Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (34 page)

Köster was technically correct in his reasoning, but incorrect overall, as he didn’t understand the full nature of the circumstances.

Kon would have taken the fight on further, but his brief was already exceeded, and the safety of the experimental IS-IV was of greater concern to him.

His map was an old German military one, which was far superior to the ones his own leadership expected him to fight with.

“There’s a track… through the woods… we’ll use that… signal the grape to get back on the tank.”

Morozov stuck his head out the turret and waved at the infantry NCO. The soldiers bolted back towards the IS-IV, keen to leave what was clearly a tank-rich environment.

Kon spoke into the intercom.

“Leonid, as soon as the infantry are back on, we’ll move off… head towards the woods down this road… when you get to the trees, turn left and follow the tree line… the track will be on the right… about sixty metres or so… straight in and out, as quickly as we can… downhill and to the right… I’ll reassess then.”

The track was overgrown, and visibility was not great, hardly enough to remain on the track as far as Klaus Meier and Leonid Kartsev were concerned.

The two tanks entered different ends of the one hundred and fifty metre long track at almost precisely the same moment.

What happened would, much later, be described as a replication of a joust of old, with two armoured knights charging each other, flat out, with lances raised.

The foliage receded, permitting both tanks to see each other.

The gap gave little time for anything but a snap shot.

The IS-IV shot first, Morozov firing purely on instinct.

The muzzle flash from the 88mm overwhelmed his vision, and the immense clang on the ISs turret indicated a hit.

The screams from outside indicated that things had gone badly for the infantry clinging to the heavy tank.

The 130mm had screamed inches over the top of the Tiger’s turret.

Kon and Köster now shared half a second for a decision on a matter of life and death.

They both decided on the same course of action.

“Ram!”

Kartsev and Meier were mirror images, huddling in their driving positions as they accelerated towards the other steel beast, conscious that nothing good was going to come of the collision.

“Hang on!”

The gun tubes rubbed briefly as the distance closed and the tanks smashed into each other, nose to nose… but not quite.

The track was uneven, and the piece of dirt on which the Tiger raced raised itself slightly, whereas, under the IS-IV it fell away, creating a difference of roughly a foot or so, but a foot was enough to give Lohengrin the advantage; that, and the Russian tank’s angled bow.

The height difference allowed the Tiger to rise up on the front of the IS, its momentum driving the fifty-six tons of metal underneath the huge 130mm barrel, causing it to deflect and bend, and rendering it useless.

The impact was less jarring than that with the ZSU in many ways; certainly less destructive on Lohengrin’s crew.

The same could not be said for the IS-IV and her servers.

Hero of the Soviet Union Sergeant David Kolesnikov, experienced a nano-second of abject terror before the heavy breech of the 130mm was displaced, mashing his torso against the steel turret wall.

Death was instant.

Sergeant Oleg Morozov had no such luck.

The displacing trunnions sent metal work flying in all directions, and one piece smashed into his forehead, opening up the skull and revealing its contents.

His screams echoed through the huge tank and he clawed at Kon, covering him with blood and other less savoury matter.

Kartsev, closest to the point of impact, was unharmed, but reduced to tears by the sound of Morozov’s suffering.

“Kill him… for the love of God… kill him…”

He became almost unhinged by the screaming, the animal-like squeals of suffering.

Morozov was flailing around now, his sightless eyes betraying him as he clashed with the internals of the tank.

The snap of his arm as he smashed it against the breech was like a gunshot.

Kon, his dislocated shoulder preventing him from reaching for his revolver, could not help the dying man.

Metal started to squeal, adding its awful sound to the pitiful Morozov’s, and Kon tried to clear his head, realising it had to be the enemy tank moving off.

He had nothing to fight it with, but he would ram it again if he had to.

The screaming ceased in an instant.

The wounded gunner had dashed his head against the turret side and driven a small bracket into the exposed soft tissue.

Still he did not die, but death would embrace him within minutes, and do so quietly.

Kon looked through the vision block on his cupola.

“Leonid… we need to ram him again!”

The engine turned over, but refused to start, sending black clouds out the rear and causing the four surviving infantrymen to cough and splutter.

Enough was enough, and the broken riflemen headed into the trees, intent on escape.

Kon pushed himself upwards, his shoulder sending shivers of pain through his body.

The object of his attention, the 12.7mm DShK machine-gun, had a curious curve to the end of its barrel, enough to render it inoperable.

“Ram the bastard! Ram the bastard!”

“Comrade Starshina. The engine’s dead. We can’t move.”

The Tiger… Kon recognised the type now… sat there, its own engine turning over, gun barrel pointed at the IS-IV, and his counterpart revealing his eyes over the top of a hatch cover.

“Mudaks!”

Kon lapsed into silence before speaking in a softer tone.

“Can you get out, Leonid?”

The clanging sound of metal reached Kon’s ears.

“Yes. My hatch is fine, Comrade.”

“Then I order you to make your escape, Leonid. Move!”

The driver pushed himself up slowly, not wishing to break the uneasy truce that seemed to be in place.

He moved up onto the turret and looked at Kon.

“And you, Comrade? Are you coming?”

Kon smiled and coughed a little blood.

“I think I have some unfinished business, Leonid. You go… I’ll be along as soon as I can.”

The driver nodded and rolled off the turret, slid onto the track and was immediately lost from sight.

Which left Kon with a dislocated shoulder and probably more, stood in the turret of a disabled tank, and facing a Tiger tank without a working gun to his name.

‘Hardly fucking ideal.’

He laughed, and again the blood came.

“It won’t fire!”

Köster looked at Jarome’s hasty repair and it still looked intact.

“Again!”

The frustration was tangible on both their parts.

“It won’t fucking fire!”

“Scheisse!”

Köster pushed himself up and out, again cradling the MP-40 for protection.

The driver climbed out of the enemy tank and spoke to the figure in the turret, before rolling off and disappearing into the woods.

Clearly, the big Russian tank was crippled, its gun clearly destroyed and the crew abandoning her.

The possibility of capturing the prize suggested itself to Köster.

“Get the gun working as soon as. I’m going to have a look at that bastard over there. Klaus, cover me.”

He was up and out before the surviving crew could raise any objections, although the decision seemed rather foolish as mortars shells started to drop nearby.

Running in a crouched position, Lohengrin’s commander reached the IS-IV and scrambled up the same front armour his tank had risen up on a few minutes beforehand.

The marks of its presence were clear to see.

The enemy tank commander had dropped out of sight as soon as he saw the Legion NCO approaching, but popped up just as quickly, almost earning himself a face full of 9mm parabellum.

A blank face greeted Köster’s request for ‘hands up.’

“Ruki Verkh! Ruki Verkh!”

His time on the Russian Front gave him enough experience to remember the Russian words.

The Soviet tank commander raised one arm, pointing at the other and grimacing, his mind full of the knowledge that this was one of the hated SS, masquerading in the uniform of France.

Köster nodded his understanding, whilst he wondered how the man could still smile with his tank smashed around him and dead soldiers all over it.

There was something in the man’s eyes…

Something fatalistic…

Something that spoke of duty done…

Something that gave him a moment’s concern…

The smell hit him, the slightest waft of some sort of burni…

Kon’s smile turned to alarm, as he understood that the German legionnaire had recognised it for what it was.

“You fucking bastard!”

Köster threw himself backwards, not caring where he might land, desperate to get away from the demolition charge the Russian had set.

He failed.

The IS-IV exploded before Meier’s eyes, his vision shot by the bright colours as the internal charge wrecked the big tank.

He retained enough sight to see the heavy turret rise into the air and crash back down onto the burning hull.

Meier and Jarome were up and out of ‘Lohengrin’ in an instant and hit the track almost at the same time, moving forward in search of their commander.

They found him quickly and, in some ways, wished they hadn’t.

Naked as the day he was born, save for his boots, Köster was bleeding from a number of wounds, and burnt all down his left side, the side that was nearest the tank as he had twisted in mid-air.

“Oh fuck… Rudi… Rudi… can you hear me…”

Jarome felt for a pulse as Meier slid his hands under Köster and took a hold.

“We’ve got to move away from that thing,” he nodded at the burning tank, the fire growing more intense by the second.