Breakthrough (The Red Gambit Series) (93 page)

“Come on
Roy
, you know better than that. Proper report, you know the drill.”

Lieutenant [jg] Royston James kicked himself for not getting it right on his first combat mission as a second-pilot
,
and composed himself quickly, mentally rehearsing his sighting report.

Wetherbridge, irked by the delay, was about to press the young man’s buttons when the silence was broken by a properly composed report.

“Yeah, sorry skipper.
Possible submarine spotted at one o’clock. Range one thousand yards. Low in the water, moving at slow speed.”

As the first words hit the intercom system
,
the crew started into instant action, the radar operator unable to find the tell-tale blip of the submarine, its partially blown tanks keeping its radar profile out of the detectable range.

Wetherbridge rapped out his commands, preparing the attack.

“C’mon boys, give me those engines, or even just one. I need some
manoeuvring
here!”

The mechanics understood that all rested on them
,
and worked quickly to get at least one of the Pratt & Whitney’s turning in time.

“Skipper, Hernandez here. That looks like a U-Boat to me
,
boss.”

“Roger. Chief, check the reports pronto.”

Senior Chief Petty Officer Sveinsvold swiftly double-checked the movement reports and came up blank.

“Sir, nothing in movement, nothing on submarines, and
,
this is in a prohibited area
,
Sir.”

Sveinsvold was unequivocal, and Wetherbridge concurred.

“Captain to crew, standby to attack.
Radio Op, message,
attacking submarine,
confirmed
U
-Boat, give our position and timings
, ok?
”

As if to honour the decision, the port engine slowly growled into life
,
and Wetherbridge felt the response in his control’s immediately.

T
he noise
, sudden and terrifyingly near,
was heard by
ears other
those of
the Starshina of the watch,
and
a num
ber of
frightened
eyes swivelled
to scan for the source of what was clearly an engine coming up to full revs.

The rear observer punched out a report.

“Unknown object approaching at eight
hundred
metres, due south, height one thousand.”

“
Job tvoyu mat!”

The captain had joined the watchers and overheard the Starshina’s expletive as his eyes sought to discover what was unknown about whatever it was that was approaching.

“No time to dive, Kapitan! He’s on top of us already!”

His lens filled with something soft and circular, his memory banks stimulated by the sight of a USN Dirigible moving into the attack.

‘
Blyad! He’s right!
No time to dive!’

“Gun crews close up! General alarm!”

The klaxon sounded and the orders started to fly, men transformed by the imminence of
danger
.

“Fire!”

The Quad 20mm started to hammer out at the airship, a K-Class Blimp, the slowness of its approach confusing the gunners
,
whose first shots missed badly.

Machine-guns deployed to the bridge joined in, also without success.

The Blimp approached steadily and the flak gunners adjusted carefully, walking their fire into the attacking craft and being rewarded with obvious damage, closely followed by telltale smoke and flame in the pod slung underneath the gas envelope.

A machine-gun from the Blimp replied, making similar hits on the easier target below.

K-136 was dying, as was Wetherbridge, his stomach punctured by shrapnel from exploding cannon shells
,
and robbed of his sight by the impact of small pieces of Perspex and metal from his destroyed instrument panel.

James struggled across to help his commander, inhibited by pieces of his former comrades and the slippery nature of their present condition.

Hernandez was unrecognisable, save for the chest tattoo, declaring undying love for a girl called Iolanta
,
whom he had once courted in
Florida
long before he had met his present wife
, the
mother of his five sons.

Sveinsvold had taken a bullet
i
n the thigh
,
but it didn’t prevent him from pouring
fire
from his .50cal into the hapless sailors below.

The remaining
living members of the crew were the me
chanics, their work on the engine forgotten in favour of
fire fighting
within the pod.

Sveinsvold fired the last of his belt and then quit the post, moving painfully to
help
knock down the growing fire.

The 20mm crew had been flayed by the last burst, all five men falling around their weapon, some screaming, some forever silent.

The Starshina shouted for medical support and men rushed forward to recover the injured.

Two of the lookouts hung lifelessly in their straps but his attention was split between the descending airship and his dying captain, the noisy coughing accompanied by spouts of blood as his ruined chest let the essential fluid of life escape
from
his ravaged body.

“
Get the Captain below, get the wounded
below
.
Standby to dive!”

One man rushed to the two dead lookouts but was ordered away.

“No time! Get the living below now!”

Submariners live on their wits and their ability to move at high speed
,
and in seconds the Starshina was alone amongst the dead.

Sparing a last look at the airship
,
he screamed his command.

“Dive! Dive! Dive!”

Pulling
the hatch shut behind him, he m
ade fast the clips and dropped down further, leaving another to seal the lower hatch.

The captain had not survived the hasty evacuation.

The ship’s first officer had taken command, ordering a turn to
starboard
.

It was of no import.

The fire was out, although it had cost the Norwegian his uniform, his shirt to beat out the flames, his trousers that had caught alight when some cleaning fluid spilled and flared. His white body, bereft of even a hint of a tan line, exposed now in a way that he studiously avoided when
ever
presented with choice.

A naked man wearing nothing but shoes and socks would have been comical in any other surroundings but the charnel house of the blimp’s control pod.

James was crying, his captain and friends dead around him, the smells of tortured metal mingling with the metallic
odour
of blood, creating a special hell for the new officer.

Sveinsvold had pulled Wetherbridge’s corpse from the chair and virtually thrown James into his place.

“Shit, they’re diving.”

Turning back to his surviving officer, the wiry Norwegian spoke firmly.

“Fly it Sir, get us over those bastards so we can have some payback.”

Although new to combat, James was composed enough to assess his aircraft
,
and took her under control as best he could, the obvious rents in her envelope suggesting that a landfall may be beyond them.

He thought quickly.

“Chief, let
’
s bomb these fuckers and lose some weight. Nearest
land is to the east there. I’
ll try for that.”

Sveinsvold spared the young man a momentary look, appraising him in the light of his sudden calmness.

“Aye Aye
,
Skipper.”

The drop would be by eye, the release by emergency hand-pull
,
as the auto controls had long since ceased to exist.

James, his concentration blotting out everything else, watched and waited, the convenient new holes in the floor making his assessment all the easier.

“Ready, ready...”

Sveinsvold
tensed.

“Now Chief!”

Pulling hard on the cables
,
Sveinsvold was immediately rewarded with all the signs of a successful release, confirmed as James whoppe
d at the immediate gain in height.

“Now, let’s get the lady down on that island
,
Chief.”

The
K-class blimp carried four Mark 47 depth-charges, each stuffed with 350lbs of high-explosive, One on the money would have been enough to sink the Morž,
four prov
ed excessive and the M
ilchcow succumbed, bent rapidly as explosions either side of her hull
exerted
irresistible forces, the fractures immediately becoming catastrophic and opening her watertight compartments to the sea.

There were no survivors.

The three men threw what they no longer had use for overboard, gaining precious inches in height.
The airship brushed the water and slid slowly up the short beach, bouncing on into the edge of a wood and transfixing herself on branches.

“Well done
,
Skipper, really well done.”

And Sveinsvold meant every word, for it had been a touch and go thing, James
’
hitherto unknown skill saving the day and keeping the four of them out of the water.

Detailing the two mechanics to salvage all they could
from the pod
,
Sveinsvold took in the surroundings.

T
he Chief had already spotted an old building
that
seemed fit for purpose, and suitable to ride out the Atlantic storm that was coming ever closer.

The envelope was deflating rapidly, the penetration of the heavy branches proving the final straw.

Suggesting to the young officer that he might like to police up maps and weapons, Sveinsvold checked out the radios, quickly satisfying himself that neither were repairable.

The emergency rations pack had been one thing thrown out, its
identity lost in the enthusiastic
work to gain height.

Sveinsvold jumped down and screwed up his eyes, seeking out the small wooden box whose contents could make their life bearable if found.

Some items were floating close inshore
,
and he de
cided to take advantage of his n
aked state and go swimming in an attempt to recover the hastily jettisoned foodstuffs.

The cold water closed over him
,
and he immediately found the
leg
wound restricted his ability to swim against the incoming tide.

James laid out the flare pistol and sp
are flares, ready in case they were
needed to attract attention.

The mechanics had shifted everything into the nearest building
,
and were pleasantly surprised to find
clean
beds and tinned foodstuffs available.

James stood the two men down whilst he waited for the Chief to return.

The growing wind had a soporific effect on the three
survivors
and the two mechanics, cosily laid out
on the beds, were soon asleep
and snoring.

James awoke from his lighter
slumber
as the door opened
,
and he adjusted his eyes to take in the figure stood there.

The uniform was unknown to him, but the sub-machine gun told him all he needed to know.

He slowly raised his hands.

Sveinsvold was tiring now, even with the assistance of the incoming tide and the buoyancy offered by the recovered wooden box.