Three Kings (Kirov Series) (28 page)

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 operations 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.