“Designating targets,” Eccleston said. “Target one; main gun position, centre hit. Target two; ammunition supply, centre hit.”
The Harrier steadied itself, high over the battlefield, its laser designator defining the target. “Releasing weapons,” Eccleston said, and the Harrier dropped the weapons. The two bombs fell away, tiny rockets on each guiding them towards the two targets. “Weapons on target.”
There was a sudden blast of fire. The thermobaric weapons, sometimes referred to as a fuel-air explosive, detonated, forcing a wave of fire forward across the Soviet position. Triggering the ammunition supplies only added to the chaos; the blast was hot enough to melt steel. Before they could react, an entire artillery regiment was destroyed.
“Target destroyed,” Eccleston said dispassionately, watching as men ran screaming, flames licking at their bodies. They’d been lucky; they’d only gotten a little of the volatile liquid – they hadn’t been told what the fuel was – on their bodies. They might survive…
Guess not, he thought, as other men shot down the men. He guessed they were NKVD; they certainly had the right attitude for the task. Didn’t the Russians take any care of their men?
“Alpha-one, return to base,” the AWACS said. “Alpha-other, engage the enemy at the following targets, then return to base.”
“I’m not to engage the enemy?” Eccleston asked, and then looked down at his display. The Russians had thousands of planes in the air; what could one Harrier do against such a cloud? The ground-based weapons were taking a toll of the Russians, but there weren’t enough weapons to make a real difference and…
“I guess quantity does have a quality of its own,” he said, and turned the Harrier around, heading back to the base.
Battlezone
Nr Basra
7th May 1941
Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev trembled as he held his rifle, the strange future Russian weapon that had come back to the past, along with the detailed histories of those who had betrayed Stalin – and Stalin’s memory. Khrushchev shuddered; his meeting with Stalin’s henchman had been chilling.
“In the future, you will betray our great leader,” Beria had said, and read out articles that he had – would have – written. He was supposed to have served as a political commissioner, but instead… he’d been reduced to the ranks and sent to a penal battalion. His membership in the politburo had lasted only a year, before Stalin had learnt about the future. The only survivor had been Kliment Voroshilov, the utterly incompetent Marshal of the Soviet Union, who had apparently lived a charmed life after losing in Finland.
Perhaps someone will take advantage of his command of the 1st Guards, Khrushchev thought coldly, glaring around the lorry. At least Zhukov wasn’t making them walk to the front, as Voroshilov had made the heroes of Finland walk; he understood that even a penal battalion needed to be rested to be effective.
The lorry stopped with a jerk as the sound of the guns grew louder. “Out, traitors,” an NKVD guard snapped, opening the back of the lorry. He wore nothing on his uniform except the green tabs and his rank badge, who knew; the men who had been Great once might be Great again.
Khrushchev took a moment to check the terrain; it was all desert behind them, and some green ahead. Ahead of them, Khrushchev could see smoke rising from a trench, skilfully dug into the ground, with men watching the Soviets carefully. Behind the trench, there was a river, and then another trench and marshes surrounding it. He shuddered as some of his experience came back to the fore; taking the trench would be difficult even for young men, let alone the old men in the group.
“That’s your target,” the NKVD man said. “Take it, distinguish yourselves, and the Great Stalin will let you live. Fail and they’ll kill you; did you know that the last Russian to be caught by the black-asses was brutally murdered?”
“No,” Khrushchev murmured, as he shouldered his rifle and took command. The older men, those who were in their sixties, were useless – and he wondered what Zhukov had been thinking.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” The NKVD man asked. Khrushchev sighed and turned to his men. “Move it,” the NKVD man snapped.
“You four, head left around the trench,” Khrushchev ordered, thinking his way through the occupation. Stalin’s forgiveness was worth risking their lives for. “You five, head right. Everyone else, with me.”
He smiled as they snapped to attention. He’d sent the elderly on the suicide missions, while he’d kept the younger men with him. They weren’t young, not in the sense that the NKVD man was, but they were fit and had experience. Smiling for the first time, Khrushchev lifted his rifle and led the charge.
Chapter Eighteen: The Centre Can Hold
Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
10th May 1041
Hanover had resisted calling a full meeting of the War Cabinet for three days, waiting to see how the situation would develop before the British made any decisions. There had been enough excuses; General Flynn was a competent officer and one who was trusted, and there were arrangements to be made with the Americans. Patton’s army had moved on to practicing against Scottish terrain that reassembled Norway, at least to some degree. General Cunningham, who’d laughed himself silly after the first drills, had grudgingly conceded that Patton might just know what he was doing after all.
Hanover shook his head grimly as the War Cabinet settled in. There was a difference in culture between the 2015 British and the Americans; who had expected that the Americans would make such a fuss about an interracial bar? It had nearly sparked off a second major riot, now that a handful of black support troops had arrived. British publicans let them in on principle – the principle of making as much money as possible – only to discover that white troopers were not amused.
He nodded grimly to Eisenhower as the American joined them. He’d asked Eisenhower here specifically, if only so that the American could see them at work. It had perhaps been a mistake. Still, the American had to see the war in the Middle East, the one being fought against an enemy just as dangerous as Hitler himself.
“This meeting of the War Cabinet will come to order,” he said. Eisenhower had been a hit up at the Palace; he’d been astonished to see the picture of his visit to the United Kingdom as an older man – and as an American President. “The most important item on the agenda is the situation in the Middle East. Major Stirling?”
Stirling took control of the main display. “Three days ago,” he said, without preamble, “the Russians launched a major offensive towards Basra, swinging round to Kuwait. There were a brutal series of tank battles near Kuwait, and then we forced them back with the loss of a handful of Chieftains and Arabian Fireflies. Post-battle analysis suggests that we killed upward of a hundred Soviet tanks, but in the confusion it was hard to be certain.
“Basra itself was hammered by the Soviets,” Stirling continued. “They breached the Arab lines – you will remember General Flynn’s remarks on the subject – and tried to force their way into the city. Resistance was brutal and continues; the Soviets are facing a Stalingrad in Basra. It’s nothing like it was in 2003; both sides are fighting tooth and nail. The main line seems to have stabilised on the Euphrates – we’ve rushed forward some anti-tank weapons and have managed to halt the main Soviet offensive from crossing the river. Unfortunately, given the way they’re hammering away with long-range guns, there won’t be much of the city left.”