Impasse (The Red Gambit Series) (46 page)

‘
Fifty-one? Fuck!’

As an ex-artillery officer, Kon could appreciate the work done by that arm of service.

‘Poor bastards.’

He paused long enough for the NCO to know that he appreciated their plight before doing what he had come to do.

“I’ve got problems with my tank, and my crew must have time to fix it... Comrade...?”

“
Ponichenkarova. Dina Ponichenkarova, Comrade Starshina... and yes, we will hold.”

The woman slipped the magazine from her
PPD and checked its contents simply by weighing the metal in her hands.

Sliding the magazine back in place, Ponichenkarova took a swig from her water bottle and proferred it to Kon, who was extremely surprised to find it contained water.

“Thank you, tovarich.

He reciprocated by sharing his cigarettes as the female NCO explained the defensive position to him, pointing out where the
surviving mortars were concealed, something that was wholly necessary as, even when told they were there, Kon could still not see them.

The position contained two 76.2mm Zis-3 guns
, three DSHK heavy machine-guns, and three of the increasingly rare Panzerfaust.

The tank commander could not help but be impressed by the woman
’s calm approach and manner.

However, he was more impressed by three mugs of something hot
that arrived in the hands of an extremely attractive young Junior Sergeant.

Renata Astafieva handed the scalding coffee to both NCO
’s, and started on her own after accepting a cigarette from Kon.

“
How is the ammo, Renata?”

“
Twelve per weapon at the moment, Comrade Ponichenkarova, but I have sent Tania and her tribe back to pick up more. That was ten minutes ago.”

Kon
choked as the hot liquid hit is throat, announcing the presence of something more serious than coffee.

Astafieva smiled disarmingly.

“Special brew, Comrade Starshina.”

“
Nice, very nice. Thank you, Comrade Mladshy-Serzhant.”

The landing of a mortar shell interrupted the calm scene
, and all three were back to business immediately.

More shells followed, betraying increased
American interest in their position.

“
I’m afraid that may be because of me, Comrades. Tanks do attract such attention.”

Ponichenkarova knocked back the last of her drink, drawing an incredulous look from the tanker.

“Well then, Comrade Kon, perhaps you should be back there, spurring your men to higher efforts in their repair work.”

Kon searched for humour in the statement but found none. Ponichenkarova was just business
, and her business was keeping her troops alive, so getting the lame duck moved was a priority for her.

Ignoring the
burning pain, he finished his own drink and handed the cup back to the pretty young soldier.

“
Spassiba, Comrades. Best of luck.”

When he got back to the T54
, the news was encouraging.

“Fire!”

Ponichenkarova punctuated her command by slapping the back of the DSHK gunner.

The machine-gun hammered out 12.7mm bullets, and strikes were obvious on the front of the approaching half-track.

The Zis-3 to her immediate left was
already dead, its front shield distorted and displaced by an HE shell. The crew had been swept aside by the same burst.

The Sherman it had fired at was similarly shattered, although its crew had managed to abandon before the wreck was engulfed in fire.

All along the defensive positions, weapons fired at the attacking Americans, but less than before.

The attackers
were much nearer already and few seemed to be stopped by the defensive fire.

S
creams drew Ponichenkarova’s attention, and her eyes caught something tossed high as an enemy mortar round found something prepared to explode in turn.

Immediately, the hardened NCO understood that the ammo party had been hit as it returned.

The 179th’s mortars would be without ammunition for the foreseeable future, a fact that Astafieva breathlessly arrived to confirm.

“
Shit, fuck and abhorrence! Right, get your mortar crew prepared as my reserve, Renata. Grab all the auto weapons you can find and have them set... there.”

She pointed at a hollow bordered by low bushes.

“Any breach in the line... any hole... you go at it immediately. Don’t wait for me to tell you to attack... and don’t give the bastards time to settle, ok?”

Again
, an enemy shell punctuated the exchange, wiping out the other DSHK machine-gun with a direct strike.

“
Once you’ve pushed the Amerikanski out, reform your unit. Now move, Renata, move!”

The lithe blonde sprang away from the position, returning to the mortars and organising the crew
s as Ponichenkarova’s fire brigade.

“
Roger, Healthy, wilco.”

The Shermans had poured fire into the enemy position and the dividends were apparent for Ayres to see, so he had informed Towers.

“Tombstone-four-six to all Tombstone-four call signs, push now, push now, straight down the track and into ‘em!”

His sense
s, as well as Ayres’ report, told him that the enemy was ready to come apart.

The last enemy anti-tank gun had been destroyed and now decorated the battlefield like some macabre flower, its barrel
representing the stem, the trails forming the open bud. The body hanging from the breech played no part, except to add a small patch of scarlet to the scene.

The men of the 90th closed in as the enemy fire fell in volume.

Here and there, a GI dropped to the snow, screaming or silent, alive or dead.

Towers watched as the lead
ing soldiers washed over the Soviet line, taking surrenders in the main but, occasionally, finding resistance.

A group of infantrymen, supported by two Shermans, rushed
forward, heading towards an earthwork fringed with sandbags and crates; obviously a defensive position of importance.

Opposite and to the left, Towers watched a group of Russians rise up and smash into the doughboys, shooting down a number as they moved forward.

Colt met Tokarev.

Garand met Mosin.

Bayonet met bayonet.

The American infantry were driven off
, and the small group of Soviet soldiers went to ground in and around the bunker.

A smoke trail reached out from a burning house, narrowly missing the intended target; Ayres
’ M4A3E8.

Head out the turret, Ayres spotted the source
, and lashed the spot with.50cal from the turret-mounted weapon.

“
God, but that was fucking close, Preacher.”

“
Amen to that, my Capitano. He watches over us... and don’t blaspheme in my presence, y’hear me now.”

The chuckle that accompanied the statement was suddenly strangled
, and changed to a simple spoken statement as ‘Preacher’ Stevens saw the Grim Reaper coiled and ready to strike like a rattlesnake.

The T54.

“We’re gonna die.”

The blast sent Ayres flying from the turret. Those watching swore that he
was blown at least thirty yards high and thirty yards wide, coming to ground in a thick snowdrift that cushioned his fall, leaving only a severed right hand and modest burns to concern him.

Corporal Stevens, lay preacher and gunner, plus the rest of Ayres
’ crew, died instantly, as the 100mm shell, delivered by Kon’s main gun, ripped into the tank and exploded.

Two shells streaked across the battlefield, both striking the turret of the T54 in spectacular fashion
, and both seemed to fail to cause any apparent damage.

Inside, Serzhant Kolesnikov let everyone know what had happened.

“Fucking power traverse is fucked again, Comrades.”

Kon made an instant decision.

“Leonid, back up now, back to where we were. Make smoke.”

The T54 was equipped with a prototype smoke device that
was operated simply by diesel being over-injected into the engine.

As the tank retraced its steps
, a further two shells whipped through the gathering smoke, missing by some distance, but close enough to illustrate the wiseness of Kon’s relocation.

A dull clang signalled something striking the tank, but nothing that overrode the concern that arose as a smell of burning reached four sets of nostrils at the same time.

Kolesnikov spotted the problem immediately.

“
Fuse box is smoking again.”

Quality control on the prototype was not brilliant, to say the least, and such events were
commonplace, something that would have to be addressed before the Red Army took the T54 into battle in numbers.

Leonid Kartsev added to their woes.

“The engine’s gone funny on me, power dropping off.”

Again, Kon reacted quickly.

“Stop smoke, Leonid.”

The order made sense, as the smoke system might well
be affecting the performance of the engine.

“
Done.”

The engine note did not change
for the better, and they could all sense the growing labour of the V12 diesel.

“
Not happening, Roman, it’s something else.”

The smell of burning was s
tronger now, definitely more than just the fuse box, and eyes flicked around the vehicle interior seeking the source.

“
Temperature climbing! Shit! I need to close it down, Comrade!”

Kon flipped the hatch and discovered the source of the burning smell immediately. The dull clang had been part of a la
rge bough dropping on the tank. It was burning steadily and giving off plenty of smoke, some of which was being drawn back inside.

Ducking his head back into the turret
, he checked his intercom, noting that it had just surrendered to ‘unforeseen technical difficulty’ once more.

‘
Fucking shit kit!’

“
Leonid, back up another twenty metres, then knock it off.”

“
Yes.”

When the tank came to rest. Kon and Kartsev took less than minutes to discover the problem.

A water hose had blown, a weak spot giving way under the pressure.

“
I have a spare, Comrade. Five minutes. But we need more water.”

The crew were experienced enough to know that the snow would provide all the water they needed.

Leaving Kolesnikov to work on his traverse again, Kon and Morozov dragged the burning wood off the tank and used it to good advantage, melting snow in the metal buckets that the crew possessed for a myriad of purposes.

“
When Leonid is done, we’re fucking off. The tank is falling apart around our fucking ears, and I can’t risk it being left to the capitalists.”

They were given extra speed by the sudden sounds of intense fighting nearby,
immediately understanding that the infantry were being heavily pressed.

Ponichenkarova’s mortar crew reserve had been swallowed up quickly and was no longer effective; in reality, no longer existed.

The handful of survivors were embroiled in the heaviest fighting, with no hope of recovery.

Astafieva was losing consciousness, the thick fingers around her neck constricting both her airway and the blood flow to her racing brain.

She struck out, connecting with the large American, her efforts in vain as the man continued to throttle the life out of her.

Warm liquid splashed across her face, once, then again, as a bayonet exited the man’s shoulder, and then his chest.

The animal sound that came from him penetrated her cloudy mind
, but still he clung on, determined to take her with him.

Astafieva saw the blur as a rifle butt, swung with desperate force, smashed into the left side of the dying man
’s head, propelling him to the right and breaking his hold.

The gurgling stopped as she regained her senses, the unconscious GI asphyxiated by a combination of snow and blood.

Her saviour, Ponichenkarova, dropped to her knees, the exertions of the kill making her breathless.