only by warm meat.

The DRL protective fighters, ME-109Ks of the 5th Jagdgruppe, swarmed down, angry at being caught unawares and keen to protect their charges, and found themselves suddenly fighting for their lives as the Me-262 group, led by Oligrevin, the Regiment’s 2IC, fell upon them with gusto.

With more time on the 262, the Soviet pilots judged their ambush better, and four of the 190s came apart under the concentrated fire of the cannon each ‘Schwalbe’ carried.

Two others fell away smoking, with no more aggressive intent, each pilot concentrating on just staying airborne.

The MiGs came back round in a wide arc, bleeding off more speed.

Djorov lined himself up on a Dominator, its rear defensive .50cal machine guns already spouting tracer in an effort to put him off his approach.

The veteran pilot eased his jet fighter into position and judged his burst to perfection.

Shells chewed into the starboard wing and fuselage with dramatic effect.

Whilst the spar did not fail completely, the damage was such that it bent. The right wing kinked upwards, ensuring that the large aircraft transformed from an aerodynamic beauty into a useless piece of spiraling metal within seconds.

The crew screamed their lives out as the aircraft’s G-forces ensured they rode it all the way into their native soil below.

Above, Djorov flicked into another attack line and managed a half-second burst at another target, before his speed carried him away from the increasingly desperate German airmen.

His flight sent another four Dominators falling from the sky, their heavy cannon shells doing murderous work with flesh and metal alike.

One MiG flew through a cone of defensive fire and simply exploded in mid-air, no piece larger than a manhole cover surviving to drop to the ground.

Behind the leading flight, the DRL Me-109s and Red Air Force 262s fought in isolation, the defensive fighters with nothing to do but fight to preserve their own lives, the Soviet Schwalbes intent solely on their own mission of destroying the escort.

Five destroyed Dominators became nine, as Djorov led his men in for a side attack.

Whilst Djorov learned that the larger silhouette was an easier target, he also learned the hard way that it unmasked more guns, as the pass ensured two more of his aircraft were lost, one in a huge fireball that left an orange and black rainbow as it fell away, and the other simply stopped flying through a storm of heavy bullets, its wounded pilot trusting to his silk to return safely to terra firma.

The highest ranking German bomber officer called off the attack, and the Dominators turned to port, closing in even tighter for self-defense, whilst their radio operators screamed for support, for anyone… anything close by that could come and save them from massacre.

Djorov turned his flight’s attentions to the other enemy heavy formation, bringing his men around the fighter melee and into another frontal attack.

The results were better and, despite the loss of two more of his aircraft, four bombers went down hard, with another two smoking badly and falling out of formation.

As agreed previously, Oligrevin had detached some of his fighters to deal with any escort that the second wave might have, and these 262s found themselves embroiled in a fight with 262s of the DRL, only the third such encounter recorded in the new war.

From the euphoria of fighting and destroying the outclassed ME-109s, the Soviet pilots suddenly found themselves in the situation of fighting pilots with more experience than them in their aircraft, and with jets that were better maintained, fueled, and conditioned. They had barreled headfirst into the 200th ZBV Jagdgeschwader, a squadron of elite German pilots with more jet fighting experience than any other such group in the world. Jet tangled with jet, but the DRL pilots had the upper hand from the start.

Djorov kept his MiGs focused on the bombers, but instinctively understood that he had little time before the yellow-nosed aircraft overcame his cover and started to attack his unit.

He also understood that he would be outclassed, but applied himself to the task of bringing down the enemy bombers, rather than contemplate what was to come.

Olegrevin was fighting for his life and could spare little time for the niceties.

“Yaguar-krasny-odin, Yaguar-belyy-dva, they’re all over us…we can’t cover you.”

He instinctively thumbed the firing button as a shape flashed across his nose from left to right.

“Mudaks!”

He missed, which was fortunate, as the white and red tail of a friendly aircraft became apparent.

“MUDAKS!”

However, he held his line and managed to land a few shells on target, the pursuing DRL aircraft taking vital damage in its port turbojet, causing it to spin away, out of the fight.

He also missed Djorov’s reply as his cannons roared again, missing an enemy aircraft adorned with the evidence of scores of kills, its evasive manoeuvre seemingly well beyond his own understanding of the 262’s abilities.

‘Blyad! This one’s a real ace!’

Olegrevin turned as tight as he dared, intent on trying his hand again, but the enemy pilot guessed his intent and performed a sudden climb and tight turn, accompanied by a loss of forward momentum that defied the laws of physics, a manoeuvre that took him unawares. It was almost as if the ace deliberately stalled his aircraft to drop off speed in an instant.

The Russian overshot and found himself the hunted.

Rolling to the right, he dropped his starboard wing and did a roll around, coming back upright in a left-handed dive.

A fluffy cloud proved a momentary haven, and Olegrevin pulled up as hard as he dared, with right stick and pedal, intent on turning the tables on his enemy.

…Which enemy was still on his tail.

‘Mudaks!
Job tvoju mat!’

Tracers flashed past his cockpit, close enough that he felt he could lean out and catch the deadly cannon shells in his hat.

He spun away, using his right hand turn to advantage, feeling the forces push him hard back into his seat.

Johannes Steinhoff, commander of JG200, had one hundred and eighty-eight victories to his name, and was perturbed that number one-eight-nine was proving so difficult.

From the kill markings on the enemy jet, the man was clearly an experienced pilot, but such was Steinhoff’s confidence and self-belief that he had expected to down the Soviet airman with much less of a fight.

His last burst had missed, although it must have shaved the Schwalbe’s cockpit.

The red and white tailed jet threw itself into a breakneck right diving spin.

Fate took a hand, and Steinhoff had to shift his stick to the left rapidly, as two enemy aircraft closed in on a collision course.

“Scheisse!”

Narrowly missing the leading enemy, he swung around in a long port turn His eyes sought out his worthy opponent, but failed to find him.

Another target suggested itself, and Steinhoff flicked back into the vertical and pulled on the stick, walking his shells from tail to nose.

The enemy 262 simply fell apart as its integrity was compromised and forward air speed did the rest, ripping open the fuselage.

Steinhoff ignored the pilot as best he could, as the man, clearly missing a leg, fell out of his disintegrating aircraft and disappeared out of sight.

‘189.’

He heard the thuds.

He knew he was in trouble.

A piece of debris from the Soviet aircraft had entered his starboard intake, and the JUMO turbojet began the brief and spectacular process of tearing itself apart.

Steinhoff was floating free of the dying Schwalbe before he knew it, his razor sharp instincts again preserving him.

Before his chute had properly deployed, the JUMO disintegrated and his aircraft fireballed and plunged to the ground.

This was the thirteenth time he had been ‘shot down’, but only the second time he had taken to a parachute.

He had little trust in them, and watched his canopy suspiciously as he floated gently to the ground.

Djorov sent another DRL Halifax out of formation, its port wing awash with fire, pieces falling off, further reducing the crippled heavy bomber’s ability to stay airborne.

He and his MiGs had downed seven of the bombers, but he had lost three of his own pilots in the process…

… and worse was to come.

With his MiGs low on fuel, he called his regiment off, but disengaging was not possible with the enemy 262s intent on revenge.

“Yaguar-krasny, Yaguar-krasny, disengage, Odin, out.”

“Yaguar-Odin, Yaguar-dva, over.”

As Djorov moved away from the remaining heavy bombers, he listened to Olegrevin’s brief status report.

“Belyy-Dva, you must disengage now! Disengage now!”

“Odin, we’re trying to but…”

Above Djorov’s head, something turned orange and exploded.

“Dva… Dva… Belyy-dva, come in…”