Barton cursed suddenly. “They know some of our advantages,” he said. “They know – or believe – that we have precision weapons with us. They know that we’ll see them on the ground, so they don’t attempt to attack us, but instead to drag us into a fight for Vladivostok itself. We have to take the city as soon as possible; it’s a threat to our supply lines. They know that… and so they hope to break us in the city.”
General Vandegrift smiled wryly at the ‘us.’ “I still don’t think that’s right,” he said. “I’m going to continue bringing the force over, and I’m going to deploy scouts around, just to make certain that there are no Russians close enough to observe us. Once we have the entire force on land, we can advance to seal off Vladivostok.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Fight To The End
Vladivostok, Russia
9th May 1942
General Iosif Apanasenko, Commander of the Far Eastern Military District, watched in awe as the battleships duelled with his heavy guns. He’d long prepared for an attack on his fortress – although he had expected to have to meet a Japanese attack – and watching the dual was fascinating. The battleships were so far away that they could only be glimpsed briefly in the mist by the yellow flashes of their main guns, which, minutes later, would deposit a massive blast onto his positions. In return, the arrays of heavy guns would fire back, attempting to hit their tormentors.
Apanasenko allowed himself a smile. He’d read the information on the capabilities of the future with considerable interest and one thing was clear; their technology didn’t make them invincible. They had been beaten before by Soviet forces, and they could be again. He had nearly five hundred thousand ethnic Russians under his command, and he knew that they were tough enough – and expendable enough – to be used to win the great victory Stalin wanted.
He picked up the field telephone without bothering to dial a number. “Comrade Rakba,” he ordered. “Order the bombers to launch at once.”
The American bombers had been kept busy bombing Vladivostok itself, rather than the airfields which lay nearby; only a handful of bombing raids had been mounted on the airfield. A cunning camouflage system had made the damage look more impressive than it really was. The Red Falcons, one of the elite formations that hadn’t had its reputation – and its flight crew – wrecked in Iran, remained fairly intact. They had trained hard for aerial combat, and they were commanded by the skilled Colonel Gubnasha.
“Any ships you see are ours,” Gubnasha informed his flight crew, as they rose above the land. “All our ships have been withdrawn, or so the good general has informed us.”
The crew didn’t comment on what they were certain was a lie. The pounding Vladivostok had taken made it unlikely that anything had survived in fit state to go to sea. The facilities at Nadhodka – which hadn’t had any ships stationed there – had been captured by the enemy.
Gubnasha led his crews out over the sea. Ahead of him, he could see the American fleet in the strange half-light. “Forward, my falcons,” he cried, and opened the bomb bays.
Admiral Halsey was actually relieved when his radars picked up the Japanese swarm; they weren’t trying to dive bomb his ships. Instead, they were trying to bomb from high attitude, something that wasn’t very accurate at the best of times.
”Open fire,” he snapped, as the Russians closed in. The Combat Air Patrol was already engaging; the Hellcats were slashing away at the Russian planes. He watched through his binoculars – there was no longer any point in trying to give orders – as the fighters duelled it out; the Russians had worse equipment and clearly their pilots were not as skilled, but lord, were they brave. He watched grimly as a battered YAK rammed a Hellcat, both planes exploding and falling to the ground.
“The destroyers are doing well,” his aide said. Halsey nodded; the Russians were now attempting to come down for torpedoes – or perhaps to try to bomb from low attitude. The radar-guided guns on the destroyers lashed out, sweeping them from the skies, but they came on and on.
“Sir, Saratoga’s been hit,” Commander Ajax snapped. Halsey swung round quickly, just in time to see a massive explosion rippling through the carrier and blasting her out of the water. She sank rapidly; if there were any survivors, he didn’t see them.
“Raise General Vandegrift,” he snapped. “What is the current status of the landings?”
“Aye, sir,” his aide snapped, and headed off to the radar room. Halsey scowled; the Russians were showing no sign of breaking off, despite the horrific casualties. A nasty thought developed in his mind… might the entire attack be a diversion?
“Sir, General Vandegrift reports that his corps is under heavy attack,” his aide panted. He had run across the bridge; a breach in protocol that many other admirals would have censured him for committing, even in the heat of a battle. “He urgently requests air cover and battleship support.”
“Fuck,” Halsey swore. “Helm, pull us out of here, back to the landing zone. Vladivostok will have to wait.”
Gubnasha laughed aloud from the sheer pressure of the dogfight. The Russians were fighting well, even if they didn’t have quite the manoeuvrability of the American planes. They’d hit several big ships, he was certain, and he’d seen one of their carriers explode. He grinned; one day the Rodina would build ships like that and carry the red flag to the four corners of the world.
“They’re leaving,” he said. The American ships were pulling back, running from the battle. It made sense, he knew; the dogfight – which hadn’t lasted that long – had to be burning through their pilots as much as it was burning through his. An American plane lanced past his command aircraft; he saw the gunner fire at it – and miss.
“Shoot better next time,” he called, and settled down to watching the Americans leave. They were moving quite fast, and he knew that pursuit would be futile. “Call the planes back to the base,” he ordered. He never saw the American Hellcat that was just below the command aircraft, or the line of bullets it poured into his craft. Gubnasha died, smiling and unaware to the last, dreaming of his triumph.
General Vandegrift had known that things were going too well, but even the experienced Marines hadn’t been able to find the observer, hidden as he was under the ruins of a T-34 tank that looked as if it had been bombed from the air. American search parties had passed close to him, but none of them had seen him, or the cable that linked him to the command post further north.
“Comrade, the Americans are landing now,” he muttered. They’d secured Nadhodka, but the observer had expected them to do that. Now they had been building up their forces, using the small port to land directly. Other boats moved forwards and backwards from the landing force, carrying men and supplies to the beach. He muttered in envy; one of them was clearly a medical ship. The Red Army had nothing like that.
“Understood, Comrade,” the Colonel commanding the force said. “The Red Army Force is on its way.”
General Vandegrift had fought, argued and cajoled through every committee and sub-committee in Washington for the loan of one of the priceless British mobile radars, attached to a large number of batteries of mobile machine guns. They would be needed, he argued, and eventually President Truman had ruled that he could have a set.
“General, they’re coming,” the operator said. “Nearly a thousand aircraft.”