“Open fire,” General Vandegrift snapped.
“They’re not in range yet,” the operator said calmly. The batteries had been distributed around the landing zone, and now the port of Nadhodka. “They’ll be in range in three minutes. Designating targets now.”
“Just sweep them out of the skies,” General Vandegrift ordered, as the noise of Russian engines drew closer. “When can we fire?”
“Now,” the operator said, as a black cloud of planes appeared over the hills. The guns started to chatter, firing short bursts seemingly randomly. General Vandegrift looked up, to see Russian planes exploding and falling out of the sky, but there were so many of them.
“Take cover,” he bellowed. Many of the Marines had already done so without orders. “Everyone get down!”
The Russian planes swooped overhead, bombing with a viciousness that General Vandegrift had never seen before, targeting ships and Marine transports alike. The chain of explosions lashed out at him, but the machine guns kept firing, sweeping Russians from the sky. The operator threw himself down beside him, gasping for breath.
“We’ve lost two of the batteries,” he said, trying to remain calm. “Shit, its worse than Dover.”
“Yes, they battered you pretty hard then,” General Vandegrift said, who had seen the reports. He didn’t understand why the 2015 British hadn’t had bomb shelters or a clear plan for a massive air raid. “Are our own aircraft trying to engage?”
The operator nodded. “I think so,” he said. “There were certainly IFF-equipped contacts coming back. The problem is, sir; what happens when they run out of ammunition?”
“We are dependent on Halsey,” General Vandegrift said, with an inflection that suggested that he would have sooner asked Old Scratch himself. “The flyboys had better live up to their egos.”
As suddenly as it had begun, the attack ended. The operator pulled himself up and staggered back over to the radar system. “We seem to have chased them off,” he said. General Vandegrift nodded. “Satellite imagery is tracking them back to their airfields… empty patches of ground?”
“Bastards are very good at camouflage,” General Vandegrift muttered. He studied his map. “About two miles from here; we’d better get moving.”
The operator blinked. “Don’t you want reinforcements?”
“We have ten thousand men on the ground and two hundred light tanks,” General Vandegrift snapped. “This isn’t the time for waiting for the follow-up force…”
“Perhaps we don’t have time,” the operator said. “Look.”
General Vandegrift studied the display and swore. A line of Russian tanks had appeared, hundreds of them, heading towards the landing zone. A second appeared from the opposite direction, and then a third.
“We have movements all over the map,” the operator said. “I think we might be in trouble.”
“Oddly enough, I noticed,” General Vandegrift said. He grinned. “It’s time to deploy the Marines for anti-tank operations and…”
His radio buzzed. “This is Halsey,” a voice said. General Vandegrift was almost pleased to hear from him. “What do you need?”
General Vandegrift considered for a long moment. “I need you to shell the following coordinates,” he said, and nodded to the operator, who rattled them off. “There’s a shit load of enemy tanks coming our way.”
“I’ve had the orders given to the battleships, the aircraft will hammer their airbases,” Halsey said after a long moment. “The re-supply convoy from the Philippines is on its way; it should be here in a day or so.”
General Vandegrift shrugged. “Admiral, it will be decided by then, one way or the other,” he said. “What about the Japanese?”
“The British have launched some of their fuel-air missiles at their airbases,” Halsey said. “Whatever happened, it seems to have been an isolated incident.”
General Vandegrift snorted. “You can’t trust those slant-eyed sons of bitches,” he said. “Are we are war with them, or not?”
“Seems pretty clear that we are,” Halsey said. “The President hasn’t made any announcements yet, but its not like they can do much to us, is it?”
Tank Commander Kabanov loved his new tank. The JS-1 – named for the man who’d forged the Soviet Union – was far too slow and heavy to cross a bridge, but it was strong and heavily armoured, with a main gun that could blow through even future British armour. Kabanov, who knew that manufactory experts rarely knew what they were talking about, wasn’t keen to test that theory, but the British and their American allies had clearly decided to force the pace – and lay their hands on a piece of Holy Mother Russia.
“Forward,” Colonel Kagnimir snapped over the little radio, made from German designs. There was none of the jamming that rumour had placed in Iran, despite heavy denials by Radio Moscow. Kabanov hadn’t disagreed openly – he liked being alive – but he’d been very relived when Kagnimir had insisted on practicing manoeuvres without the radios.
“Incoming,” someone shouted. Kagnimir had barely time to issue a demand for more information when the shells crashed down on top of the tanks. Kabanov felt his entire tank flip over and over, coming to rest on its treads again; the rest of the brigade wasn’t so lucky. Of what had once been fifty of the most powerful tanks in their armoury, thirty had been destroyed outright, including the command tank.
Shit, I’m senior, Kabanov realised grimly. He snapped orders into the radio, knowing that another flight of shells had to be heading at them even now. His mind raced rapidly, trying to realise where the Americans had placed their guns, but he came up with nothing. Where the hell are they?
“They’re firing from the sea,” Captain Kaliman snapped. “Sir, they’re firing from battleships.”
On cue, a second round of shells exploded in their midst. Aircraft roared overhead, dumping strange fat bombs on the tanks, which exploded and released massive gouts of flame, spreading out over the tanks. The heat rose to horrifying levels… and then the third round of shells arrived. Tank Commander Kabanov wasn’t lucky again; a single shell scored a direct hit on the turret of his tank.
“Get those weapons into place,” Captain Caddell snapped. “The Russians will be on us any second now…”
“I think they’re here,” Sergeant Pike said calmly. Private Max Shepherd looked up to see a line of green tanks closing in on the Marines’ position, one that would – hopefully – force them to come at them two or three at a time. “Stand by to fire!”
A Russian tank fired, a shell that exploded against a rocky position, barely missing the anti-tank gunners. “Fire,” Captain Caddell ordered, and five rockets were launched at once, blasting through the Russian tanks. “Hold them back.”
Shit, Shepherd thought, as a wave of green-clad Russian infantry appeared over the hill, firing directly at the Marines. “They’re trying to clear us out,” he shouted.
“Pour it on,” Sergeant Pike bellowed. The burly sergeant was controlling a BAR machine gun, mounted on a tripod. He fired madly, time and time again, raking the Russians as they marched forward. They died in their hundreds, bodies ripped apart by the bullets, and they kept coming.
“Fire,” Captain Caddell ordered, and three large guns opened fire, pouring high explosive into the Russian ranks. That broke their formation as men were blown apart; peace regained as the Russians fell back in disorder, leaving hundreds of bodies behind.
“They’re coming,” Sergeant Pike said, and the entire force groaned. A hail of shells slammed into the Marine position; Shepherd realised that the Russians must have sneaked an observer forward. The blasts forced him down the hill, scattering them, as the Russians probed forwards. He un-slung his bazooka and fired a rocket at an advancing tank, which exploded, and then fell back.