StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Prologue

[Ukraine, October 7th, 1941]


Dirt and grass were ground flat into a muddy mixture under the gnashing treads of the tank, chewing the fertile loam of the Ukraine up as the thirty-plus ton tank drove steadily to the Northeast. A dissipating roostertail of diesel exhaust marked the vehicle's path as well, each unsteady chug of the V-2 engine expelling a fresh plume of sooty smoke. Across the mantlet of the T-31's turret, the slogan "Death to the Slavocrats" was painted in large white Cyrillic characters, and alongside the Red Star and serial number upon the side was painted a crude depiction of a serpent being gutted by a knife, with the inscription "Snake Skinner" under it in smaller type. Inside the Snake Skinner's turret, the tank's commander nudged the driver with his boot.

"Kostya, How much farther can you push this beast?" Iosef asked, clearly unsettled by the whine of the tank's fuel pump as it sucked at the last droplets of diesel in its fuel tank. In response, the driver could only shrug.

"I do not know, Comrade Serzhant. I cannot promise you even another kilometer," Private Konstantin replied, his hands still gripping the steering wheel of the tank, knuckles white, as though he could keep the vehicle moving through sheer force of will.

"Fuck. Stop the tank," Iosef cursed in frustration. Kostya promptly killed the throttle, letting the tank grind to a halt. Iosef undogged his cupola hatch, and then stood to look out through it, eyes searching the surrounding countryside. He reached down and uncapped his binoculars, focusing in on a more distant sight behind them. The cheaply mass-produced optics provided only a fuzzy image at the greater range, but it was more than sufficient to satisfy Iosef that the slowly-approaching shape he'd seen was not a Drakian Hond, but instead a obviously Soviet truck. He waited until it neared, before waving an arm to flag down the GAZ, which came to a halt alongside the T-31. The driver leaned out the window, meeting Iosef with his face and the muzzle of a PPSh.

"What seems to be the problem, comrade tanker?" the driver asked, sounding amicable enough, but the muzzle of the burp gun didn't sway. The Draka had their paratroopers and commandoes running wild through the Ukraine ahead of their main forces, and it certainly wouldn't be outside of the realm of possibility for them to set up an elaborate ambush to cut down the number of retreating Soviets that would make it to the Dnepr.

"We're out of fuel, Comrade," Iosef explained, reaching down and slapping the side of an empty jerry can of fuel along the turret's flank, producing a loud, hollow noise. "Do you have any to share?" he continued, with a hopeful note in his voice. The driver of the GAZ shook his head.

"We probably do not have enough to reach Kiev ourselves - certainly we do not have enough for that beast," the driver replied, shaking his head. This provoked a stream of fluent curses from the Snake Skinner's commander, who then ducked his head back into the turret, after signaling for the truck to wait in place.

"Comrades, it is clear to me that we cannot proceed any further. Therefore, we will follow the orders given by Comrades Krasnov and Shaposhnikov - We will leave nothing for the slavocrats to capture in the Ukraine... including this tank," Iosef's proclamation brought despaired groans from the crew. To have fought the Snakes for so long with this mighty steel beast, and to have to abandon him now!

"We can pull the breechblock out," the gunner suggested, "And if our friends have a grenade, we can stick that in the ammunition storage. The zmeii will never be able to use him again!" He had a grim smile upon his face, as if proud of his ingenuity in putting an end to their beloved machine.

"Nyet," Iosef shook his head, disappointed, "Our Comrades say to leave NOTHING for the Draka. They could still melt our tank down for steel if we did it as you suggest. Driver, there is a lake two hundred meters to our left. We will scuttle the tank in there, where they will never find it. Bogden, Lev, get in the truck."

Kostya gulped and nodded, affectionately patting the inside of the tank. Sorry, good friend - I didn't want it to end this way. He waited until he felt his superior's boot tap against his padded leather helmet again, and then he put Snake Skinner in drive again, twisting the steering column to guide the tank towards the water. One-handed, he undogged the hatch above himself, and prepared to scramble out as they made it to the edge of the fairly small lake. Above him, he heard his commander pull himself out and jump off the side of the tank. Kostya waited a few moments more, until he heard splashing, and the unsteady shifting of wet mud under the weight of the tank. Then, he stood, and hauled himself out in a hurry, slamming the hatch shut behind him. He leapt to the side, awkwardly splashing into the water. Kostya crawled onto the shore, turning his head to watch as Snake Skinner disappeared beneath the water in a flurry of small bubbles as the engine cut out, slowly sliding towards the muddy bottom of the lake.

He stared until the bubbles stopped appearing, when a shout from Iosef caught his attention, snapping Kostya out of it. With a sigh, he sullenly trudged back to the truck, climbing in and taking the last spot on the wooden benches that served as seats. The truck began to rumble off a moment later, uncomfortably transmitting every bump in the uneven ground through the suspension into its passengers, as it carried them towards Kiev... and fate.

Going for a rewrite of this one?

Sea Skimmer wrote:Going for a rewrite of this one?

Hm? Well, it was never actually posted in the first place, beyond being a WIP of "Hey guys, tell me if this sucks or not", in a private forum. Bit of a slight rewrite occurred as well, due to some minor data loss.

This story reminds me of an episode Tank Overhaul where you had hobbyists that rebuild a damaged Panther tank that was scuttled in a deep Polish lake in the dying phases of the Eastern Front.

How well up til 1943 are the Drakans doing against the Soviet Union? How many aircraft and tanks do the Soviets lose in this ATL, when the Domination launches its equivalent of Operation Barbarossa? I would say that Drakans has the most modern airforce that sweeps away most of Russia's air force that largely employs obsolete fighters, while the Soviet Union has the best individual tanks (in terms of protection and firepower) but that is countered by the Drakans having the best collective tank force that employs more dynamic tactics (not unlike the invasion of France in 1940 from the OTL, but the Hond III is a rough match to the T-31, while the Hond IV is superior to the T-31 but inferior to the more advanced KS heavy tanks).

I would say Krasnov's Russia is in a similar predicament to OTL France, in that he has a mostly well equipped and well prepared military, but it is employing a bad strategic plan that is compounded by the Red Army being undermotorized and having overstretched industry behind it (which, not unlike in OTL 1941, is caught in the process of modernising the Red Army).

Big Orange wrote:This story reminds me of an episode Tank Overhaul where you had hobbyists that rebuild a damaged Panther tank that was scuttled in a deep Polish lake in the dying phases of the Eastern Front.

And here I was hoping that people wouldn't be able to guess the whole plot of the story already

How well up til 1943 are the Drakans doing against the Soviet Union? How many aircraft and tanks do the Soviets lose in this ATL, when the Domination launches its equivalent of Operation Barbarossa?

Numbers? Don't know, ask Shep or Marina. And don't forget that we're better alternate-historians than Turtledove - we're not going to directly analogue World War 2 onto different terrain. *Wanders off muttering about Stalingrad and Pittsburgh*

I would say that Drakans has the most modern airforce that sweeps away most of Russia's air force that largely employs obsolete fighters, while the Soviet Union has the best individual tanks (in term or protection and firepower) but that is counted by the Drakans having the best collective tank force that employs more dynamic tactics (not unlike the invasion of France in 1940 from the OTL, but the Hond III is a rough match to the T-31, while the Hond IV is superior to the T-31 but inferior to the more advanced KS heavy tanks).

I would say Krasnov's Russia is in a similar predicament to OTL France, in that he has a mostly well equipped and well prepared military, but it is employing a bad strategic plan that is compounded by the Red Army being undermotorized and having overstretched industry behind it (which, not unlike in OTL 1941, is caught in the process of modernising the Red Army).

Well, by 1938, the Draka have successfully upgunned and uparmored the Hond III to something sort of resembling a Panther/Pershing, minus the excellent armor, and it's safe to say they outclass the T-31, even in its upgraded form as the T-31/85. As for the KS- series, those are heavy tanks and are deployed in that fashion. And those, of course, end up being played with very roughly by the Hond IV , which initially are also deployed as heavy tanks (Albeit rather numerous ones), until 1942's introduction of the new engines to allow their use as MBTs.

In any case, it's sort of like that. The Draka are fully mobilized and have the largest single army in the world, with the most dynamic tactics and boldest strategic thinking. The Soviet Union is alone, only partially mobilized, and on the defensive. The Draka have a hell of a lot of momentum behind their offensive, which is more or less only exhausted by 1942 or so when the Soviets bog them down in the Ukraine, and the British start hitting them in the Middle East/Central Asia, with even more nations dogpiling on them.

KlavoHunter wrote: And here I was hoping that people wouldn't be able to guess the whole plot of the story already

So this fanfic could go on to the present day?

Numbers? Don't know, ask Shep or Marina. And don't forget that we're better alternate-historians than Turtledove - we're not going to directly analogue World War 2 onto different terrain. *Wanders off muttering about Stalingrad and Pittsburgh*

The Soviets would be more internally sound with no paranoiac like Stalin and have more competent officers still alive, so they could co-ordinate their forces relatively better than in the OTL.

Well, by 1938, the Draka have successfully upgunned and uparmored the Hond III to something sort of resembling a Panther/Pershing, minus the excellent armor, and it's safe to say they outclass the T-31, even in its upgraded form as the T-31/85. As for the KS- series, those are heavy tanks and are deployed in that fashion. And those, of course, end up being played with very roughly by the Hond IV , which initially are also deployed as heavy tanks (Albeit rather numerous ones), until 1942's introduction of the new engines to allow their use as MBTs.

So it would be a fairly equal match between the Drakan and Soviet forces in terms of armour - even the Janissary Corps have a competent tank armed with a 76 mm cannon (but they would still have many 37/47/50 mm armed Janni tanks which would be deregulated to secondary security roles, like the default Hond IIIs would likely be). Inevitably many War and Security Directorate formations would incorporate many advanced Soviet medium and heavy tanks - but they would capture enemy tanks for their use more occasionally than the Axis armies, who initially had a shortage of outmatched tanks when they invaded the Soviet Union in the OTL, while the Drakans have more AFVs of first rate quality in comparison.

In any case, it's sort of like that. The Draka are fully mobilized and have the largest single army in the world, with the most dynamic tactics and boldest strategic thinking. The Soviet Union is alone, only partially mobilized, and on the defensive.

I'd say on the whole many of the Domination's commanders are more youngish and aggressive in comparison to many European generals at the time, with older Russian generals still acting along WWI strategy (the Soviets won against the Dominate in 1936/7 mainly due to the Drakans having overstretched logistics, more unexperienced soldiers and quality gaps in their tank units).

The Draka have a hell of a lot of momentum behind their offensive, which is more or less only exhausted by 1942 or so when the Soviets bog them down in the Ukraine, and the British start hitting them in the Middle East/Central Asia, with even more nations dogpiling on them.

I get the impression that the invading Drakans have better logistics than their Axis counterparts, but they left the Middle East region perilously exposed to British India by moving most of their best garrisons there to the European front.

Big Orange wrote:So this fanfic could go on to the present day?

You'll have to wait and see, won't you?

The Soviets would be more internally sound with no paranoiac like Stalin and have more competent officers still alive, so they could co-ordinate their forces relatively better than in the OTL.

Indeed.

So it would be a fairly equal match between the Drakan and Soviet forces in terms of armour - even the Janissary Corps have a competent tank armed with a 76 mm cannon (but they would still have many 37/47/50 mm armed Janni tanks which would be deregulated to secondary security roles, like the default Hond IIIs would likely be). Inevitably many War and Security Directorate formations would incorporate many advanced Soviet medium and heavy tanks - but they would capture enemy tanks for their use more occasionally than the Axis armies, who initially had a shortage of outmatched tanks when they invaded the Soviet Union in the OTL, while the Drakans have more AFVs of first rate quality in comparison.

Something like that. And I do note that my Janni AFVs sorta contradict what Mari wrote in The Prut Campaign, seeing as they're, y'know, effective. As there's truly no point in using 37mm-armed tanks and such against T-31s ("Door-knockers" come to mind).

As for captured equipment, uncertain. Obviously the first ones they get their hands on go back to be torn apart and analyzed. Question is, WHO would use that captured equipment? Citizens? No, they have even better equipment, and wouldn't want to stoop to using inferior Russian armor (Except as part of some sort of elite-forces deception operation - of which I'm sure the Draka would have a major hard-on for the idea of!).

Janissary units? I suppose they might replace stuff in high-quality, elite units, when they find it better.

I'd say on the whole many of the Domination's commanders are more youngish and aggressive in comparison to many European generals at the time, with older Russian generals still acting along WWI strategy (the Soviets won against the Dominate in 1936/7 mainly due to the Drakans having overstretched logistics, more unexperienced soldiers and quality gaps in their tank units).

The Draka were thoroughly schooled in the 36-37 'skirmishes' - but I do mean they were schooled. They learned from it, and are coming to beat their teachers at their own game.

I get the impression that the invading Drakans have better logistics than their Axis counterparts, but they left the Middle East region perilously exposed to British India by moving most of their best garrisons there to the European front.

Absolutely. The Draka's logistics are fully motorized - there's no need to use pack mules like Germany did, and they have so much larger a base of population and industry to draw on, along with expendable manpower. Need that railroad thrown up faster? Work a thousand unreliable serfs to death and get it done in half the time!

And, yes, they stripped the Middle East down, thinking that their previous threats had cowed the British from war. 1942 proved them terribly, terribly wrong.

KlavoHunter wrote: You'll have to wait and see, won't you?

Drakafic writes itself really.

Something like that. And I do note that my Janni AFVs sorta contradict what Mari wrote in The Prut Campaign, seeing as they're, y'know, effective. As there's truly no point in using 37mm-armed tanks and such against T-31s ("Door-knockers" come to mind).

Like I said in another thread, the Janissaries can get away with mostly using armoured cars and older medium tanks armed with 50 mm cannons if they concentrate their armour on infantry support and behind the lines security duties (like anti-partisan combat, population "pacification" and rail/road patrols). I guess the 76 mm armed Janissary tanks would only be attatched to the most trusted elite Janni formations that work alongside heavy citizen armour.

Janissary units? I suppose they might replace stuff in high-quality, elite units, when they find it better.

Non-Drakan trucks, cars and small arms of equal to higher quality to their oen stuff would be highly prized by the Janissaries.

The Draka were thoroughly schooled in the 36-37 'skirmishes' - but I do mean they were schooled. They learned from it, and are coming to beat their teachers at their own game.

The typical Drakan general could 35 years old while the average European general at this period is 52 and younger people pick up on things more.

And, yes, they stripped the Middle East down, thinking that their previous threats had cowed the British from war. 1942 proved them terribly, terribly wrong.

How do they do in Italy and why can't they progress past Northern edge of the country through Austria, if they could push through the equally rugged Georgian/Armenian region that had a major military presence?

Big Orange wrote:How do they do in Italy and why can't they progress past Northern edge of the country through Austria, if they could push through the equally rugged Georgian/Armenian region that had a major military presence?

The reason for their getting bogged down against Northern Italy is due to the fact that, after their bold landing and the seizing and consequent Rape of Rome, they had to reduce the southern half of Italy that they'd cut off, along with Sicily. They really only had the naval logistical transport to support enough troops to do one or the other - push either North or South after Rome. And not pushing South would be suicide, more or less.

Once they'd more or less polished up the southern half of Italy, they turned North - but were more or less locked down by all the Free Italian, Spanish, French, and Austrian forces that amassed against them.

KlavoHunter wrote: The reason for their getting bogged down against Northern Italy is due to the fact that, after their bold landing and the seizing and consequent Rape of Rome, they had to reduce the southern half of Italy that they'd cut off, along with Sicily. They really only had the naval logistical transport to support enough troops to do one or the other - push either North or South after Rome. And not pushing South would be suicide, more or less.

They would use air logistics to support the Italian based Drakan taskforce after they moved all their heavy equipment over into the peninsular after their initial marine bourne landing, since they have excellent military cargo planes like the Zebra (?) - the Domination's Army of Italia strongly reminds of Japan's Manchukuo Army, in being a relatively small colonial occupation force that serves mainly as a sideshow to a greater conflict.

Once they'd more or less polished up the southern half of Italy, they turned North - but were more or less locked down by all the Free Italian, Spanish, French, and Austrian forces that amassed against them.

And the Germans move in too with their own tanks that are more equal to the Hond III and IV tanks - the Italians have a slightly mediocre standing army, but make brilliant partisan soldiers and the other neighboring European nations initially have outdated aircraft, artillery and tanks, but have set up a very formidable defensive line that the Drakan garrison in Italy cannot penetrate by being so far away from their logistics.

Big Orange wrote:They would use air logistics to support the Italian based Drakan taskforce after they moved all their heavy equipment over into the peninsular after their initial marine bourne landing, since they have excellent military cargo planes like the Zebra (?) - the Domination's Army of Italia strongly reminds of Japan's Manchukuo Army, in being a relatively small colonial occupation force that serves mainly as a sideshow to a greater conflict.

Hippo, actually - the Zebra is the far smaller obsolete older model. But you're deluding yourself if you actually believe that air transport can supply all Drakian forces in Italia. They're using convoys to resupply, mainly. I think the Germans once said they could resupply their entire army by air transport, in this one city, what was it called? Oh, yes. Stalingrad was its name.

Yes, the circumstances are totally different, but air transport, even as good as the Draka have gotten it, cannot possibly supply an entire isolated front.

And the Germans move in too with their own tanks that are more equal to the Hond III and IV tanks - the Italians have a slightly mediocre standing army, but make brilliant partisan soldiers and the other neighboring European nations initially have outdated aircraft, artillery and tanks, but have set up a very formidable defensive line that the Drakan garrison in Italy cannot penetrate by being so far away from their logistics.

*Nod*

KlavoHunter wrote: Hippo, actually - the Zebra is the far smaller obsolete older model. But you're deluding yourself if you actually believe that air transport can supply all Drakian forces in Italia. They're using convoys to resupply, mainly. I think the Germans once said they could resupply their entire army by air transport, in this one city, what was it called? Oh, yes. Stalingrad was its name.

They still need cargo planes to ship over soldiers, ammo, fuel and light gear to Italy if they need stuff in short order and unmolested by enemy action (initially at least, a few years later the skies darken with the Luftwaffen, which is why the Drakans have no long term chance in Italy anyway).

You know, Rome being under Drakan occupation would be a great premise for a pretentious WWII movie starring a teenaged Christian Bale wearing spatz.

*Nod*

I would say the Germans and French would still have tank forces consisting of relatively outmoded Panzer IIIs and IVs, Somua S35s and Char B1s against the massed formations of Hond IIIs and IVs pushing up through Italy (arguably the best tanks in the world). France and Germany would go through a rapid tank upgrading phase after their many tactical defeats, but the Flak 88s would own the lumbering Hond IVs in the mean time, while all the native Italian AFVs are complete and utter cannon fodder to the Domination's armoured brigades (even for the Janissary's medium tanks and armoured cars).

Chapter 1

[Ukraine, June 9th, 1942]
[Radar Station Chernobyl]


As it had been many times over the previous day and throughout the night, the green glow of the scope hooked up to the radar showed a new set of luminous dots.

"Tetrarch! We got anoth'a one!" the Junior Decurion at the scope reported, looking up from his eye-straining task, green still illuminating his chin in the slightly dimmed lights of the radar station's command bunker. Getting up from the decently-stuffed chair that they'd looted from one of the nearby city's more well-to-do inhabitants, the Senior Tetrarch who commanded the bunker went to his subordinate, a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"Another? How many this time?"

"Ah'm seein'... fo'ty, maybe fifty of 'em. Looks like anoth'a damn Ivan bombin' run," the Draka at the radar replied, scowling. His superior frowned as well - the Russians were making a hell of a mess of things, starting the previous day, and dozens of attacks had attempted to pummel key targets throughout the Ukraine. The bomb craters, spent anti-aircraft shells, ominously roped-off unexploded bombs, and, most proudly for the 1152nd Air Defense Cohort, a number of wrecked Soviet planes in the vicinity of the Radar Station, were all proof of that.

"They comin' for us again?" the Tetrarch asked, mentally readying himself to either phone in to the commander of the 1152nd, or his own superior, depending on the situation. The Decurion leaned in again, pressing his face tight to the hood of the scope, intently examining the data that the enormous radar array, roughly a hundred meters away, was piping through. With a look of relief on his face, he bobbed back up.

"Naw, they're headed off to the West, goin' in deep."

"Hmph. Better them than us. Betcha the flyboys down in the 522nd gon' have 'umselves a party with Ivan," the Tetrarch chuckled to himself, and then turned, picking up the telephone on the wall. He ignored the sound of a bomb going off outside - another successful defuse. Successful, whether the serf who'd disposed of the bomb was there as it blew up or not. "Yeah, Merarch? Mo' Ivans comin' in from the North..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Air Base Fastiv]
Five minutes later...

The air on the tarmac of the airbase was filled with a deafening level of noise, as the twenty-eight Kurenwohr-126 engines of the 552nd Interceptor Merarchy ran at idle, spinning their propellers at a blur. Ground crew and pilots alike carefully gave the props a wide berth, for obvious reasons, as they hurried about, busying themselves with the final preparations for takeoff.

Centurion Hans Kussendrager toyed with the zipper of his leather jacket as he passed in front of one of the engines of his Eagle, and made sure that his flyer's scarf didn't get pulled into the prop as it fluttered about. His eyes trailed over the port for the P-20 33mm cannon that melded smoothly with the nose of the aircraft, and then over the stylized nude Valkyrie lewdly fingering herself that adorned the craft, before looking down slightly, meeting the eyes of the black-skinned serf in oil-stained overalls who stood next to his plane.

"How is she?" Hans asked simply, keeping his steely gaze on the lesser man that took care of his plane.

"Ah takes reeeeal good care of her, Suh, she fly you good. Ah chec' de ammo mah'sself," the serf mechanic said, and slapped the access panel where belts for the Eagle's main guns were loaded, "De guns, dey not jam on yuh. She kill Ivans for yuh, Sur, don' let dem bom' us," At this, Hans snorted in amusement.

"Don' yo' worry, the Russkies ain't got the balls t' hit us heah," Hans replied, and then quickly mounted the small step-ladder up to the cockpit of the Eagle, and vaulted inside with the nearly inhuman grace of a lifetime of practice. He adjusted himself in his seat, squirming about until he was settled properly, before securing the harness that'd keep him in his seat despite the most violent of maneuvers. After checking everything over, he slid the glass canopy into place against the windshield, enclosing the cockpit from the outside once more. It did little to dull the sound of the twin engines growling to either side of him. Soon enough, as he looked around in the excellent visibility that the new bubble canopy provided, and he saw his fellow pilots all in their aircraft.

He felt a jerk in his aircraft as serfs yanked free the wooden chocks that kept the idling engines from dragging the plane across the ground. Slowly, he taxied up to the runway, behind a long stream of his comrades. When it was his turn, he slid the throttle all the way forward, making the Eagle's twin engines roar even louder as they began to suck down greater amounts of aviation gas. Hans adjusted the flaps to a takeoff position, and held the stick steady as his plane tore off down the runway. As he slowly became airborne, he looked down at the Janissaries who were scurrying about down past the end of the runway. The local partisans hated this particular airbase with a passion, and security was no longer lax after an unfortunate incident where they'd set up a DShK in the treeline, and blazed away at the 552nd's sister Merarchy, the 786th Bombing Merarchy, as their Elephants had taken off, bringing one of the Drakian planes down with a series of lucky hits. Those days of fikkin' with us ah over, Hans smugly thought to himself, as gray-clad Janissaries checked the treeline, and then paid attention wholly to flying again as his radio crackled.

"Awright, boys 'n gals, Ivan's lookin' to re-arrange some more dirt here on this side of the Dneiper. Radar says it's a Chiliarchy-level attack, so they're mixin' Yaks in with the dive-bombers. Follow me up to six-thousan' meters. Ground Radar'll guide us in on 'em, and then the little birdies are ours to play with," Merarch Hackett laughed raspily, joined by most of the others. They knew that the underpowered excuses the Soviets called bombers were easily outperformed and hunted by the latest Drakian interceptors, which were handily dealing with the worst that the Allies could throw at North Africa.

Hans waggled his plane's wingtips and clicked his mike in reply, along with the other dozen subordinate pilots, and continued to gain altitude, following the plane in front of his own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Pe-2 "For Valentyna Govorova" - 5,000 meters (16,400 feet) over Northern Ukraine]

Starshiy Leitenant Stepan Osovich held his course steady with the bombers of the rest of his squadron, soaring through the clouds over Draka-occupied Ukraine. Idly, he looked down at the ground, the corner of his mouth twitching. Such a beautiful country. Shame I've never seen it before, save to bomb the Snakes he mused to himself, and then turned his attention to the skies. Every pair of eyes helped in spotting the inevitable sortie of interceptors the Draka would send. Certainly they had to know - Stepan felt as though dozens of electronic eyes were locked onto him, and him alone. Obviously, the initial wave of attacks the previous day hadn't taken out enough of the Draka's radar sites to make an appreciable difference.

Every blow they struck was yet one more stab at the formidable Dragon, and enough would overwhelm the beast. What they were doing today would hopefully be a significant strike. Again Stepan looked down, and spied the thin blue ribbon of the Irpin River through a gap in the lush forest, and he grinned to himself. They were clearly on the last leg of the mission. His radio came to life with the mission commander's voice.

"Comrades, we have roughly ten minutes until we reach the dam. The zmeii are sure to attack us at any time now. If you are separated from your comrades, follow the river and attack the dam." Stepan vaguely nodded, thoughts drifting back to the briefing they'd had. The dam on the Irpin was a victim of the Draka's rapid advances through the Ukraine, he remembered. The MGB had secured the dam, and was nearly finished with their preparations to destroy it, before a group of those damned Draka commandoes took them by surprise and killed them all before the dam could be blown. Today, they were going to try to blow it up again. Stepan tried not to dwell on the fate of those who'd flown on the previous two attempts to bomb the dam. Despite his best efforts, nervous energy built up in him. His navigator called to him.

"Stepan, how is the bomb?" he asked, provoking a shrug and a grunt from the pilot.

"The safety is off, Fima, it's armed - if it drops, it drops, if it blows up, it blows up," the pilot answered, referring to the single long, heavy bomb that hung under the Petlyakov's centerline. Much heavier than the bomber's usual payload, the 1000-kilogram bomb had a concrete-piercing tip, and a delayed fuse. A single bomb was usually insufficiently accurate to hit a target, but the Pe-2 had an advantage over most other bombers with a range of 800 miles - it was built to dive, and that tilted the odds of a hit in their favor. Assuming the Draka's fighters and anti-aircraft didn't get them first.

The first indication they had of the Draka's attack was the sudden chatter of one of the squadron's rear heavy machineguns firing, and then the sound of many others joining. Someone shouted a curse over the radio, and then they were among them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Eagle C "Sigrún's Wrath" - 6,000 meters (19,680 feet) over Northern Ukraine]

Centurion Kussendrager couldn't help but laugh as the Draka roared in on the fat-bellied Soviet planes from above and behind, a look of murderous pleasure on his face as his Eagle swooped in on one of the Petlyakovs out from the cloud cover. It was the perfect position to attack. He toyed with the yoke as the straps tugged at his chest, keeping him in his seat as he dove, eating up the distance between the two groups of aircraft. Hans settled one plane in his sights, ignoring the stream of tracers trying to reach up at him from its tail, as a feather's touch carried him safely away from what danger they posed.

Experimentally, he eyed down the gunsights, and let his finger stroke the secondary trigger, hearing the 13mm Kurenwohrs to either side of the cockpit fire. His eyes followed the double stream of tracers, and he walked them over the fuselage of the wallowing sow of a bomber, uncaring of the effect beyond confirming that his aim was true, as the waist gunner died horribly, heavy bullets punching through their bodies, severing control cables to the flaps and tail. Hans let go of the trigger, paused a moment to line his diving airplane up with the wings roots and central body of the Soviet bomber, and then pulled back on the primary trigger.

The twin 33mm cannon in the nose roared, belching meter-long gouts of short-lived flame as Hans walked nearly two dozen rounds over the bomber's body in a two-second burst. The Soviet bomber burst into flames as it was chewed apart, and after a few more seconds of stress, the right wing tore free, sending the doomed bomber towards the ground in a tumbling death spiral, as Sigrún's Wrath dove past it at fantastic speeds. Ineffectually, the bomber's surviving comrades directed further defensive fire at the Draka fighters as they speared through the formation, the light MGs occasionally riddling a wing or tail with bullet holes.

A glance to the rear confirmed what Hans knew had to be coming - The single-engined frames of Soviet Yak-9D escort fighters, bearing down on them, having been loitering behind the bombers, so they could bounce the Draka after their first pass. He grinned to himself as his radio spat words again. Now for the real fun.

"Ivan's leetle sparrows want t' join in. Let's show 'em how the big birds play! Cohorts A an' B, turn n' engage!"

Turning and accelerating, Hans danced his Eagle around in a tight turn that would have sent ripples of nausea through any lesser pilot. But not a Draka. He checked to his right, seeing his wingmate behind him, covering him. With a feral grin at the incoming Russians, he obliged them, hauling back on the trigger for the 13mms once more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Pe-2 "For Valentyna Govorova" - 5,000 meters (16,400 feet) over Northern Ukraine]

In the rear turret, Yefim Govorov snarled at his initial impotence against the damn zmeii. He'd be damned if he let the Draka take down this plane without bringing one of their own down as well- revenge for the sister they'd surely taken from him when they invaded the Ukraine. Please, he prayed, to the plane that shared his sister's name, his sister, and God all at once, Grant me the skill to kill at least one of the godless Draka... He shook his hands from their white-knuckled grip on the handles of the 12.7mm UBT machinegun, calming himself before taking hold again. It didn't bear thinking that a single Draka bullet would smash through the glass of the bubble turret and kill him.

Yefim looked to the picture of Ivan Krasnov he'd taped beside the gunsight, and then looked out again. His grip again went white-knuckled as he saw the dragon-emblazoned belly of a Draka plane zooming upwards, nose obscured by flame as the bomber-killing cannons fired again, reaping another one of his comrades' planes. He loosed another burst at the enemy, to the same effect, certainly not hitting anything important, if anything at all. He damned the manual control of the gun - he had to fight the slipstream of the air passing around the plane, and also aim at a quickly-moving target.

Yefim's stomach lurched as the nose of the Petlyakov dipped downwards. The wind blew about the cockpit faster, throwing off his attempts to aim the big machinegun even further as the plane entered a shallow dive, converting altitude to airspeed. He understood the meaning of the maneuver - the Pe-2, and for that matter, the Yak-9, performed best at about three kilometers up, rather than five and above, where the Drakian interceptors ruled the skies. Soon enough, his stomach evened out, and his breakfast no longer felt like coming back up from where it'd gone in.

He searched the sky, raising his gaze just in time to see the spectre of death descending upon them. Following them down to 3,000 meters, the Draka plane came down in a dive, arrowing in straight at their bomber. Yefim swung his machinegun into line with the snake, and squeezed down on the trigger at the same moment as the Draka pilot. Streams of heavy-calibre bullets crossed in the air, the fire of tracers providing corrections for the dueling warriors' aims.

Initially missing, Yefim corrected his aim to one side, walking the stream of bullets across the Snake's wing, and onto the engine. A plume of thin black smoke rewarded his efforts from the starboard engine. At the same time, the Pe-2 shuddered as the paired 13mm machineguns chewed up along the wing of the bomber. He saw the enemy plane seemingly shudder in the air for a moment, and then stooped to the side, suddenly diving away from the Soviet plane. Yefim looked on in confusion, and then cheered loudly as the sleek form of a Yak-9D screamed downwards in a dive after the Draka, the nose obscured in flames as the ShVAK cannon roared hate at the invader, as the fighters of the 548th Women's Fighter Regiment went into battle. The passage of both aircraft past the glass of the cockpit and gun tub snatched both fighters from Yefim's view, and the howling wind snatched the noise of the explosions of the Draka fighter's death from his ears. Yet, in his heart, he knew that the Snake had died, and he'd had a hand in it.

Yefim thrust a gloved fist into the air triumphantly, and grinned as he turned, looking over his shoulder to nudge the pilot.

"Stepan, is the wing good still? He put some holes in it before our comrade sister got him,"

"Let me check, Fima," the Leitenant muttered, and then he waggled the wings from side to side. He grunted in satisfaction, and nodded. "We'll be able to make the attack."

Yefim grinned. They would be able to hurt the Draka, still.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Eagle C "Sigrún's Wrath" - 4,000 meters (13,120 feet) over Northern Ukraine]

The short-lived scream over the radio made Hans grimace - he recognized that voice, that would have been Tetrarch Marla van der Merwe, over in C Cohort. He cursed to himself softly - the Russians matched them roughly one to one, and there'd clearly be leakers past the two engaging Cohorts. Fortunately, he'd seen two of the fragile little Soviet planes blown into matchsticks by the bomber-killing cannon of the Eagles in the opening pass, and he intended to reap some of his own. The bombers were just targets, but, ah, these fighters, now there was a worthy adversary.

Sigrún's Wrath's Kurenwohr inlines clawed at the air, pulling the big interceptor through the air, gaining altitude. Despite the surprising handling and maneuverability of the Eagle, the little Yaks tended to surpass it, and only the most skilled of flying could bring the twin-engine through a dogfight victorious. And the Draka were nothing if not good pilots, generally. But a more conservative, and generally more successful tactic, was to gain altitude, which the Eagle was good at, and then execute a diving attack on a target, giving the Eagle pilot all the advantages of having greater energy in battle.

From his vantage point, Hans searched the developing furball below for a target. Below, he spied one of his fellow Eagles in a tight turn, peeling out of the line of fire of the Yak tailing it. Again, the big interceptors weren't designed as dogfighters, but they served well in a pinch, as their large wing area permitted surprisingly tight turns. He could see thin black smoke trailing from the roaring engines, and he knew his fellow pilot was burning the mixture of methanol and water that improved the engines' performance, giving his combined engines nearly triple the horsepower of the Soviet pilot's one. Still, a determined pursuer was difficult to shake. And the Russians were nothing if not determined - they hated the Draka so fiercely, that they'd die just to bring a Citizen down with them. And it'd work, too, in the brutal arithmetic of war that favored the Russians so much. But, sometimes, that single-mindedness got the better of the Ivans, Hans knew. And that was what he intended to exploit.

The Eagle's speed increased sharply as it pitched forward into another attack dive, boring down on the dueling airplanes. He could see the individual tracers slashing through the air towards the Drakian plane's tail. Close enough to see the markings of his commander's aircraft. He settled his gunsights on the fuselage of Merarch Hackett's Eagle, and poised his fingers on the trigger of his plane's big cannons.

"Merarch, break right!" he called out over the radio, and waited a heartbeat, before yanking hard on the firing stud. The Draka plane curled out of the line of fire, and the Ivan flew straight into the nearly-invisible, tracerless stream of 33mm shells. The Yak disappeared under the intense fire of shells that were meant to destroy bombers, turned into a slowly-descending chaff of metal, wood, and fire. Sigrún's Wrath rolled through the air in a display of victory, as Hans checked his rear for the threat of another Russian, eager to avenge their comrade. He saw none, but he did see another three Soviet bombers on fire, trailing smoke and wreckage as they began to plummet. Upon the front of his cockpit glass was a slight splattering of droplets of black oil - and a much more recognizable red fluid. Hans just grunted in satisfaction as it slid upwards along the glass, blown along by the wind.

"Attention, Fi'-Fifty-Second," Hans' radio again filled his cockpit with nose, "This is the Nine Eighty-Seventh Air Defense Cohort. Th' Ivans yuh engagin' ah about to enter ah engagement area - Back off before we singe your tailfeathers by mistake!" He snorted in derision. Guns on the ground don't stop bombing runs - we do. After checking his six to ensure he wasn't going to be bounced by any of the surviving Yaks, Hans pulled back on the stick, sending Sigrún's Wrath zooming upwards, gaining altitude.

"You heard the Cohortarch, boys and girls - leave the bombers to the groundpounders - we've got a bone to pick with these damned fighters. Cohorts C an' D, break off pursuit and engage the Yaks," the Merarch ordered. If anything, it only intensified the predatory expression upon Hans' face - the Soviet single-engine fighters were outmatched and outnumbered by the 552nd. If he had his way, at least one more of them would be added to his fuselage markings before they returned to base...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Pe-2 "For Valentyna Govorova" - 3,000 meters (9,840 feet) over Northern Ukraine]

Finally, it seemed to Stepan, there was silence in the air, as Yefim stopped hammering away with the machinegun behind him. Either the Ukrainian had run out of ammunition, or the zmeii had pulled back. He had an awful feeling which it was, and why. He attempted to take the edge off his growing anxiety, and looked about at the ground below, trying to find the grey blob on the river that was their target. He soon spotted it, along with the tiny pinprick flashes on the ground. Flak. Stepan had been all too right.

Seconds later, the 94mm shells began to burst around the Soviet bombers, in ugly black clouds of smoke and deadly shrapnel. A few seconds after the first barrage, the crew of For Valentyna Govorova all jumped in fright at the sound of metal striking metal. When they didn't die, they all calmed down - it had just been fragments that had exhausted their velocity already, and had just fallen across the bomber in flight, and were then blown away by the slipstream.

Down below, thickly-muscled, shirtless Janissary soldiers were heaving shells into the breeches of the big AA guns as fast as they could. If they were good, it took all of three seconds to insert a shell, pull one's hands out of the way as the rammer shoved the shell into the chamber, fire, recoil, and then spit the empty casing out to be removed, so the Janissaries could do it all over again. There was only one battery of the big 94s defending the dam, but once the Pe-2s closed in further, the Draka had plenty of the smaller P-22 cannon - 57mm autocannon that would shred any unlucky bomber in a single strike.

The steady bursting of flak around the surviving 23 bombers made Stepan's teeth set on edge, and his hands tightened around the yoke, knuckles going white. Flak was random, flak was unpredictable. One moment you'd be there, the next you'd be gone - there was no warning, the way there was with, say, a Draka interceptor swooping down on you.

A moment later, with a louder bang, Stepan's worst fears came true - bomber and antiaircraft shell intersected, and three of his comrades died instantly as the Pe-2 beside For Valentyna Govorova was blasted apart, the fuselage ripped in two. The cockpit glass exploded outwards, and Stepan saw a body come tumbling out. He felt hope for a moment, that perhaps he would see a parachute, but it was quashed at the sight of the spray of bright red, and how his fellow pilot's body was most obviously no longer in one piece. They numbered only 22, now.

Stepan feverishly hoped the worst of it was over, but he knew he was lying to himself. The closer in they got, the more the Draka would have to throw at them, until they either died or hit their target. The twin radial engines that carried For Valentyna Govorova seemed to become louder, drowning out the dull thumping of shell-bursts and high explosive. It was only a temporary comfort from the incessant barrage, as the Red Air Force came closer and closer to their target...

On the ground, the Draka Centurion lowered his binoculars, and nodded to himself in satisfaction at how large the Soviet bombers appeared. He then turned to the Janissary standing beside him.

"Color Sergeant, relay th' order to open fire," The Janissary sergeant had risen in rank for a variety of reasons. One of which was a powerful pair of lungs.

"AWWWRIGHT, BOOOOYS!" the ebony-skinned Color Sergeant bawled, "Fifty-Sevens, OPEN FIRE!" The effect was immediate and dramatic, as roughly two dozen of the smaller autocannons opened up all at once. The P-22 lacked the fire rate of smaller-calibre guns, but made up for it in reach and firepower. The smaller 33mm and 45mm were preferred for front-line use, where the Russian Shturmoviks flew in low, and the rate of fire counted for more.

Crisscrossing strands of tracer fire reached into the sky for the attacking bombers. For Valentyna Govorova banked to the right, avoiding one of the lines sweeping through the air. Another Pe-2 wasn't so lucky, and managed to dodge one, only to fly into another, tearing its wing clean off, sending the plane plummeting towards Draka-occupied territory. As far as bombers went, the Petlyakov was fairly maneuverable; but on the other hand, its service ceiling was well within the grasp of just about every anti-aircraft weapon in the Draka's arsenal.

"Comrades, the time to strike back is at hand!" the mission commander then called out over the radio, in a surprisingly booming voice, for having his lungs compressed from the G-forces of his evasive maneuvers. "All men of the Red Air Force, begin the attack! Dive on your target, and may your aim be true! ZA RODINA, ZA KRASNOVA! URRAAA!" The cry was picked up by sixty-three other voices, even as three of them were snuffed out by Drakian flak claiming another victim.

Throat feeling raw from the shout, any fear of death left Stepan, as he watched the lead planes begin their steep dives down onto the dam, flying through a curtain of everything the Draka had to throw at them - the big guns, the autocannon, and even small-arms fire, now. But they were committed now, they were going to finally strike the glorious blow that they'd given up a third of their number for! In preparation, Stepan lined up the nose of his Petlyakov with the center of the dam. He tried to visualize it in his head. To come screaming down, down, down, towards the center of the dam, and to release the enormous bomb slung under For Valentyna Govorova's belly.

He watched his comrades before him making their insanely steep dives, streaking in on the squat, concrete structure like a bird of prey upon a field mouse. Some suddenly spewed smoke and flame, and never pulled out of their dives. Others let loose with their thousand-kilogram payloads, striking water, resulting in enormous depth-charge like splashes when they went off. And then, finally, a hit!

The concrete-piercing bomb burrowed into the reinforced structure of the dam by several meters... and then exploded. An enormous cloud of dust was thrown up as over a ton of high-explosive went off. Gratifyingly, Stepan saw boulder-sized chunks of concrete hurtling through the air. A fine hit.

But this by far was not yet enough. A dam, even as relatively small and unsophisticated as the one on the Irpin, was an enormous thing of solid concrete and steel reinforcements. A thousand-kilogram bomb was not even close to large enough to inflict lethal damage upon it. It was considered a miracle that the VVO engineers had been able to set up a mount for such a payload on the Pe-2. The Red Air Force had larger bombers, capable of carrying even heavier payloads, but they were far slower than the Petlyakov, and terribly inaccurate in comparison to the dive-bombing Pe-2.

As usual, the Soviet Union had to make do with what it had, and the Petlyakov was it.

The Janissary gunners ran the barrels of their cannons white-hot in endless firing - their targets were passing through a predictable, narrow slice of airspace, and the air above the dam became a killing zone. One of the bombers was shattered by a shell striking square between the wings. The flaming wreck crashed into the lip of the dam, and then tumbled down the face, until the water finally extinguished it.

Three more explosions rocked the dam, as further bombs dug in and went off, gouging their own craters out of the solid structure, one even hitting the damage already inflicted by the first bomb. Water trickled through the chunks torn out of the dam, and cracks spread through the structure of it. Still not enough. Stepan had lost count of how many of his comrades had not survived their dives on the target. Then he was almost over the dam. It was time.

Reaching across the cockpit, Stepan gripped the control for the flaps and dive brakes, and threw them both to full. As if striking a brick wall in the sky, For Valentyna Govorova suddenly stopped flying forward through the air, and the plane's nose pitched downwards, and began howling towards the ground at ever-growing speeds.

The dam grew and grew in Stepan's bombsight, eventually encompassing the entire view from the cockpit. He felt himself pressed harder and harder into his seat from the insane speeds and angle. Yet for all the barely-contained rage and power of For Valentyna Govorova, Stepan's hand was as gentle as a feather on the stick - in the nearly-suicidal dive, even the slightest adjustment would direct the bomb crucial meters away, which was all too much error against such a relatively small target as the dam.

He steered the bomber in towards where he saw the most bomb damage and fire already. Strobe lights seemed to go off before Stepan's eyes as tracers ripped past his cockpit, narrowly missing them. Along the portside wing were a small series of pinging noises as lucky small-arms fire struck the bomber. For all the effect it had, they may as well have been throwing pebbles.

Yes. Closer! Stepan told himself, continuing the dive as long as his nerve would allow. Then his thumb mashed the pickle for the bomb, finally releasing the Petlyakov's payload. He then hauled back on the stick with all his might, and For Valentyna Govorova bounded upwards into level flight as the great weight was released from it, clawing for distance away from the Drakian guns.

Behind them, the bomb struck cleanly into the gouge already hacked into the dam by its predecessors, burrowing in deeper into the man-made rock. The fuse ran down inside of the bomb, and then touched off the explosives. Another cataclysmic explosion rocked the Irpin Dam, sending an ominous rumble through its structure, and then it was still.

Sixteen bombers escaped the hail of antiaircraft reaching for them, arrowing towards the North as quickly as they could, before the Draka could sortie any more fighters to finish them off. The morale of the survivors was low - they had an idea of what a destroyed dam was supposed to look like, and that wasn't it.

Hours later, the Draka radio net was awash with warnings about the Irpin River, evacuating positions along it, as the cracks through the dam's structure spread and widened. In the middle of the night, the moment came, and the center of the dam collapsed, suddenly turning the artificial lake above the dam into an enormous, short-lived waterfall. The entire water table above the dam was being drained off, draining little creeks and ponds.

The next morning, a series of Yak-9R recon planes snapped pictures of northern Ukraine, showing massive local infrastructural damage, as bridges had been simply washed away by the flooding Irpin River. This was heartening to the Soviet Union and Red Army, who engaged the Draka at the Third Battle of Kursk the following day, only to meet with defeat. The Soviet Spring Counterattack was a dismal failure, with its limited successes overshadowed by the great defeats the Red Army suffered.

Very good stuff, KlavoHunter. But I always wonder why grey khaki is the standard uniform for the Janissary Corps - I thought mustard brown khaki as worn by the British Army or JIA would be a more logical choice.

And the Drakan Air Corps would initially rip all the local airforces in Italy a new one as well.

I just realized I made an rather glaring factual error in the Prologue - can anyone tell what it is, before I make a minor rewrite to fix it? I'll give you a cookie.

KlavoHunter wrote:I just realized I made an rather glaring factual error in the Prologue - can anyone tell what it is, before I make a minor rewrite to fix it? I'll give you a cookie.

I hazard a guess that you misworded "Commando" as "Commandoe"?

Looking at it...

Private Konstantin replied, his hands still gripping the steering wheel of the tank

Tanks don't have steering wheels, if I'm remembering right. They've got control levers.

Big Orange wrote:

KlavoHunter wrote:I just realized I made an rather glaring factual error in the Prologue - can anyone tell what it is, before I make a minor rewrite to fix it? I'll give you a cookie.

I hazard a guess that you misworded "Commando" as "Commandoe"?

Actually, when pluralizing it, "commando" can either end in -os or -oes. However, 'tis not what I was looking for. But then when looking at the snippet of encyclopedia info that went with that page, I realized that the very meaning of the word "Commando" was originally established in the Second Boer War - something that of course never even happened in Drakaverse! So who knows? (But that still wasn't what I was looking for.)

Vejut wrote:Looking at it...

Private Konstantin replied, his hands still gripping the steering wheel of the tank

Tanks don't have steering wheels, if I'm remembering right. They've got control levers.

I was iffy on that one, seeing as I can't quite take a trip over to Kubkinka to crawl into a T-34 to see the precise control mechanism. I've heard references to Russian tanks using steering wheels in the past. I'm not 100% either way, and I think I'll have to get ahold of someone who actually -has- been inside a T-34, just to be sure.

Still, that wasn't the error I was referring to

KlavoHunter wrote: I was iffy on that one, seeing as I can't quite take a trip over to Kubkinka to crawl into a T-34 to see the precise control mechanism. I've heard references to Russian tanks using steering wheels in the past. I'm not 100% either way, and I think I'll have to get ahold of someone who actually -has- been inside a T-34, just to be sure.

Still, that wasn't the error I was referring to

T-34s used two control levers, one for each tread. You pushed them to open the throttle on one tread, pulled to close the throttle, and you could also lock them in place for longer marches.

They were started by a button-push, too.

PeZook wrote:T-34s used two control levers, one for each tread. You pushed them to open the throttle on one tread, pulled to close the throttle, and you could also lock them in place for longer marches.

They were started by a button-push, too.

That's how she worked, eh? I'd always wondered how a lever-based system would work. I guess that's worthy of a minor rewrite as well, thanks.

KlavoHunter wrote: That's how she worked, eh? I'd always wondered how a lever-based system would work. I guess that's worthy of a minor rewrite as well, thanks.

Just to clarify on the button-push: the button spun up the flywheel using battery power, and then the driver fired up the main engine.

To turn, you basically pulled one of the levers towards you, closing the throttle on one tread, and leaving the other one in place. Thus, the tank turned towards the closed lever.

It was pretty simple, overall. It had to be, since many T-34 crews only received 72 hours of training

PeZook wrote: It was pretty simple, overall. It had to be, since many T-34 crews only received 72 hours of training

That must've been in the worst days of 1941 or early months of 1942, even Janissary AFV crews would get such rushed training under most circumstances.