David Robbins - Last Citadel

‘Driver, keep backing, keep turning!’

‘Ja’

The damage to the starboard bogeys was bad but no worse than the port wheels. The Tiger could still stumble along slowly, could still get out of this valley. But there was nothing Luis could do to avoid this crazy T-34 closing in. He could have Balthasar try to shoot him down, but that would delay dealing with the other, more dangerous Red tank. The Russian driver continued to skid around to the right, stubbornly staying in front of the pivoting Tiger. With every meter, the Russian tightened his course.

Luis could not use binoculars to check on the shooting T-34 out there in the mist, he had to cut his eyes back and forth between the two attackers. Across the sunflower field, the shooter’s power was down; he was aiming at the retreating Tiger manually. Balthasar, with all his hydraulics running, ought to be able to fix on the Russian gunner first, if Luis could keep everyone calm.

What to do with this charging cabron? Kill him, too.

‘Bow gunner!’

‘Ja!’

‘Aim at the driver’s hatch!’

The machine-gun in the Tiger’s glacis plate added its bursts to the rising din of those desperate seconds. Bullets scorched out of the ball-mounted barrel, tattooing against the wheeling T-34. The rounds ricocheted, striking sparks from the armor. The Russian tank was too much broadside for the bow gunner to have a shot into the open driver’s hatch. The Russian bobbed and weaved and drew closer, still running ahead of Balthasar’s traversing turret. Luis shook his head at what he saw: this damned driver was only seventy-five meters away now and gaining speed, insanity! What is he doing? I’m simply going to kill the shooter’s tank – again! – then I’m going to kill him! What is he doing? Why? Something, something is wrong.

He tore his gaze from the charging tank to glance down the length of the Tiger’s cannon. Across the valley the shooter would be in Balthasar’s sights in moments. Just fifteen more degrees clockwise. Come on, Luis urged. His thin chest tightened. Come on ! He couldn’t determine through the haze if the Red gunner had them in his own sights yet. But he had no time left to focus on the shooter. Here came the other one.

The speeding Russian tank leveled out, no more dodges marred his approach. He charged straight in, on a diagonal at the Tiger’s starboard fender. The angle from the right was too sharp, he was beyond the bow gunner’s reach. Luis heard the crazy driver pop his clutch and shift gears, hitting full stride.

‘Driver!’ Luis hollered, but he had no orders. Someone, several voices, screamed, ‘Look out! He’s… !’

He’s what? Luis clenched his hands on the cupola rim, bracing for the impact. His mind raced, fast as the charging T-34. He’s what? Going to ram us? And seconds after the minor shock of it we’re still going to blow up his damned mate across the field; then we’re going to pull back from the collision, depress Balthasar’s cannon and kill him. What the hell is he…?

In the last mote of time, before the final meter between the T-34 and the Tiger slammed shut, Luis understood.

He’s not crazy. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

The Russian hit hard. He rammed the middle of his glacis plate into the Tiger’s right-hand fender. Luis was jolted but his massive tank held its ground, it weighed more than twice the T-34.

Luis roared, ‘Back! Keep backing!’

The Tiger tried to pull away from the Russian, the huge Maybach engine strained to revolve the tracks over injured wheels. The screech of metal against metal was excruciating. The T-34 had hit with so much speed and momentum it lodged itself against the Tiger’s starboard drive sprocket. The right side of the Tiger was tangled and numbed.

‘Driver, port tracks! Full reverse!’

The left-hand treads spun. The Tiger began to peel away from the T-34.

The Russian would not allow this. He hit his gas and the gap closed instantly. The T-34 kept its weight butted against the starboard drive sprocket. With just one working track, the Tiger could only drag itself in a circle.

‘He’s not letting go!’ The driver cried out the obvious.

Balthasar shouted, ‘Captain!’

Luis did not need to hear Balthasar’s next words. He saw for himself the extent of what the loco Russian had done, the method in his madness.

The T-34’s cannon had cut in front of the Tiger’s long gun, the two long barrels were crossed like fencing swords. Luis’s turret was stopped dead, the hydraulic traverse whined in frustration. As long as the tanks stayed jammed together, Balthasar could not rotate clockwise any farther, not the last few crucial degrees toward the shooter across the field.

Luis leaned forward in his cupola to peer down on the smashing T-34. The smaller tank had both tracks stroking wildly, kicking up mud and bits of ruined flowers, as though racing over the valley instead of plunging only torturous centimeters. The two tanks spit billows of exhaust, their squalling engines pushed and pulled but without decision, they were fused as much by force as willpower. Luis leaned out to his right, to look down into the Russian’s open hatch. He caught a glimpse of matted gray hair. The face tilted up at him. It was sharp-nosed, grimy and determined. Luis wanted to ask, Is this how you wanted to end up, old man? Here, with me? He yearned to climb down and poke his head into the hatch, to tell the driver – not such a lunatic, now, it seemed – to go away, that Luis didn’t want to end up here, either.

The driver bared his teeth up at Luis, either a smile or grim intent. The Tiger kept trying to disengage, bucking and humping backward, both tanks howled. The old man would not let loose. His partner the shooter was still out there, aiming at a Tiger that was being wrestled to a standstill. But the shooter’s tank was immobile, and the Tiger still had its thick frontal armor facing him.

Maybe he won’t shoot, Luis thought. The one out there. Maybe he’s waiting for reinforcements to come teeming after us. Or maybe he won’t shoot and risk killing this old man. This what… beloved commander, friend, uncle? Or father?

‘Yes,’ Luis said, and the word was buried, even he could not hear it through the clamor of the entangled machines.

Maybe the shooter would wait. But Luis could not.

He tore his cloth helmet from the intracom, leaving the cable looped over the back of his chair. He hoisted his legs out of the cupola and climbed onto the broad turret deck. He drew his Luger sidearm into a blood-crusted hand. The Tiger rollicked from the ramming Russian. Luis knelt to steady himself. He inched forward like a sailor in a tempest. He raised the Luger and snapped off a shot at the T-34’s open driver’s hatch. The Russian’s head ducked, the round glanced off the armor.

Luis crept closer to the rim of the deck for a better look at the Russian. There was the old man’s chest, his gray coveralls.

Luis raised the Luger.

‘Bastante !’ he yelled down at the Russian. ‘ Bastante, cabron !’

The gun wavered with the swaying deck. His bloodied finger tightened on the trigger.

The Tiger’s turret moved beneath him.

What? Luis muttered, ‘ Que pasa ?’

He pulled his eye off the pistol to look down under his boots.

The turret was turning! The long .88 barrel pivoted counterclockwise, freed from the Russian’s blocking cannon.

Damn it! Balthasar couldn’t wait! Stupid! Without orders the gunner was traversing the turret the opposite direction, rotating all the way around to the left for a shot at the Red shooter.

Balthasar, the thousand-year Aryan, was turning the Tiger’s vulnerable side armor to the sunflower field!