need it.
Knyaz picked his four men and skied down the hill to the road that lay half-buried in the fresh snow. Half- buried perhaps, but the tracks there told him everything he wanted to know. The area was still quiet when he rejoined the rest of his unit.
“Bratischkas, we must move back quickly. There is information we must relay to our headquarters.
“Not supplies than.” Batov’s observation was almost superfluous.
“Not supplies. Tanks and armored infantry carriers. I would say in at least battalion strength. Half tracks certainly, the tanks are Panzer IVKs I think. With Ostketten.”
Batov nodded. The fascist Panzer Vs, the Panthers, had the reputation but the Panzer IVs were still the backbone of the fascist tank units. Especially here on Kola, where the heavier tanks had grave difficulty moving. Fitted with the specially-designed Ostketten wide tracks, the IVKs were almost as agile as the T-34s, A lot more so than the heavier fascist tanks. Their interleaved suspension usually clogged with mud and snow, then froze solid. If German armor was on the move, that was something their headquarters needed to know fast.
That was when Knyaz heard something he hadn’t for months. Not since Nikolay Dmitrevich Dyatlenko had been killed by a fascist sniper. Dyatlenko had not been a particularly good soldier but he’d had one unequalled virtue, an ability to emit sustained farts of unparalleled volume and duration. In one competition, the artillery had produced a worthy challenger; he’d been routed by Dyatlenko, who’d managed a remarkable 47 seconds. The artillery unit had offered a double or quits on whether Dyatlenko could beat a minute. He had, with five seconds to spare. It had been agreed afterwards that nobody should light a match in the dugout for at least 30 minutes.
Only, this wasn’t the sound of a soldier passing gas. The noise came from high overhead, passing from the south on its way north. The rumbling growl grew as it neared, Knyaz mentally begged it not to stop until it was past his little unit. Everybody knew that when the engine on the fascist Fi-103 flying bomb stopped, the little unmanned aircraft was about to crash to earth. To his relief, the engine kept working. The flying bomb passed on its way to wherever it had been sent. In the silence that seemed to follow after its passing, Knyaz listened hard. He was rewarded, in the distance he could hear other flying bombs on their way north. This also was something that needed to be passed back soon, but he had a feeling that headquarters would find out about the flying bombs before he could tell them.
“Well, you were right Stuyvesant. We’ve had a brief message from Wild Bill. The German fleet is out, he’s exchanging strikes with it now. Next time you have plans for my fleet, tell me before telling the President. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir. My apologies. The information we had came out of our economic and industrial espionage contacts and was relayed to President Dewey as such. It sort of grew from there. I should have raised the matter with you first.”
King stared at Stuyvesant and grunted. At first, the man had headed a relatively small section of the great strategic planning apparatus of the U.S. military forces. In the early days, it had seemed unimportant; a group tasked with assessing German economic strengths and weaknesses. Then, the whole war had turned out to be a matter of economics, industrial strength and production. Soon, it had become apparent that enemy moves could be predicted by a study of their industrial production and how that production was allocated. What had been a small, insignificant operation had quietly grown into a very influential part of the whole strategic planning system. That had been helped by the demonstrated ability of Stuyvesant and his team to predict German strategic decisions months before they were carried out.
“Do that. I don’t appreciate being blindsided.” King glared at Stuyvesant. He seemed remarkably unfazed by the attention. That was another reason why King disliked the man. It just wasn’t natural the way he absorbed everything that was thrown in his direction. Stuyvesant was probably the coldest fish that King had ever met and that the Admiral did not like. King accepted that Stuyvesant was the right man for the whole United States Strategic Bombardment Commission business. He’d seen the film of the Trinity test at Alamogordo. If ever a job needed a man who was as cold as a dead fish, planning the use of those hideous things was it. That didn’t change the fact that Stuyvesant made his skin crawl.
“Sir, is there any word on the progress of the battle?”
“None. There won’t be until it’s over. Wild Bill has better things to do that keeping us informed of tactical minutia. Filling the airwaves with that rubbish is a German specialty. Thank God. Anyway, what did you want to see me about?”
“Admiral, the President has advised you that we can expect to see the war continue until at least mid- 1947?”
“He has.” That was another thing Admiral King disliked. 18 months more, at least, of this futile slaughter. His carrier air groups were being battered by the losses incurred in the strikes on Western Europe. The factories were keeping pace with the attrition but there was little margin for the unexpected. If the battle in the North Atlantic butchered the Navy air groups badly, it might take months to recover.
“Well, Sir, we need to put together the naval construction plans for that period. The 1940/41 and 42/43 production programs are well advanced. The last Essex class carriers are entering the fleet now, the second group of Gettysburg class ships are proceeding well. They won’t be finished by mid-47 though. The last Iowas are completing, the first of the Des Moines and Roanoke class cruisers should be entering service in ‘47. The question is, where do we go from there? Assuming Germany doesn’t exist anymore of course.”
King leaned back and thought. The prospects of post-war naval construction hadn’t even occurred to him. He’d been 64 years old when the war had started but it already seemed as if it has lasted for his lifetime. Peace seemed a far-off and distant thing. Briefly, he thought of the round trip his railway pass his father, a railway mechanic, had given him when he’d been appointed to Annapolis. “In case he changed his mind” his father had said. King had never used the return portion although he still had it. Suddenly, he felt tempted to make that return trip.
“The new focus of our operations will be the Pacific, obviously. That’ll require a new fleet train.” King settled back in his seat and allowed his mind to run over the differences between the current war being thought in the Atlantic and a likely war against Japan in the Pacific. Slowly, he began to piece together how his Navy would have to change to meet the new environment. In the back of his mind, he still pictured the battering match going on somewhere south of Iceland.
CHAPTER FIVE: THE BLIZZARD
“Sir, we have final loss figures from TG58.5. First wave was 64 FV-2s, 32 F4Us, 32 AD-1s. Losses including those that didn’t make it home or are too badly damaged to repair and were pushed over the side, 26 FV-2s, 12 F4Us, 11 AD-1s. Second wave, 32 F4Us, 64 AD-1s, 32 AM-1s. Losses: eight F-4Us, six AD-1s, nine AM-1s. Grand total, 72 aircraft lost out of 256. The pilots are claiming five carriers, three battleships, four cruisers and twenty destroyers.”
Halsey snorted. “28 percent loss rate. How many pilots picked up? And what do the radar search planes say?”
“We’ve got floatplanes and Mariners out of Iceland looking. They’ve reported a few pickups. As for the Germans? It’s a wipeout Sir. Intel says three carriers, and 12-15 support ships were in the Scouting Group. Whatever was there, it’s pretty much all gone. We’ve won that one Sir. As for Hunter-Killer Group Sitka, both carriers were hit.
“Who commanded the Corsair group?” Halsey’s voice was pure ice and acid.
“Lieutenant Commander Kellen, Sir.”
“Tell Mister Kellen I wish to see him the moment his aircraft has landed. Find out who is the best
