Red Wheels Turning Read online

  “Red Wheels Turning provides fans of Beneath Gray Skies with another opportunity to meet up with an old favourite; Brian Finch-Malloy. An impeccably crafted tale exuding volumes of World War I's black-and-white atmosphere in vibrant colour. Hugh Ashton's careful attention to detail pulls the reader into the story from page one and then steps on the accelerator. A riveting plot wrapped up in a firm coating of history, with good guys to root for and bad guys to despise. A thoroughly enjoyable read from start to finish.”

  Christopher Belton, author of Isolation and Crime sans Frontières

  Red Wheels Turning

  Hugh Ashton

  Published by j-views at Smashwords

  Copyright 2011 Hugh Ashton

  Discover other titles by Hugh Ashton and j-views at Smashwords.com

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Foreword

  Red Wheels Turning is set in the same timeline as Beneath Gray Skies, a few years before the events described there. This story introduces Brian Finch-Malloy, described by one reviewer of Beneath Gray Skies as “a 1920s James Bond”.

  The Netopyr actually existed much as described here. An amazing piece of Russian engineering, it never became a practical weapon put into production, for many of the reasons that Brian and Harry point out. However, it remains one of the most amazing objects in the history of warfare, seemingly more a product of the Middle Ages than the twentieth century. The Zaamurets armoured train also existed in real life. There seem to be remarkably few detailed descriptions of these vehicles, though, so I have been forced to invent some details, which I hope retain consistency with the sparse known facts. Of course, there may be more in Russian, which is a language I do not read with any fluency.

  Since no Americans (or Confederates) appear on-stage in this novel, I have used British English throughout (my native version of the language). I hope this doesn’t upset my American readers too much.

  A note on units

  In real life, pre-Revolutionary Russia used its own units; poods, versts, and so on, at the time that Red Wheels Turning is set, and only adopted the metric system in 1924. Since most readers will be unfamiliar with these units of measurement, I have given metric (or in some cases, Imperial) equivalents.

  As far as I am aware, all pictures and diagrams of the Netopyr used here (including the cover photos) are in the public domain.

  Thanks

  As always, thanks are due to my wife, Yoshiko, for her patience while I churn out my books. To all my friends, the physical friends whom I know personally, as well as my e-friends on Twitter and Facebook, thanks for your comments and encouragement. Simon Varnam in particular has once again lent me his eyes and ears to discover my errors of style and fact. Any still remaining are my responsibility, not his.

  Kamakura, July 2011

  Chapter 1: The trenches, Flanders, autumn 1915

  “Dash it all, he’s hardly what you would call a gentleman, is he?”

  Lieutenant Brian Finch-Malloy stood rigidly at attention as Lieutenant-Colonel Wilkins, his commanding officer, addressed him.

  “I don’t know what you’ve been up to, young Finch-Malloy, but you seem to have attracted the attention of those secret Intelligence chappies in London. I’m ordered to release you from the delights of this pleasure garden, and to return you to the hell of Blighty, where you are to report for duty to some infernal pit in London, the existence of which I became aware for the first time today. And that, Lieutenant, leaves me with a hole in my command that’s going to be hard to fill. What have you to say to all this?”

  The news came as a shock to Brian. He hadn’t been angling for a transfer, and as far as he knew, there was no reason for London ever to have heard his name, let alone ask for him. There was nothing useful for him to say, so he remained silent.

  “Humph. Well, I don’t know what to say to you, either. This is the first time that anything like this has happened to me.”

  Not surprising, thought Brian. The Lieutenant-Colonel (“Wobbler Wilkins” to the rest of the world, when he was out of earshot, so called because of his pendulous jowls, as well as his seeming inability to come to a decision on any subject) had come straight into the muddy hell of Mons from the barracks in England, where he had been in charge of the regimental mascot and ceremonial parades, never having heard a shot fired in anger. His present elevated rank was chiefly the result of more senior officers’ retirement, rather than any military skills or his own political machinations. His family connections hadn’t hurt, either, mess gossip whispered, pointing to his wife, the daughter of a prominent member of the Cabinet. It would be good to be far away from the man and his constant ineptitude, thought Brian, remembering the times when he had had to argue forcefully, sometimes practically to the point of insubordination, against the older man’s harebrained schemes to fight the Germans in their trenches almost as if they were dressed in red coats, re-fighting the battle of Waterloo with muskets. Brian’s own battle tactics leaned towards what his superiors frowned on as “ungentlemanly”; camouflaged night raiding parties, fighting savagely and mercilessly in grimly silent battles against the German sentries and machine-gun posts. Ungentlemanly he might be, thought Brian, but he’d been effective.

  “So off you go, I suppose,” Wilkins said, shrugging his shoulders. “I can’t really argue with these Whitehall johnnies when they start to put their feet down. Who do you suggest should take your place and lead your band of thuggees in their nocturnal rambles, then?”

  “I think it’s time that Sergeant Braithwaite got his commission, sir. He has an excellent tactical sense, and he has a born gift for getting the men to follow him.”

  As expected, this produced a snort. “I can’t have a fellow called Braithwaite as an officer in my battalion. Good God, man. He may be a clever chap and all that, but dash it all, he’s hardly what you would call a gentleman, is he? I mean, can you see the fellow at the formal Mess Nights or the Regimental Ball?”

  Brian silently counted to ten, slowly and deliberately. He took a deep breath. “With all due respect, sir, he has vastly more experience than anyone else in the battalion. And something tells me that he probably wouldn’t enjoy the company of the officers’ mess that much. It seems to me that being what you call a gentleman might be a handicap rather than an advantage where we are right now. But of course, sir, if you feel that it's more important that an officer speaks with the right accent rather than his being able to do a good job, then that‘s your decision.” After a short pause he added a “Sir”.

  Wilkins flushed. He knew that Brian was baiting him, but couldn‘t put his finger exactly on what it was that was annoying him. “Very good, Finch-Malloy,” he replied, returning tit for tat as best he could manage under the circumstances. “I will treat your thoughts on the matter with all the attention and respect that they deserve.“

  Brian flushed in his turn, but held his peace. He only had to put up with the pompous old fool for a day or so at the most. Just as long as it took to get away from this muddy hell-hole. He saluted as smartly as any Sandhurst cadet. “Permission to arrange the transport back to London, sir?“

  “Yes, damn you. Dismissed.”

  Brian saluted again, did an insolently perfect about turn and marched smartly out of the room, closing the door behind him. On his way back to the trench where his platoon
was billeted, he ran into Sergeant Harry Braithwaite.

  -oOo-

  “Harry,” he called. “Over here.” When the two were out of earshot of others, they used Christian names. In public, they used the usual addresses of rank. In the six months they had known each other and fought together, they had developed a mutual respect and friendship that cut across the usual rigid class boundaries of the British Army. The constant shared strain of the artillery bombardments, and the danger and terror of the nerve-racking raids on the enemy trenches had removed Harry Braithwaite’s natural deference to his social superiors in Brian’s case, especially when he discovered that the other’s skill in swearing and his creative use of profanity could outclass that of even a veteran Regimental Sergeant-Major. It hadn’t hurt matters, either, that Brian had saved him from serious injury, if not death, several times. Brian, for his part, had little time for the kind of snobbery that so many of his fellow-officers displayed, preferring to judge others on, as he put it, the contents of their heads, rather than that of their fathers’ bank accounts. He’d long ago dropped the English public school habit of addressing his friends by their surname, and he expected them to call him by his Christian name.

  “You look a bit down in the mouth, Brian,” remarked Harry, accepting the cigarette that Brian offered him.

  “Do I?” replied Brian. “It must be the thought of leaving this charming holiday spot and this picturesque residence we are currently inhabiting.” He gestured to the bunker, and the ankle-deep mud leading to it.

  “Going on leave, then?” asked the sergeant. “Seems to me you're a bit overdue for it.”

  “Wish that’s all it was,” replied Brian. “No, some bloody crowd in Whitehall has written to HQ and asked for me. Some sort of secret intelligence outfit. I'll be out of here tomorrow or the next day. It looks like they’re in a hurry, but God knows why.”

  “Sounds exciting. Anyway, you'll be well out of this muck,” pointing in his turn to the mud all around them. “So you’ll have a cushy little desk number all lined up, then?”

  “God, I hope not,” replied Brian. “If that's what they have in mind for me, I'm going to demand that I come straight back here.”

  “So you're going to be one of those spies, you think? Going behind enemy lines and counting guns and reporting back where the next offensive’s going to start? Now that sounds like something I could get into.”

  “Quite honestly, Harry, I don't know. I'm just more than a bit peeved at having to leave you and the blokes, though.”

  “Oh, don't talk daft. You know you'll have forgotten us in a week or two once you're back in Blighty. You’ll be too busy having a good time.”

  “That's a very long way from the truth, Sergeant,” said Brian. He had just spotted one of his platoon's corporals walking along the trench towards them.

  “Sir?” asked Harry, taking his cue from Brian.

  “Damn it, I didn't ask for this posting. I won't pretend we're living the life of Riley out here, or that this is the most comfortable I’ve ever been in my life, but we're a team, and I don't want to leave you chaps suddenly like this with too many loose ends flapping in the breeze. I can tell you, Harry,” (the corporal was now out of sight and earshot) “I see trouble coming your way. I told old Wobbler Wilkins that you should be commissioned and take my place, and he nearly burst a blood vessel. Expect trouble from there.”

  “Just a thought,” said Harry. “What would happen to the platoon if I was to leave at the same time as you?”

  “I suppose they could promote Hawkins to sergeant, and bring in a subaltern from the rear. But you're not going anywhere.”

  “You're going to need an assistant in your new job, aren't you?”

  Brian looked at Harry, astonished, and then started to laugh. “And why the hell not? That's a bloody good idea. You know, I'm really looking forward to seeing old Wobbler's face when we go in and tell him you're leaving with me.”

  “You really reckon you can make it happen?” asked Harry.

  “Trust me,” replied Brian.

  Chapter 2: The Imperial Weapons Testing ground, Kubinka, Russia

  “It is a great step forward. Time for a vodka.”

  Nikolai Nikolaivich Lebedenko adjusted the cable connecting the clutch lever to the engine assembly, for what he hoped was the final time.

  “Let her go!” he called to his nephew, Boris, standing by the controls. Obediently, Boris yanked on the clutch lever, only to have the cable snap.

  “You pulled it too hard, you dumb ox!” called his uncle, turning off the engine. “Your turn to fix it this time. Oh, never mind, we’ll do it together.”

  The two men swore as they picked up the broken ends of the cable. “If only we’d been given a decent grant from the Ministry, we could have had it all working properly by now,” complained Boris. His cousin, Alexander, joined them as his uncle replied.

  “Well, we weren’t, and we’re not getting it from the Ministry, even if we are allowed to work here at Kubinka. His Imperial Majesty is funding us, as and when he feels like it, and whenever he remembers us, which I have to admit isn’t that often at the moment. We’re going to have to do the best we can with what we’ve got here and now. We’re at war, remember,” said Lebedenko.

  “Which is exactly why we should be given the money by the government on a regular basis,” answered Alexander. “This will make sausage meat of the Germans, and strudel out of the Austrians if we can only persuade those Petrograd bureaucrats of how we’re going to win the war for them while they sit on their fat arses. And we’ll only do that if we get the money. There’s no way we should be relying on the goodwill of an imbecile who only has money because his father was an imbecile before him. Sausage meat and strudels,” he repeated. “That’s what this could make of them.”

  “I’ll make good Russian borscht out of you if you don't pass me that wrench in a minute, and stop spouting that revolutionary rubbish,” his uncle retorted. “You should know better than to say things like that in public in any case.” The three men worked in silence for a while, sweating as they tightened bolts and adjusted fastenings.

  Eventually the clutch was fixed. “I think I’d better try it this time,” said Nikolai. “You two are like a couple of drunken oxen when I let you anywhere near the controls. This may be a big machine, but it needs a delicate touch.”

  Boris carefully adjusted the carburettor and the Maybach engine started with a bang and a clatter. Nikolai grasped the clutch lever. “One, two, three and...” He gently pulled on the left lever, and the motor wheel lowered itself slowly onto the driving wheel, pressed against it by a powerful leaf spring. With a wheeze, the enormous wheel started to turn, spinning the massive machine in a circle. Boris started to cheer. “And now...” said Nikolai, pushing hard against the force of the spring to disengage the motor wheel. The spinning stopped. “Whew! That was hard work,” said Nikolai. “We’re going to have to do something to make that a bit easier for the drivers.”

  “But it worked, Uncle Kolya,” pointed out Alexander. “You’re a genius.”

  “Hardly,” replied Lebedenko, shaking his head. “There’s a lot more to do. Much, much more. But at least we know we can make the thing move and that the basic idea of the driving mechanism works at full scale. On one side, anyway.” His natural Russian pessimism seemed to outweigh his nephew’s triumph, but his face cheered. “You’re right, Sasha. It is a great step forward. Time for a vodka.”

  “Or two,” said Boris.

  “Or two, Borya,” agreed Nikolai. “But let’s keep it to no more than three.”

  -oOo-

  The young engineer left his uncle and his cousin drinking with their colleague, Zhukovsky, celebrating the success of the test of the drive mechanism.

  When he had been living in England a few years previously, he had made contact with various Russian malcontents, including the socialist and anarchist friends of the brother of a plotter, Aleksandr Ilyich Ulyanov, who had been executed for hi
s part in the attempted assassination of the then Tsar, Alexander III. Ulyanov’s younger brother, Vladimir, had become the leader of a small group of revolutionaries, and was now living in self-imposed exile in Switzerland, waiting for the right time to light the fire to burn away the corruption and filth of the Old Russia.

  When the engineer’s contacts from the Swiss exile group had learned of what he was working on in Kubinka, they had eagerly demanded details. At least one of the revolutionaries had interested himself in the massive machine, and saw its potential as a way of helping the revolution to come to pass. Certainly it seemed to him that if Uncle Kolya’s vision ever became a workable reality, and enough reliable machines could be constructed by the revolutionaries, it was certain that the Imperial troops would be mopped up and the revolution would succeed, wiping out the Tsar and his ministers, and ensuring the death of capitalism throughout Russia.

  He reported every major development on the machine, whether the design or the actual working machine itself, to his local revolutionary cell organiser, who passed it on through the international network until it reached Switzerland. He heard little in return, but assumed that his reports were useful, as they were still requested. At least, no-one had told him to stop sending them.

  He returned to his own room and pulled a pen and paper from his desk drawer. Frowning with concentration, he started to write his report of the day’s doings, pointing out the strengths and the weaknesses of the design as he saw them.

  He signed the report using his revolutionary pseudonym, and folded the report into an envelope. Tomorrow, on his way to the proving ground, he would leave the papers in a hollow birch tree; the agreed dead drop for the messages he exchanged with the Bolshevik leaders.

  Chapter 3: Whitehall, London