Altered States – Volume II. Darkest Hour

Chapter 10

June 20, 1940

The crews were working feverishly, the Air Commandant’s voice harsh as he bawled through the voice pipes to the nose of the ship. “Cast off! All lines away! Ballast Chief, release ground anchor an lighten load!”

The sun gleamed on the round nose of the ship where the dull red of its serial number was painted on the slate grey canvas-S6, “Siberian Six,” otherwise known as Siberian Airship Abakan. Its broad tail fins were prominently marked with the Cross of Saint George, the war time symbol of the Free Siberian State. The elevatorman was exerting himself to spin the wheel, his eyes fixed on the elevator panel to note the airship’s pitch, deflection and inclination. A glass leveling tube told him much of what he needed to know, and his effort was to “chase the bubble” when he wanted to level off the ship.

Abakan rose slowly, its interior gas bags struggling to get the necessary lift on the cold morning air. This ship, like most all the others still in service, was a model by the inspired genius of the German airship engineer Karl Arnstein, one of the great pioneers of rigid airship design who had worked closely with Count (‘graf’) Ferdinand von Zeppelin. The airship was every bit as big as the ship that first bore the count’s name, the Graf Zeppelin, all of 770 feet long and just over 100,000 cubic meters in total gas volume. A helium lifter, as all airships in the Siberian fleet, it had incorporated the new Vulcan self-sealing gas bags, eighteen in all from nose to tail, and this single breakthrough had extended the life of the airship for decades.

The first designs had used hydrogen, highly prevalent and easy to obtain, and the lightest of all gasses to give it the best lifting power. Yet its Achilles heel was its volatile nature and flammability, which was driven home during the First World War.

Overmatched in the deadly proving ground of the war, airship technology was once on the verge of dying out when the airplane was seen to be a much less costly and effective means of controlling the skies. The duels of bi-winged canvas fighters fluttering around the big airships like flies stinging the back of a rhino were legendary in the first great war. The Germans had found out the hard way over England when their hydrogen inflated zeppelins were ravaged by agile fighters with incendiary rounds. Too many had plummeted from the sky as flaming wrecks, prompting Germany to all but abandon its zeppelin fleet.

The Russian states had stubbornly held on to their fleets, finding them too useful on the vast open heartland as their lifting power saw them capable of transporting a full battalion of armed troops as an air carrier.

The planes were still a threat, but the greatest danger to an airship in the new war would come from the long range anti-aircraft guns that were getting bigger and more effective every year.

Non flammable helium was adopted as the key alternative lifting gas. After the Hindenburg disaster of 1937, not a single airship now dared to use the more efficient hydrogen. Instead, rigid airship frames were made lighter and stronger with “Duralumin,” an alloy of aluminum with exceptional durability, and its composition and heat treatment were a wartime secret. But the real advance that had extended the life of the airship was the discovery of “Vulcan,” a self-sealing gelatinized latex rubber lining that was used in the shell and all gas bags. If penetrated by machinegun fire from enemy aircraft, it could reseal within seconds, and the bullets would simply end up going right through the gas bags or clattering against the Duralumin frames and ending up at the bottom of the big interior air cells, which had special openings where the air engineers would remove the rounds and count them as trophies.

Abakan had already reclaimed over a thousand rounds on its many combat missions over the years, a veteran of the continuing infighting during the long Russian civil war, and more recently against the ever more aggressive Japanese. Machinegun fire was still a threat to the gondolas, which could not be too heavily armored, and had too many view ports to provide a safe environment. But here the AA defense of the zeppelin often saw eight or ten machine guns, and even heavier 20mm to 30mm caliber weapons that made any approach by a fighter plane a very hazardous attack.

The only problem was the scarcity of helium, until vast discoveries were made near Irkutsk in Siberia that provided an ample supply. Helium production increased dramatically after hydrogen was proved too dangerous during the war. In Russia, the breakaway Orenburg Federation had production centered on the fields around Kashagan in the Caspian Basin, and that state still maintained the largest fleet of airships in the world. In Siberia, gas and condensate fields unique for their massive reserves were located in the Irkutsk Region at Kovykta and Chayanda, and provided enough helium to keep a smaller fleet active.

With eight big ships, the Siberian fleet was only a third the size of the Orenburg air fleet, which was the largest in the world with 24 active ships. Yet the Siberian zeppelins served well in the vast, tractless steppes, where it was simply impossible to travel by any other means. The Trans Siberian rail was still operating, but it had fallen into disrepair east of Omsk, torn up by ceaseless war and the pillaging of Cossacks, Tartars and others. The trains were often seen as good prizes for roving war parties, who would ride in on fast moving cavalry units and board the train cars at the gallop. Ambushes were common, rail blocks always a problem, so traveling by airship avoided all that, and it was faster than the train as well.

Other powers still maintained a few airships in service. The British Farman Aerodrome and the firm of Armstrong-Whitworth, had produced Beardmore models that became known as “Pulham’s Pigs” when they operated out of Royal Navy Air Field Pulham. The British “Pigs on the wing” became the backbone of the Imperial Airship Fleet for a time, but by 1940 only three were still used by the Royal Navy.

There were five German Junkers LuftSchiffs and two built by Parseval Engineering in Friedrichschafen. Italy deployed two Forianini airships and France had one Freres airship still assigned to the Lafayette Escadrille Aerodrome. Even the Americans got in on the game with the deployment of several airship carriers that could launch and recover up to five bi-winged aircraft in flight by means of a specially designed trapeze docking system. With substantial helium resources of its own, the U.S. still kept a modest airship fleet active with designs from Wellman and Goodyear, and the Japanese still used floating reconnaissance balloons and a few airships designed by Yamada and Fujikura.

The Abakan was taking off on a very special mission that morning, up from its mooring facility on the Ob river near Novosibirsk and heading west with a most important passenger. Troops of the 18th Siberian Rifles were aboard to provide security, and the airship would link up with two brother ships within the hour to form an air flotilla of three as it made the long 750 kilometer journey west to Omsk.

“Inflation?” Air Commandant Bogrov was carefully monitoring his status from the main gondola bridge as the ship rose into the mackerel sky.

“95 percent, sir, and all engines nominal.”

A helium airship would never take off with its gas bags fully inflated. For longer journeys they would want to fly at high elevation and therefore take off at only 90 % inflation. Helium expanded as the airship rose to seek out the fast moving jet streams above. If they began with 100 % inflation their climb would be much easier, but they would later have to slowly vent helium to prevent the gas bags from overfilling with expansion, and helium was too valuable to waste.

So instead they took off at 90 % inflation, or 95 % on a short run like this where they would not be gaining much altitude. They would simply drop ballast to facilitate the climb, and then special air condensers on top of the ship could distill water from the atmosphere to take on additional ballast. They could even harvest rain in stormy weather, braving the certain threat of lightning to get open the rain catches to collect all the fresh water needed.

Up in a jet stream the airships could make remarkable speed, some achieving 160KPH with favorable prevailing winds along their intended heading. On their own power using four powerful ram air turbines, they could make over 70 knots, or 135KPH at lower altitudes, much slower than any plane, but twice the speed of even the fastest ocean going ships, which made the airship a very useful scouting vessel in a naval reconnaissance role. It’s endurance could outlast most any other aircraft of its day, but one drawback was that it was highly visible in the sky, and also easily detected with the early development of radar.

Air Commandant Bogrov was soon satisfied that all was well, and he turned to the Admiral seated at the plotting table behind him on the bridge.

“ Abakan is aloft, sir, and I make it a little under an hour before we rendezvous with Angara and Talmenka.”

“Very well, Mister Bogrov. In spite of the circumstances I will want all aeroguns manned and ready at all times.”

“We will remain at full action stations throughout the journey, sir. All systems manned.”

More than a means of conveyance, Abakan was also a fighting ship, with one turret mounting a single 105mm recoilless rifle on the forward gun gondola, three more 76mm beneath the long main gondola and another two on the aft gondola. Normal artillery using heavy hydraulic gun recoil carriages were simply too cumbersome, and the recoil of such weapons would have thrown the ship off its axis, causing violent swings in the gondolas and jarring vibrations that made it completely impractical to use them.

The solution was the Kurchevski ‘Dynamic Reaction Cannon,’ (DRP), mounted in pods beneath the gondolas. The guns could have their back flash vented safely into the open air by means of a simple manifold that diverted the stream downward beneath the gun pod, and the pod itself could rotate a full 360 degrees. The weapons also offered stability and light weight, yet sacrificed range to do so. Being largely designed for ground bombardment, they could still engage other zeppelins, but with maximum ranges between 4000 and 6000 meters. Another drawback was that the guns could not elevate well with the gondolas above them and the massive bulk of the airship. So an airship duel was always a struggle to gain superior elevation on the enemy ship where you could blast the big target below while remaining safe from all but small caliber return fire. To correct this firing arc defect, one or more 76mm recoilless rifles were positioned right atop the airship, on a reinforced platform anchored to the central Duralumin frame.

Above the gondola structures, the interior of the rigid Duralumin airframe could also be accessed from the long “keelway” that allowed the crew to move from the nose of the ship to its tail. Ladders up allowed crews to man the 20mm cannons on the top of the ship, one fore and one aft, and a battery of four machine guns. There were eight more 12.7mm machine guns positioned along the sides of the main the airframe in small dimples, and accessible by ladders positioned outside the main gas bag sectors.

The ship could also deploy bombs for ground attack, fledgling Katyusha style rockets arrayed in light weight aluminum racks, and a new longer range rocket assisted ‘glide bomb’ for standoff ground attacks. Much of this rocket technology had come from the Orenburg Federation, which seemed to be one of the leaders in that field, spurred on by Volkov. Some alarming leaps had been made in rocket technology there, and ‘the Prophet’ insisted it would one day become the preeminent military weaponry.

Even with all these arms mounted, the airship was capable of lifting another 40,000 pounds of arms, men or equipment. The rear cargo gondola could even carry two small armored cars that could be lowered by an engine driven crane and pulley system.

“I trust the men are ready with the appropriate honor guard?” The Admiral was justifiably touchy, for this day would see a meeting that may decide the fate of all Russia east of the Volga for decades to come. It was a high level diplomatic mission, arranged during a tensely negotiated truce between the Free Siberian State and Orenburg Federation. The two nation-states had been warring along a ragged border that seemed to change daily with one side or another making claims and incursions.

Swift raids by the Siberian Tartar cavalry would seize hamlets and villages, plunder them for supplies and food, and then withdraw. This would lead to the deployment of regular army units of the Grey Legion of Orenburg, and the simmering conflict eventually erupted to a major action at Omsk the previous winter. The legion pushed towards the city, once the westernmost major settlement in Free Siberia, and they crossed the Irtysh river there, occupying the entire city and driving another forty miles along the rail line through Kornilovka to Kalachinsk.

More motorized than the Siberian forces, the spring thaw of 1940 had seen the legion bog down in the marshy steppe country beyond Kalachinsk, but there were plans for a renewed offensive. Old Man Kolchak and his Lieutenants were well aware that Orenburg seemed intent on pushing east.

“What are the prospects for peace, Admiral?” said the Air Commandant.

“That remains to be seen, Bogrov. The Grey Legion has its hands full on the Volga, yes? Their campaign against Omsk last winter has emboldened them, and perhaps they think they will have continued success against us-but not if I can help it.”

“They will outnumber us, sir, both on the ground and up here as well. Were flying west with more than a third of our entire air fleet. Don’t be surprised if they have five or six airships over Omsk at this moment, and planes on the ground at the ready, sir.”

“We have cards to play, Bogrov. The battalion we carry here is but one of the entire 18th Siberian Rifle Division. Kolchak has moved the whole division west as a measure of our resolve. The Volga Tartars have been restless, and many will come to our side if this conflict continues. Volkov knows this, which is perhaps the only reason he agreed to this meeting. Together with our Siberian Tartars, we could put half a million horsemen in the field and drive a wedge through Orenburg all the way to the Urals. He will do anything he can to prevent that, so it does not matter how many airships he has at the moment. We have resources Orenburg needs, and a strong position for negotiations.”

“Will we get Omsk back sir?”

“I will insist on it. It is either that, or I will tell Volkov that he will have to garrison the river as far south as Oskemen.”

“What about the Japanese, sir? They already have troops in Mongolia. If they push further west Volkov will have them on his eastern border too.”

“The Japanese are of no concern for the moment. They have already taken what they want from us, and will see little value in getting embroiled in a war in the heartland of Asia.”

The Admiral was studying his map even as he spoke, gesturing with a pencil. “No. Mark my words. Japan will soon direct its main war effort to the Pacific. They will want the Philippines, Indochina, Malaysia, the Dutch East Indies for their oil and rubber. They may even look to war on Australia.”

“But that will mean war with the British and Americans at once, sir. Surely they could never hope to win in such a conflict.”

“The British Empire is not what it once was, Bogrov. They will soon lose the last of their Asian bastions. Japan will take Hong Kong and Singapore from them as easily as they took Vladivostok and Port Arthur from us. As for the Americans, that is another matter. They will not be prepared at the outset. The Japanese will surprise them with the ferocity and ambition of their war effort. In time events may take another course, but it will be of no concern to us here for years. If Japan loses its war, then we will pick up the scraps and retake our eastern Pacific provinces. But first-Ivan Volkov. First we settle accounts with him.”

“I wish you good luck in the negotiations, Admiral. Old Man Kolchak had great faith in you, as we all do.”

“Luck will have nothing to do with it, Mister Bogrov.”

The Admiral looked up from his map, the red underway light of the main bridge painting his features red, and underscoring the prominent scar on his right cheek, an old wound he never spoke about. He stood up, folding his arms, his eyes gazing out the viewports at the gleaming river far below them now.

He was not a big man, slight of frame and a bit round shouldered as Bogrov regarded him. The Air Commandant was a burly man, taller and more husky than the Admiral, but there was something in the way this man moved, something in the way he looked at you with those dark eyes above that scar that was most unnerving. A man’s strength was not always found in his arms and shoulders, Bogrov knew. The man had come on the scene a few years ago and now had more titles than the Air Commandant could count.

He was Admiral of the fleet, commanding all eight airships in the Siberian Aero Corps. That was the hat he preferred to wear whenever he was aboard an airship. Yet he was also Vice Chancellor of the Free Siberian State, thick in league with Old Man Kolchak and the young Turk, Kozolnikov. On the ground he was General Commandant of the Siberian Cavalry Corps, and growing his enlistments week by week.

Yes, he was a man to be reckoned with, this one, thought Bogrov. We all know his name now, don’t we-Vladimir Karpov, and god help any man who gets in his way. Yes, Vladimir Karpov was going west to Omsk that morning, and he would not come back until he had sat eye to eye with Ivan Volkov. He would not come back without Omsk in his back pocket either, and that would mean another medal would soon be pinned on his chest by Kolchak.

Bogrov had no doubts about it.