“Bother,” Dwynn said, rather proud of himself for using just that word. “Sir, we’ll do this, or die trying.”
Flynn nodded. “Good luck, Captain,” he said. “I wish you the best of luck, and so does the Prime Minister.” He passed across an envelope. “In fact, he sent you a personal note.”
Dwynn laughed. “I’ll know how to thank him when I come back,” he said.
Chapter Forty-Five: The Long Hard Road
Factory 163
Perm, Russia
1st July 1942
For the workers at Factory 163, life was an endless series of drudgery, only broken by the occasional whipping from the factory guards to keep them working. Despite that – despite watching a naked women being whipped to death as a ‘wrecker’ – production was falling and had been falling for weeks. Each worker worked on a single part of a tank – the more senior workers had the task of assembling the tank – and they did nothing else. Food and drink was in short supply; they had nothing to lose, and knew it.
The guards knew it too as they paced backwards and forwards. Accidents and accidents that were not accidents were on the rise. The daily propaganda sessions were punctuated by shouts and catcalls; the face of Stalin had been hit by thrown bricks and tools. They’d once been used to having their way with the female workers, but after a few guards had been castrated by the would-be rape victims, they were ordered to hold off. It didn’t help the guards’ morale at all.
The uneasy truce continued, both sides knowing that it was only a matter of time before there was an explosion, but neither side knew that the explosion would never come. Without a clear and present threat to bind them to working for the salvation of Russia, the Russian people were coming to realise that Stalin was their worst enemy. Radio Moscow blared out constant reports of great military victories – but the underground radio was proving more truthful and, if the truth were to be told, more to the population’s liking. The tales of how much food even the poorest person could eat in Britain – and of Stalin’s crimes against his own people – were having an effect.
All involved knew that if the Soviet regime lost its grip on the neck of its people, it would be destroyed by their collective fury. The NKVD patrolled, shooting whatever underground members it caught, having long since given up trying to extract information from them. Trotsky and Natasha Yar had organised well; each cell had a radio with a biometric scanner built into its casing. The NKVD simply didn’t have the ability to use them to track down the other cells.
The Russian people held their collective breath, wondering when it would be their time to be free…
The boulder entered the atmosphere on a steep trajectory, guided down by a series of very careful boosts from an MSV. Undetected, unseen except for a fiery streak across the sky, it fell into the atmosphere. Unbeknownst to the inhabitants of Factory 163, and the farms that provided its workers with their merger rations, it was building up awesome kinetic energy… and it was targeted directly on Factory 163.
The rock slammed into the building and the blast wave rippled out. The poor construction of the factory complex only made matters worse; the shock of the rock’s impact and sudden transmutation into destructive energies shattered buildings that might have been safer under other conditions. A stockpile of high explosives, used for mining, detonated as fires spread throughout the complex, completing the destructive work of the space-based weapon. The inhabitants simply stood no chance at all against the power of the rocks.
Later, when someone in the local NKVD office would realise that they had lost contact with Factory 163, they would send an entire armoured force to investigate. They found only ruins; there was nothing left of Factory 163, or its inhabitants.
Combat Zone
Poland/Belarus
1st July 1942
Captain Yates cursed as the JS-2 appeared from nowhere, its main gun already swinging around to engage the Challenger. The two tanks fired at the same time and the Challenger shook under the impact, its front armour hardly dented.
“We’re alive,” Benton said. His voice was relived. “Where is the bastard?”
“Dead,” Grant said. “Unfortunately, he had allies.”
Yates cursed again. An entire line of JS-2 tanks, backed up by T-34 tanks, was raging towards them, clearly hoping to drown the British by sheer weight of numbers. They fired continuously, pounding away at the Marine force, even as the Marines returned fire.
“They’re coming,” Benton said, professionalism keeping his voice steady. The main gun barked again and again. “What the hell do they think they’re doing?”
The pounding on the armour grew louder as JS-2 tanks started to explode. The Marines were moving into combat position, spreading out to fire back at the enemy, screaming for help from the forward support aircraft. The Harriers acknowledged; they’d be on their way even now.
“They’re trying to batter us to death,” Yates snapped. “Forward, now.”
Benton gunned the engine just in time, moving the Challenger forward to avoid a JS-2 that was trying to ram them. It was crazy, like a modified version of Sudden Strike, thousands of enemy vehicles trying to impale themselves upon his defences. The Challenger thundered as shells slammed into it, then the harriers swept overhead, firing anti-tank weapons, and then a flight of helicopters firing Hellfire missiles.
“Thank God,” Yates breathed. “Report!”
“We lost four Challengers,” one of the other tank commanders said. “Seventeen fireflies are also down.”
“Shit,” Yates snapped. He quickly accessed the satellite display; the enemy didn’t seem to have caught on to their breakthrough yet, but there were some major Russian positions only half a mile ahead.
“We have to move forward,” he said grimly. There were three attack prongs heading into Poland and Belarus; one British, one American and one German. If the Soviets managed to prevent one prong from breaking through their lines, they might manage to defeat the other two prongs.
“Follow-up forces on their way,” the dispatcher said. Yates allowed himself a moment of envy; that man had a nice comfortable job in London, trying to direct the battlefield at long-distance. He’d heard that the American generals had had a collective shitfit when they’d heard about that concept.
“We need reinforcements as well,” he said, checking the other tanks. Three had been damaged by the attack; one damaged enough to mean that it should return to the forward base. He issued the orders and overrode the protests, issuing other orders to the intact tanks.
“The Harriers are going to plaster the enemy positions,” he said. “We are going to clean up after them.”
“Yes, sir,” Grant said. “Want to bet that the flyboys will screw the pooch, as usual?”
“No bet,” Yates said. The RAF had developed an unpleasant habit of bombing somewhere and declaring it clear – only to have underestimated their opponent. “Forward!”
The tank roared into life, leaving the short but very bloody battleground in the hands of the follow-up forces, mounted infantry. It was nice to see all the unemployed youths finally doing something useful, he thought; far safer than having them on the streets. The ground was bumpy; he shuddered as it occurred to him that they might be driving over a mass grave.
“RAF reports that the strike is inbound now,” the dispatcher said. Yates nodded; he’d been getting worried. The Russians might have been lousy at tank tactics, but they were tough defending fighters, particularly when armed to the teeth. Stalin might have skimped on things like human rights, but he was very aware of what his people needed for fighting. The Red Army had been the best-equipped army of 1939, after all.