John Schettler - Grand Alliance

Kinlan thought long and hard about everything Fedorov had told him. Yes, the Germans had another 200 divisions out there if they needed them. Yes, he had every confidence he could make a difference here, but for how long? His tanks had ready ammo of 50 rounds, and he had another 100 rounds per tank stored with the supply train. The Warriors had 180 rounds with twice that in reserve, and the Scimitars 160 with two reload ammo sets in train. The missile inventories were lighter. They would have to make every round count, so the first thing he did was brief his senior officers and tell them to pass the word. There was trouble up north, and the brigade may soon be going into action. There was no telling if they would ever see friendly ammo stocks again, so he put out a standing order to make every round count and be stubborn about it.

O’Connor was the next problem, arriving in twenty minutes for his tour. Kinlan had one last moment with the Russian Captain, about how the command structure would be worked out here.

“I know you will think to be independent,” said Fedorov in English when Popski left them, “but in the end we must realize we are here to advise and support British war efforts.” He left out some articles, but he got his message across. “Their senior officers are well known… much respected. We cannot replace them.”

“Yet we know every twist and turn this war will take,” said Kinlan slowly, realizing tanks and ammunition were not the only assets he had in hand.

“We know what happens once,” said Fedorov, knowing he got the verb tense wrong. “Yet things are different. Things have changed this time, and we will cause even more to change. Yet we will not plan everything-control this whole war. They must do that. We can only help them.”

“I understand,” said Kinlan. “I will do my best to support these men here, and their officers. I swore to serve the British Army, the men under me, and the crown and government that put them here. I guess that still holds true, no matter where I find myself. Now, I’ll want to make a brief announcement on the brigade comm-system.”

He put out an all units message to expect a tour from a Lieutenant General. “And in case any of you limeys haven’t heard,” he finished, “a Lieutenant General ranks a Brigadier, so stand smart and step lively! Kinlan out.”

“Good of you to show me the brigade,” said O’Connor. “I like to get acquainted with the men I send into this desert. The job’s not easy but they do their best. You say you’re 7th Armored? I drove that division fairly hard a while back, but with good results. We kicked the Italians right out of Egypt when they had the cheek to cross the border, and then chased them half way across Libya for good measure. The only problem is it seems we’ve hit another rough patch with the Germans showing up uninvited like this. I’m afraid I’ve taken a bit of an early bath.”

“We’ll see what we can do about that, sir,” said Kinlan, a head taller than O’Connor, and dark haired in contrast to the other man’s grey-white hair.”

“All the men are dressed out in this new kit. It looks to be very efficient. When was it issued?”

“Just before we deployed, sir. Yes… It’s new, as are many other things in the brigade. We’ve new equipment and vehicles to show you today.”

“Then Tiger Convoy made it through?”

Kinlan did not know what O’Connor was referring to, but Fedorov did. He was walking just behind the two generals, with Popski, who was quietly translating what was said at Fedorov’s request. It was the Winston Special convoy Churchill had insisted on to reinforce Wavell with new tanks, but it was not supposed to happen until May of that year. It would transport Matildas and the A15 Crusader tanks to Egypt, taking the short but dangerous route through the Mediterranean, but that would not be possible now that the Germans controlled Gibraltar. For O’Connor to mention it meant the British must be planning to sent the convoy early, as it would have to travel all the way around the Cape of Good Hope.

“I’m sorry, but I haven’t heard anything about that,” said Kinlan.

“Not in the loop yet,” said O’Connor. “Don’t worry, Mister Kinlan, you’ll wish you were out of it once they do drag you in. Tiger Convoy was supposed to be delivering fresh tanks so we can get 7th Armored back on its feet. Yet here you are, as far from the main front as one is likely to get out here. Why were you sent here, General? We hardly need a brigade of armor here for Siwa. And you certainly weren’t sent here to look for me.”

“No sir, I only learned of your disappearance when Captain Fedorov informed me of his mission. It seems I’ve a good deal to learn here, but I just follow orders. In fact, I had orders to move to Mersa Matruh.”

“Better there than here. You say you have armor with you? Well I’d give my right arm for a good tank battalion or two these days.”

“Well sir… I think I can fill the bill for you. The unit is just ahead; just over that rise.”

He gestured as they began to climb the low hill that screened the terrain ahead and, as they crested the rise, he stood in silence, one eye on O’Connor, the other on the Royal Scotts Dragoons. There sat four Sabres of heavy Challenger II tanks, sixty in all, in a square of steel dressed out in khaki on the desert below. O’Connor stared at them, his face registering complete surprise.

“My god,” he said quietly, the sheer quantity and mass of the formation striking him. Then he leaned forward, taking a closer look. “What in the world? Those aren’t Matildas, nor any cruiser tank I’ve ever seen. Why… they’re enormous!”

“A new design, sir,” said Kinlan. “Our very latest model. 7th Brigade received them for this mission to Libya. Shall we have a closer look.”

O’Connor had already started down the hill, as if drawn by some powerful magnetism, and Kinlan looked over his shoulder at Fedorov, giving him a wink as they followed. The General walked right up to the nearest tank, his eyes wide with amazement as the scale of the beast became more evident as he approached. The crew there were standing to attention, saluting crisply as he came up, which he returned, his eyes transfixed by the awesome machine in front of him.

“God in his heaven,” he whispered. “That’s twice the size of a Matilda, and that gun would make a 25 pounder blush. What is it?”

“Lieutenant?” Kinlan looked at the commander of his First Sabre, Lieutenant Matt Gibson.

“Sir! This is the new smoothbore BAE-120 conversion, based on the Rheinmetall 120mm L55. First Sabre was the leading unit selected for this upgrade.”

The gun weighed over 7000 pounds and exceeded 17 feet in length, enough to drop the jaw of any old tank warrior of the 1940s. Popski was now seeing the tank up close for the first time as well, and he was just shaking his head in complete awe.

“Did you say 120 millimeters?” O’Connor gave the man a look. The Matilda only mounted a 40mm gun.

“Yes sir.”

“Artillery? Mounted on a tank hull? My god, the damn thing is enormous! Then this is a mobile artillery gun?”

“Not quite,” said Kinlan. “It’s primary ordinance is anti-tank and AP rounds. Tell the General what we have in the cupboard, Lieutenant. What are our performance metrics?” Kinlan prompted his Sabre commander again.

“Yes sir. This gun will fire armor piercing fin stabilized discarding sabot rounds, HESH-2 high explosive rounds, and the new CHARM-4 depleted uranium rounds developed specifically for the smoothbore. CHARM-3 was the rifled barrel variant for the old L30 gun system. Effective firing range is 4000 meters, but one of our boys hit a T-60 a good while back, and knocked it out at 5200 meters.”