The Long Hard Road

Chapter Fifteen: Pushing Boulders

Forward Headquarters

Kuwait, Middle East

18^th April 1942

General Robert Flynn examined the map with a sensation of déjà vu. Twelve years in the past, from his point of view, the British army had spearheaded the capture of Basra, a battle that had been brutal, but possessed of only one possible outcome. Saddam’s habit of picking incompetents to command his defensive positions had made that certain.

Now… two divisions of armoured units were sneaking close to Baghdad and preparing to engage the Russian tanks near the city. Most of the development that had made the Kabala Gap so dangerous in 2003 simply didn’t exist in 1942; even with the far more competent Soviet combat engineers working away at laying mines and weapons to prevent a counterattack. With the war still raging in Scandinavia, Stalin had evidently given up on forcing a decision – a decisive battle – in the Middle East… and sacrificed the one chance for a strategic victory that would have made the Battle of Gallipoli meaningless. If he’d pushed on in the chaos… he might just have managed to save the German army from its humiliating surrender.

“God bless infighting allies,” Flynn commented, as he examined the map. It was beautiful in its way, the result of nearly four months of careful intelligence gathering; a perfect picture of Soviet deployments across the Middle East. For all his undisputed skill at armoured warfare, Zhukov remained the pioneer of the bludgeon, rather than the rapier, and that demanded concentration of force. Zhukov – or perhaps Stalin – had concentrated a formidable force along the border, unaware of the sheer power of orbital reconnaissance systems.

Flynn smiled grimly. Against the Americans of 2015, or even the Iranians of 2009 before they were finally smashed flat, his plan would have been a disaster waiting to happen. Against the Russian force, which might have made vast progress, but not enough to react fast enough, it might just work. Certainly, once the RAF got to work, anything with a red start outside the cities would be dead.

“A pity they still haven’t managed to get the Thor units up in orbit,” he muttered, as he rechecked the dispositions. Given sufficient Thor units, he was confident that he could have retaken the cities without suffering major casualties, but the cities were hardly the prime objectives. Zhukov might think that Basra and Baghdad composed a defence line, but when the RAF’s command of the air was absolute… they were just traps for Russian might.

“General Rommel informs us that the Bundeswehr is in position,” Colonel Toby informed him. “They’re ready to attack the Russians near Baghdad.”

“Excellent,” Flynn said. He rubbed his hands together. “We are about to launch the single largest British military operation since Operation Crusader, which was in the last time we fought this war.”

“Yes, sir,” Colonel Toby said. “Air Commodore Cromwell also reports that the RAF is ready to engage the enemy.”

“Good,” Flynn said. He looked up at the display, which – in a display of disregard for 2015 security – was showing the IFF transmissions of every British force in the region. It was an awesome sight. “The stage is set, the dancers are ready… blow the whistle.”

Toby nodded and headed off to send the activation signal. Flynn smiled at his retreating back; it had been a terrible mixed metaphor, but it got the idea across.

Near Baghdad

Iraq, Middle East

18^th April 1942

The Bundeswehr had grown in the months since it had played such a crucial role in Operation Redemption, when it had redeemed such a large part of the German Wehrmacht. Not only had it gained two new Panzer divisions of Germans from the surrendered divisions, but it had also acquired the services of some German combat engineers. Captain Gunter Jagar, Rommel’s aide and assistant, watched as the famous general shouted instructions to the combat engineers, who were erecting a pontoon bridge across the mighty Euphrates. The river had only a handful of bridges, none of which could take a single Firefly.

He checked his PDA, heading over to report to Rommel. Up close, he could see Rommel’s famous face, which had been hailed as a hero and villain on successive German broadcasts. The news that Himmler had taken over in Germany had sickened Rommel, but Jagar knew that it had also relieved many of the men who would otherwise have refused to fight against Adolf Hitler. Jagar shuddered; like the rest of the SS, he had sworn an oath to Hitler… until he’d seen what that meant for the world.

“Yes, Captain,” Rommel said, speaking in English. Rommel’s English wasn’t bad, and he had insisted that Jagar learn the language as well. “Have we been given our marching orders?”

Jagar wasn’t sure what to make of Germans serving as a junior partner in an allied force, but Rommel seemed quite happy with it, so he held his tongue. Rommel – and Ambassador Ernst Schulze – had explained in their private strategy sessions that the Bundeswehr had to prove that it could fight, just to prevent all of Germany being torn apart for the crimes of a few.

“We’re to commence the attack as soon as reasonably possible,” Jagar said, holding out the PDA. Rommel took it, reading the short message quickly, as the scream of jet engines echoed across the sky.

“It looks as if the RAF have beaten us to the first punch,” Rommel said. Jagar could only nod as the jet aircraft raced towards Baghdad. Rommel looked down at the ranks of the Bundeswehr, massed in their lorries and tanks. “Not a bad thing, of course.”

Jagar nodded. The Bundeswehr had been moved to a forward camp near Kabala while it absorbed the new recruits and watched them for signs of allegiance to the SS. In absolute terms, the Bundeswehr was still powerful, but the original camaraderie had faded slightly, although Rommel was certain that fighting – and victory – would change that.

“All right, move out,” Colonel Muhlenkampf bellowed, as the combat engineers finished their bridge. Armoured Fighting Vehicles moved first, each one capable of handling a suicide charge with its machine guns, crossing the bridges and spreading out. Infantry units had already crossed the river by swimming, heading out to ensure that the Soviets didn’t catch the Bundeswehr at its most vulnerable, and then the tanks started to move.

“We’ll press on as fast as we can,” Rommel said. “We’re forbidden to enter the city itself – our lords and masters are worried about the civilians – but we can handle the Soviet forces near the city. PDA?”

Jagar passed it over without comment. Rommel examined the small computer, before bringing up a map of the region. The units of a large Soviet armoured regiment were positioned near the city; more units were garrisoned inside the city. The fate of the civilians within the remains of the city was a matter of rumour; refugees had told horrible stories.

“Only an hour’s hard march,” Rommel said. With all of its units mechanised, the Bundeswehr could move faster than a standard Wehrmacht unit. “We hammer them from the air, and then we take them at a run.”

Colonel Muhlenkampf peered through the range finder as the turrets of Baghdad, broken and shattered by the Soviet invasion, appeared in the distance. Smoke rose in the distance from the remains of a Soviet armoured regiment, which had been battered mercilessly from the air.

“And to think they complained about the Americans,” he muttered, as the damage to the famous city became apparent. “They didn’t set out to level the place.”

He scowled. Stalin had decided that the population of the Middle East was surplus to requirements and the Red Army had been more than happy to comply, slaughtering people who got in their way like bugs. Civilisation in the Middle East hung by a thread – and the Soviets had gleefully set out to cut the thread with a knife.

“Panzer ahead,” the new driver snapped. Colonel Muhlenkampf took direct command of the main gun, swinging around to confront the Soviet T-34. The tanks were moving to counter the Bundeswehr, spreading out to avoid a lucky hit killing more than one of them. A T-34 fired… and a Firefly exploded in a gout of fury.

“What the fuck was that?” The driver snapped, yanking the Firefly about. Colonel Muhlenkampf ignored him, concentrating on destroying the enemy tanks. Three T-34s died rapidly, the others killing three more Fireflies before they were destroyed. Colonel Muhlenkampf cursed; the Russian tactics sucked, but they had nearly mounted an effective defence.

“Incoming rockets,” one of the drivers snapped. The Firefly’s machine guns started to chatter, slashing away at Russian infantry, looking terribly out of place in their uniforms. There was nothing wrong with their weapons; they were firing small anti-tank weapons, slamming away at the Bundeswehr panzers. They were ineffective against the main frontal armour, but more than a few Fireflies were struck in the rear or the tracks and crippled.

“Mow them down,” Colonel Muhlenkampf snapped, as the Bundeswehr infantry came up. They had body armour and better weapons – he saw a Russian aiming a cheap AK-47 at a German before being mown down – and they cleared the Russian infantry.

“Bastards,” the driver said. Colonel Muhlenkampf nodded. “What now, sir?”

Colonel Muhlenkampf lifted his radio and began to issue orders. Rommel would issue orders of his own, he was certain, but his force had to be protected – or it would be worn away.

Jagar studied the satellite imagery, marvelling again at the crystal-clear images. “General, they’re pulling back inside the city,” he said. Every fibre of his being demanded that the Germans follow the Russians and purge them from the city. They could do it, he was certain. “Should we order a pursuit?”

Rommel took the high cost of victory without flinching. The cost had been higher than expected, particularly with the new rounds that the Russian tanks had been issued with, capable of burning through a Firefly’s armour. Jagar knew that Rommel had expected that the enemy would succeed in developing such a weapon – after all, they’d been seeing Fireflies for a year and might even have captured a damaged model – but so soon?

“No,” Rommel said. Jagar blinked. “That’s what they want us to do.”

“Jawohl,” Jagar said, in acknowledgement of his own mistake.

“Quite,” Rommel said. The tall General smiled. “Order the force to spread out,” he said, studying the map of Baghdad. Half of the city was on the wrong side of the Tigris River, after all. “The combat engineers are to bridge the river as quickly as possible; the RAF can handle the Russian tanks that will try to interfere.”

“Back here again,” Flying Officer Mick Eccleston muttered, as the Harrier jump jet lifted off from the forward operating base at An Najaf – where the Iraqi Government was cowering after being driven from Baghdad – and headed towards Baghdad. Before the Transition, the RAF seemed to have spent most of its time attacking targets in the Middle East, attempting to finish the extermination of the terror groups.

The ground passed under the aircraft as he logged into the tactical combat net, his aircraft becoming part of a much greater whole; the entire British military machine in the Middle East. Orders appeared on the display; he was to attack Soviet armour near Baghdad. IFF signals from the Bundeswehr and other allied units appeared on the display, to avoid a blue-on-blue attack. He smiled grimly as he saw Baghdad; like many others in the Western armed forces, he had no love for the city, whatever the historians might have thought about looking at Baghdad. They would only have been happy if the Transition had taken them back to the Bronze Age.

He smiled; novels about alternate history had become very popular in Britain, once the immediate struggle for survival had concluded. He himself had read a trilogy on the subject of an entire island… although the author hadn’t predicted what had really gone back in time. He’d also read a series from the same author on the laws of nature changing, but he’d found it disturbing… and impossible.

“Harrier-one, you are cleared to enter the battlezone,” the AWACS controller said, breaking into his thoughts. “You may engage at will.”

“Yeah, yeah, you fucking control freak,” Eccleston muttered. He found it hard to be sympathetic to the controller; no pilot liked being told what to do by a man who had never flown a fighter jet himself. “Moving in now…”

Bursts of black flak appeared around the Harrier and he jerked away from the city. Ignoring a demand from the controller for a report, he triggered the launch of a bomb at the imprudent gunner, and swooped away from the threat.

“Echo-one, picking up targets now,” he reported. A line of Russian tanks were moving out of the city, towards a number of Bundeswehr IFF beacons. “Releasing bombs.”

He smiled as the bombs blasted down at the Russian tanks. A line of explosions shattered them, one by one, wiping them out. “Targets destroyed,” he reported. He checked his display. “Echo-one, I have two bombs left,” he said. “Any other targets?”

“General harassment,” the AWACS said. Eccleston nodded, picked a Soviet position within the city, and launched the bombs, swooping away to avoid the flak. Accelerating, he clawed for height, heading back to the forward base.

“A good days work,” he said, checking the display. Other aircraft were moving in, striking again and again at Soviet targets, deploying all kinds of different weapons against the enemy. “A very good day’s work.”

Royal Palace

Tehran, Iran

18^th April 1942

Stalin, in his infinitive wisdom, had decreed that General Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov would set up his base in the Royal Palace, and so General Zhukov had complied. Now he struggled frantically to make sense of the data the radio and landline transmissions had brought him, and he felt fear gnawing at his chest.

“Why haven’t they jammed us?” He asked, as he studied the map. Baghdad and Basra were being surrounded and major air attacks had developed… against targets he would have sworn on Das Kapital that the British didn’t know about. Fuel and ammunition dumps, bridges, tank repair shops… all had been hammered from the air and destroyed.

“Perhaps they no longer have that capability,” Commissioner Petrovich suggested. Zhukov glared openly at him, confident that Stalin would forgive him if he won the battle. “They might be using it against the fascists, or the latest changes in the radio sets might be preventing them from using it.”

Zhukov bit off a comment about science not being considered a worthwhile subject in whatever dung heap commissioners were spawned on. Jamming wasn’t dependent upon the Soviet forces using a particular type of system – so far experience proved that that didn’t seem to matter.

“It makes no sense,” he said, refusing to be drawn. “They are besieging the cities, and pushing out, not attempting to take them.”

He scowled. Reports were never as clear as he wanted – he’d heard that the British could get something called a direct download from their forces – but it was clear that the forces inside the two cities were being sealed inside. Small forces had been deployed to surround the cities… while the main British force probed onwards, into Iran.

“Damn,” he said mildly, thinking baleful thoughts about the devil’s grandmother. Suddenly, everything made a certain kind of sense; the British were refusing the bait and allowing the forces within the cities to die on the vine. Instead…

“They’re coming here,” he said, and cursed openly. “That’s what they’re doing.”

Commissioner Petrovich stared at him. “What can we do about it?”

“The only thing we can do,” Zhukov said. “We’re going to pull out of the east of Iran, and re-concentrate in the north.”

If we can, an annoying imp at the back of his mind whispered. “We don’t have a choice, Comrade Commissioner Petrovich,” he snapped. “We move now, or we lose the forces when they cut the country in half!”

Commissioner Petrovich scowled. “It’ll still take them at least a week to reach here…”

“At worst, yes,” Zhukov said, who privately put it at two weeks. There was no need to mention that to the Commissioner. “That’s not the point; the point is that their forward operating bases for their aircraft will be moving forward. We’re already being pounded, Comrade, and the closer they get to us, the more pounding they can dump on us. Once they get close enough to have round-the-clock coverage, we’re going to be crushed and that will be the end of the forces in the east. They have to be moved!”

Commissioner Petrovich flinched. “The Great Stalin would not be happy,” he said. “The troops and tanks have to stay where they are.”

“The Great Stalin would be even less happy if the forces are destroyed without even seeing their enemies,” Zhukov snapped. He could understand Petrovich’s point, but he knew that it was futile; the choice was to move the forces from their hopeless position, or watch them die. “I’m going to move them.”

Petrovich glared at him, but said nothing as Zhukov issued the orders. Zhukov spoke rapidly and decisively, ordering troops to start moving at once, moving the tanks as the day drew to a close. Zhukov shuddered; was this what war was like seventy years in the future? He’d hoped that he had fought the British to a draw; he now understood that the British had been concentrating on other fronts, Norway and Australia.

We’re in trouble, he thought grimly. The Soviet Union was facing a new internal enemy – the never-to-be-dead Trotsky – and now it had suffered its worst defeat since the Revolution. Not even the humiliation of the Finnish War matched this; the Finns had lacked the capability to force the war to an end on their terms. The British…

He shuddered again, his mind drawing him a picture of mushroom clouds marching across the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, of red arrows moving across the map… from Iran to Stalingrad to Moscow…

“We have to end this quickly,” he said aloud, and Petrovich didn’t disagree. “We have to move fast.”