He had four divisions along that line, though they were under the nominal control of Kozolnikov. As far as his intelligence served, Volkov’s troops were all still in their old winter line positions as well, six divisions at intervals along the long border zone from Oskemen in the south to Tyumen in the north. These were largely infantry formations, though there were undoubtedly more mobile formations behind that line somewhere.
Yet now that Volkov had openly joined with Nazi Germany, what were his plans for the main front along the Volga? That had to be the reason he took that meeting with me at Omsk in the first place. He wants to quiet his eastern sector down so he can move those mobile reserves to the Volga, and perhaps even pull one or two infantry divisions off his line here in the bargain. Then why make a move like this? Why risk a provocation, unless he is finally seeing the connection to his strange fate and Ilanskiy. He certainly knows I got real curious. I was foolish to come here so directly. I should have busied myself with routine matters, and then worked my way here in due course. Volkov saw me make a beeline to this place, and now he wants to know why.
Now Abakan was nose up and still climbing to reach that favored position of superior altitude in the event things should come to a fight. There were twenty helium gas bags within the main enclosure of the airship, each one nested within an air sack called a ballonet. The air in these external sacks could be vented and refilled by pumps, a procedure that was essential in managing the altitude of the airship. Venting air from a ballonet decreased the ratio of lighter than air helium to that of the heavier air inside the ship. A positive helium ratio meant the ship would rise, lighter than the surrounding air. Venting air from the forward ballonets lightened the ship there, and helped get the nose pointed up for a climb while the Elevatorman was working his wheel.
Because the helium expanded as the ship gained altitude the ballonets also had to be vented to allow for that expansion. The procedure required careful monitoring to avoid a situation where the helium gas bags would reach maximum expansion, known as the “pressure height” of the ship, also called the “design ballonet ceiling.” For Abakan that ceiling was about 7000 meters, or 23,000 feet. Climbing beyond that point risked a rupture of the gas bag, and so emergency valves could vent helium to prevent that, which was never desirable. The engines and horizontal fins could also incline to assist the ascent, and in this case where an emergency ascent had been ordered, ballast was dropped from the forward sections as well.
The procedure was reversed during a descent. All they had to do was take in more air from the atmosphere and pump it to the ballonets until there was more heavy air relative to the helium. If necessary, helium could also be pumped to steel storage tanks. At this point the airship would become negatively buoyant and begin the descent. Once at a desired cruising altitude, manipulation of the elevator controls and minor venting or inflation of the ballonets would be enough to make trim adjustments. These methods eliminated the necessity of venting any helium gas, which was a commodity that was simply too rare and valuable to lose in typical operations.
Abakan had dropped off all but a single platoon retained aboard the ship for a security detail. One of the airship fleet’s greatest utilities was its ability to move troops and supplies rapidly from one place to another. Every airship carried at least a platoon of 25 men, but they had enough lifting power to accommodate ten to twelve times that, a full battalion.
Debarking the men at a mooring tower was accomplished easily enough, but for deploying them in the field where no facilities were available, another procedure was necessary. It involved more significant pumping of the helium in the main gas bags to smaller pressurized tanks spaced at intervals along the keel. When pressurized, helium became heavier than air to help compensate for the sudden gain in positive buoyancy when the men deployed. The airship stored a small amount of this helium as a reserve in highly pressurized tanks that could be sent to the main gas bags in the event of a helium loss that threatened the buoyancy of the ship, yet this was only for emergency situations.
Heavier ballast could also be taken on in the form of water from the air moisture condensers and rain collectors if necessary, but there were limits to both these technologies in 1940. For practical purposes, it was risky to try and debark more than a single company, or 120 men at any given time without being properly moored to a tower with a ground anchor.
Airship operations were all a careful balance of buoyancy, pressure, ballast, fuel and cargo weight, elevator and rudder control, and engine thrust, but in the hands of a well trained crew, the airship was easily maneuvered.
Air Commandant Bogrov watched carefully as Abakan passed through 1000 meters. The Airship was a “high climber,” which was a designation that arose during the First World War when the Germans built high flying airships that could operate well above the flight ceilings of British fighters of that day. He would take the airship up to 5000 meters, which was normal combat altitude by 1940, a little over 16,400 feet. If necessary he could climb another 2000 meters after that if the situation demanded such a maneuver, and reach a ceiling pressure height of 23,000 feet.
At such heights there were a whole new set of challenges for the crew-oxygen deprivation and altitude dizziness, bitter cold that could affect weapons, engines, oil and lubricant lines. Even the viewport windows could frost over and crack.
“Take us north at your best speed, Commandant.” Karpov wanted to see what he was up against as soon as possible.
“15 degrees right rudder, and coming around to zero-one-zero north.” Bogrov gave the order, and the ship began to turn as it climbed, nosing up into the endless skies.
“Have our fighters scrambled?”
“We got a report from Krasnoyarsk, sir. They have three I-15 bi-planes and another three I-16s available. Most everything else is farther west near the main front.”
“They will have to do,” said Karpov, making a mental note to increase fighter deployments to the Krasnoyarsk airfield. The I-15 and I-16 fighters were old models, some flying in Spain in the mid 1930s, but mostly getting their combat experience against the Japanese where they dueled with Ki-27 fighters over Mongolia. The newer Yak-1 had just been introduced by Soviet Russia in January of that year, but in spite of efforts to purchase them, the Free Siberian State had not been able to acquire any. Air power was limited in the eastern state, though newer models were in production at Novosibirsk as the war began to heat up. In 1940, however, they had ten to twelve squadrons of these older fighters, and few squadrons of Tupolov twin engine bombers or Ilushin-2 and Ilushin-4 fighter-bombers.
The I-15s could reach 7000 meters, but their four 7.62mm machine guns would not bother a Vulcanized airship much, if at all. They did carry six RS-82mm rockets that could do a little more damage if they scored a hit, though they were notoriously inaccurate. Even fired from a range of only 500 meters, only about one in a hundred RS-82’s could hit a stationary target on the ground. While the massive bulk of a zeppelin made for an enticing target, the pilot would still have to get very close to fire those rockets, braving the intense anti-aircraft fire from the airships to do so.
Abakan had five MG dimples along each side where twin 12.7mm heavy machine guns could rattle out a fairly lethal fire out to 2000 meters. This meant a fighter hoping to deliver its RS-82s would have to run that gauntlet to get close enough to have any chance of scoring a hit. To make matters worse, there were four ShVAK 20mm autocannons mounted atop the airship on a reinforced open air firing platform.