John Schettler: Devil's Garden

In the barest moment he had to decide-take the jacket and all the power and wealth the information its computer could bring him, or leave it behind and embrace a life here, a man of this world, now and forever. He moved quickly around the desk to the window, forcing it up and looking outside to size up his prospects for escape.

Marines had landed! Marines from Kirov come to find him. Were they here to rescue or arrest him for his crime of desertion? Were they here to kill him? Then he realized that no one would have any knowledge of how he had killed the helicopter pilot. All he had to do was tell them they had a fire on board and the radio was dead…tell them the controls froze and the helo was veering off course. Then the missiles came…

What was it to be? Would he return to his old comrades on the ship; join in the fight here against the Germans and embrace his old life again? Or would he become a wolf in the fold, living among the sheep of this bygone era for the rest of his life. He would know everything that would happen, but not the details, not the dates and key times without his service jacket. He would be a prophet of doom; the man who knew tomorrow, but no one would believe him until something big happened. Then perhaps he could use his wits and make some decent money. But with the jacket he was a God. He would know everything. Svetlana could whisper in his ear and tell him what he must do, like a dark angel on his shoulder. And he would be the most powerful man in the world…

He decided.

* * *

Wellmanwas on the radio again, screaming at Kersten to keep firing “They’re cutting us to pieces with those damn mortars. Where is your artillery? Resume firing!”

He had worked his way north with his radio man Schmidt, following the line of the railway tracks and then dashing across at a point beyond Becker’s burning Panzer IIIs. By the time he reached the long, thin island that separated the tracks, the bulk of his II Battalion was arriving. He immediately gave orders, intent on renewing the attack.

“Two of Becker’s Panzers are in the tank farm. Get your men in there and take the buildings beyond that clump of trees! Bewegen sie sich! Get moving!”

Kersten answered his call with renewed fire from the 105 batteries, and now the rounds were adjusted fifty meters to fall in the open area behind the main depot. The Russian mortar teams were too exposed there, and the First Platoon mortar took a direct hit, killing everyone in the shallow earthen trench where they had set up.

All Wellman knew was that the fire from those damn 82mm mortars had slackened, and his men were again making concerted rushes through the tank farm and into the cluster of trees that screened a triangle of three buildings from the rail yard. They managed to get an MG-42 into position, and it finally put out the suppressive fire to allow the Germans to move again.

Grenadiers reached the edge of the wood, close enough to hurl potato masher grenades at the building where the Russian RPG team had blasted the German armored cars. It was enough to force the Russians out, and they fell back on a dark roofed building overshadowed by a tall, rusting water tank. The Marines in the forward building at the apex of the triangle had also been forced to withdraw, the MG-42 proving too effective as it chewed through the thin wooden walls. That, and the grumble of two more German tanks grinding their way down the long rows of oil tanks was enough to force that position.

Wellman had rushed across the tracks from the island, waving on the arriving lead company of II Battalion. Men were surging up on their motorcycles, leaping to dismount and then running low, their rifles in hand and boots and equipment clattering on the cold iron rail lines. He was building up good strength now, and it would just be a matter of attrition. He lifted his binoculars to look down the rows of oil tanks, seeing his men bravely fighting their way forward, rushing from one blasted tank to the next. Then he saw something that he did not expect, a strange looking armored fighting vehicle rounding a bend in the coastal road, and beyond it, something else the like of which he had never seen in his life. He could hear the whine of big engines, a deep roar as it came to life, a behemoth from the sea!

* * *

Troyakcould see the same cold logic as he watched the outermost building at the apex of his flank fall to the onrushing German attack. One of the two 82mm mortars had been hit, reducing his interdicting fire and allowing the Germans to build up strength and press forward again. The ground between the main rail yard warehouse and that position was too exposed to send another squad up, and it would not be enough even if he did. He was being hit by a full company on that flank, outnumbered five to one there. It would be all he could do to get his men out now, and safely back to the hovercraft. He squeezed his collar mike and gave the reluctant order.

“First Platoon. Execute a fighting withdrawal. Fall back on the second mortar team. Leave nothing behind!”

What he desperately needed now was more firepower to delay the German advance, but all the APCs were engaged in the battle for the inland road where Sergeant Silenko had been holding the line with the two PT-76 tanks the BTR-50s, and another 60 Marines. All Troyak had close by was the hovercraft with its twin 14.5mm machine gun mount. Then he remembered Fedorov.

“Fedorov! Where are you?”

The reply came quickly in his earbud . “Look over your shoulder, Sergeant.”

Troyak looked and saw the ZSU-23 coming around the bend in the coastal road. Firepower! He heard the turret motors whir, saw the four gleaming barrels depress and then quickly gave an order. “All teams go to ground for covering fire!”

The ZSU began to pour it on, the big 23mm shells ripping up the building the Germans had just occupied, blasting through doors, shattering windows, riddling walls and sending wood splinters flying like shrapnel. A German tank forging a way along the rows of oil tanks was in a position to sight the Russian APC and was turning its turret to take a shot, but not before the radar guided guns found it first. The tank was jolted by a rain of metal, a sustained burst of 120 rounds that pot marked its frontal armor, leaving deep welts there, though it could not penetrate the plating reinforced to a 70mm thickness.

The shock and concussion of being inside a metal box hit by 120 rounds was considerable, however, and it gave one of the crewmen in Fedorov’s APC just the time he needed to shoulder an anti-tank missile and send it screaming at the lead tank. The HEAT round made short work of the armor, the resulting explosion literally ripped the turret off the tank’s chassis and sent it spinning against a nearby oil tank with a loud crash.

The Shilka had saved the moment, and Fedorov looked to see Sergeant Troyak pumping his fist as he ran up to the ZSU. “Good job Colonel! But we, can’t hold here much longer if they’re willing to trade casualties for ground.”

“Prepare to withdraw, Sergeant. I need to check with Zykov!”

He slipped down into the interior of the ZSU and began to call. “Fedorov to Zykov, come in. What is your status? Over.”

There was a burst of static, and then Zykov’s voice was heard in return. “We found the camp commandant,” he said. “Quite dead, and with Orlov’s service jacket.”

“His service Jacket?”

“Yes, sir. Stuffed in the Commissar’s mouth. The man’s neck was broken. It was clear that Orlov may have been here, but there’s no sign of him. We’re still searching every room, but without the jacket to home in on…”

“Keep looking, Corporal. We’re running out of time. Dobrynin has the Mi-26 back up and he says the Germans are turning the far left flank where the NKVD has been trying to hold that hill. If they get round there then they will be south of us on the road to Baku. Report as soon as you complete your search.”