by Stuart Slade
“I tell you this because we do not care about your activities. If anything, they are helpful to us. A few luxuries keep many people quiet. So, although our countries are at war, there is no quarrel between us and you have nothing to fear from us. You may be certain your associate may recover here in peace as far as we are concerned. I have posted two of my men downstairs. If you wish, they will remain here to help protect your associate. In case of misunderstandings. Or if you prefer, they will leave with me.”
McCarty thought for a moment. He had little doubt that if Hartzleff had pulled Igrat in as part of his political or intelligence duties, she would have suffered just as badly and probably worse. It was the thought that something like this could be done unofficially, in the private sector as it were, that genuinely appalled the Gestapo officer. “All the evidence suggests that this was just some gangsters trying to muscle in on my operation. The responsible parties are dead; so I think this incident is concluded, Herr Hartzleff. But your reassurances are welcome and the assistance of your men also.”
Hartzleff nodded brusquely and headed back out. McCarty shook his head and rejoined Achillea. “Well, the Gestapo have just denied responsibility, for what that’s worth. There’ll be two Gestapo men downstairs. They’re going to be there anyway so I thought it better we know where they are than have them lurking around somewhere else.”
“Good thinking. We knew they weren’t involved anyway. The Boss is going to be really mad at Donovan for trying to pull this one.”
“Yeah.” McCarty shuddered slightly at the prospect of the news getting back to Washington. “He’d be really mad if it was any one of us. Since it’s Igrat, he’ll go completely ballistic.”
United States Strategic Bombardment Commission, Blair House, Washington D.C. USA
The Seer flipped through the code book, looking at some of the code-names assigned to people. He’d chosen his own, a name he’d won a long time before. Curtis LeMay was “The Diplomat,” a reference to the time when a Canadian fighter squadron had brought their Sopwith Snipes down to the US. He’d taken one look at the antiquated aircraft and blurted out “Jeez, they’re crap.” Leslie Groves was “The Architect” after his construction of the Pentagon. Thomas Power was “The Butcher”. On a whim he checked his own staff, Lillith was “The Librarian” and Naamah “The Doctor.” Igrat was “The Champ”. It occurred to him that whoever awarded these names was a pretty fine judge of character.
“General LeMay is here, Boss.”
“Thanks Lillith. Please find Sir Archibald Mclndoe and get him ready to work on Igrat when she gets back. When are they due in?”
“Twenty four hours, Boss. Igrat sneaked out the hospital and joined Henry and Achillea. They’re treating her like eggs. They’ve got what amounts to a complete hospital, complete with a bed, a doctor and a couple of nurses, in the front end of a Connie.”
Stuyvesant nodded. C-69s were used to evacuate casualties from Russia. The experience had been put to use in getting Igrat back quickly and safely. “Good. Impress upon Sir Archibald that he’s the finest plastic surgeon found practicing on the North American continent. If he doesn’t fix Igrat’s nose properly, he’ll be the finest plastic surgeon found floating in the Potomac.” He hesitated slightly and controlled his temper. “No, he’s a good man, you don’t need to say that. Just tell him a pretty girl has placed her trust in him. That’ll work a lot better. “
Lillith nodded and went out. A few seconds later, Curtis LeMay entered
“Curt, good to see you. How did the strike go?”
“Helsinki? So-so. One of the three groups hit the wrong target. They missed the main marshalling yards and hit a smaller set further south. Radar pictures look similar. I’m going to speak to Tommy about that. He can do better. We burned out most of the southern part of the city. It would have been less if the 7th had hit their assigned target. We lost 17 aircraft. Nine B-29s, five F-61s and three F-65s. In exchange we got around a dozen Heinkel 219 and Me-110s.”
“110s? I didn’t know they had any of those left.”
“Finnish. We lucked out. Next time the low-level flak will be waiting.”
“We’re leaking out that the purpose of the raid is to force the Nazis to pull back low-level flak from the front line and ease the pressure on the fighter-bombers. They won’t believe it, of course. They’ll see it for what it is, a one-shot trick pony we can’t repeat. They’ll also see it as desperation on our part; a last-ditch attempt to find some way to use all the bombers we’ve bought. Tomorrow the papers will be running the story about how Tommy Power has cracked the way to destroy cities. Low and fast, over the rooftops with incendiaries.”
“Once more with the low altitude and over-the-rooftops. God help us if we really had to do it that way.” LeMay rubbed his eyes. “You wanted to set up a meeting?”
“Yes, with you, General Groves and the supervisory committee. We’ve got some paperwork arriving that everybody needs to consider. It got held up a little but it’s safely on its way over. We’ll invite Major General Donovan as well, but I don’t think he’ll be able to attend.”
CHAPTER TWELVE: RESTORING ORDER
South Helsinki, Finland
It was a strange thing. In the soft gray light of dawn, the damage to the city didn’t seem to be all that bad. The shells of the buildings were still standing. Their glass was gone and the area of wall around the windows was stained black certainly, but the outer stone shells were still there. It was only from the air that the devastation was truly apparent. From above it could be seen that the buildings were indeed shells, their insides gutted by fire. The incendiaries had landed on roofs already damaged by one hundred pound bombs mixed in with the incendiaries and set the wooden inside structure ablaze. That might have been controllable but for the two thousand pound bombs that the B-29s had dropped right at the start of the attack. They had blown the windows in. The fires on the top floors had drawn air in through the base of the buildings and up. That turned controllable fires into infernos. The same suction effect drew burning embers from adjacent fires in and they had completed the process. South Helsinki had been burned out. It just didn’t look like it. Not quite.
Marshal Carl Gustaf Emil Mannerheim looked at the ruined buildings. Outwardly dispassionate, inwardly despair tore at him. Under his leadership the Finnish Army had fought the Soviet Army to a standstill in the Winter War. He believed that achievement had saved Finland from Soviet occupation. Then the damned fool politicians had started the Continuation War in the hope of recovering the territory lost in 1940 and bringing about the dream of a Greater Finland covering the whole of the Kola Peninsula. Being charitable, they couldn’t have known then that doing so would bring them into conflict with the Americans. At that time Russia had been alone and it had seemed certain Germany would win that war as well. But the Americans had come in with their endless cornucopia of weapons and their ruthless determination to win, at all costs. Mannerheim looked around. Obviously one of the costs had been South Helsinki. At 78 years old, he didn’t need this. Nor would he need what was obviously to come. The same destruction would be methodically meted out to every city and town in Finland. Starting with the bits of Helsinki still standing.
In the back of the car with him, President Risto Heikki Ryti was looking at the people, not at the burned-out buildings. Rather, he was looking at their remains; shrunken, blackened husks that the fires had left behind. The car was in a small square, just off the Mannerheiminte. It had been one where people had gathered in vain hope of shelter. There had been one exit out of the square when the fires had closed in, a narrow street. The entrance to it was blocked by a pile of charred bodies, ten or twenty high and five times that number deep. For a second, he wondered what the last minutes of those people had been like, fighting desperately to escape while the flames closed in.
“Why did they do it to us? What did we ever do to them?” Ryti’s voice was cracking with emotion and bewilderment.
“What did we do to them?�
�� Mannerheim could hardly believe the question. “We sank their ships. We shot down their aircraft. We killed their soldiers. We attacked them when we had led them to believe that a truce existed along our front. I think that was enough.”
“But we didn’t attack them. We have never fought Americans.”
“We fought their allies. That’s enough. And their aircraft fight over Kola and that too is enough. We had fair warning. The Americans told us that how we would be treated would depend on how much or little activity we undertook. You have seen the word from Sweden?”
“Of course. We cannot accept such terms.”
“We cannot not accept them. They are the best we will get. If we do not accept them, and make the allies believe that we have accepted them, we will look back and see these terms as generosity incarnate. If anybody is left in our burned-out cities to look back of course.”
“The Germans say they will prevent more such attacks. They are moving additional fighters and low-level anti-aircraft guns around our cities. They say any more such raids will be too costly for the Americans to contemplate.”
“Perhaps. Although I do not think the Germans understand what the Americans are prepared to pay yet. Or what prices they will charge.”
There was a silence as the open-topped touring car left the square that stank of roasted flesh and returned to the Mannerheiminte. The bodies here were more spaced out, spread evenly rather than piled up. Mannerheim looked at the carnage wanting to weep but unable to do so. One thing caught his eye. A couple, charred husks now like all the rest, but holding each other. Between them was the burned remains of a potted plant. Incredibly one of its leaves was green. Somehow, that leaf had escaped the fires and the heat. “Mister President, do me a personal favor and have this street renamed. I do not care to have such a scene bearing my name.”
Ryti nodded wordlessly, looking at the scene unrolling as the car eased down the street. From the roadside the rescue workers stopped their efforts when they recognized the tall figure in the back of the car and their voices carried across the empty space.
“It’s the Marshal.”
“He’ll save us.”
“The Marshal will help us.”
Once again, Mannerheim wanted to weep; the necessity of maintaining the staunch appearance prevented him. While the man who occupied the car was still President, there was nothing he could do. He could stop armies but not the bombers that flew overhead. While Ryti remained President, the bombers would return. Suddenly a deep chill racked Mannerheim’s body and soul. For one horrible moment he believed he was looking at the future, not just of Finland but of all Europe.
“So I must accept these terms?” Ryti asked the question. In his heart he knew the answer that was coming.
“No, you must not. You cannot, because nobody will believe you. We have accepted a truce once, unofficial certainly but real for all of that. You gave orders to break it. You took German bribes to break it. Now, you will send your acceptance of these terms to the Americans and they will wipe their asses with it.”
The sudden, uncharacteristic coarseness shocked Ryti but he knew what the words meant. His term as President was finished. It had just ended, here on the street he would rename as his last official act. In that moment, he knew that he would rename the street after himself. The burned-out, corpse-covered street was a scene that should bear his name. It was his fault this had happened.
“Marshal, it is obvious that I can no longer lead Finland under these circumstances. Will you become Prime Minister and accept the allied terms on Finland’s behalf?” His voice was hopeless, despairing.
Mannerheim stared at Ryti and measured the situation. “No. I am too old and I lack knowledge of the detailed techniques of government to take on such a role. Nor would the allies accept it. There must be a clean break with the past.”
Ryti sighed. Again, he had expected the answer. “Then I must resign from the office of president, and ask parliament to elect you as Regent. At a time such as this, it is necessary that civil and military authority be combined in one person so that there is no doubt over who carries the right authority.”
In the back of the car, Mannerheim weighed the situation then decided on the course that had to be followed. He would have to send word via Sweden that the new terms would be accepted, that the Finnish Army would never again attack allied positions. “The Americans do not like the position of Regent. They think it sounds like a cinema. I will have to be elected as President to avoid any misconceptions about the nature of my office. The Americans understand Presidents.” Ryti nodded. It was not as if he had much choice in the matter, not surrounded by the stench of burned-out city and the heat from the incinerated buildings. “We must hope that the Swedes can make the allies believe that.”
Mannerheim nodded. It all depended on the Swedes and their strange friends in Switzerland. Once again, he looked at the burned-out city and shuddered. The feeling he was looking at Europe’s grave still lingered within him.
Mechanized Column, 71st Infantry Division, Kola Peninsula
The scouts had spotted the train as soon as dawn had broken. Then, they had worked their way back to where the rest of the column had set up its positions. They had skied back with the word that the officers needed to know, past the long lines of ripped-up track that would stop the single surviving great gun. The gun couldn’t pass the blockage. The railwaymen couldn’t repair the tracks under fire. They were all trapped. Ahead of them, the glow in the sky showed where the sun would soon rise. Overhead, the clouds were turning dark, angry red. An old saying rolled through the corporal’s mind.
Red sky at night, soldier’s delight.
Red sky in the morning, soldier’s warning.
An old verse, almost a child’s saying but with truth behind it. There was another storm coming. Probably not as severe as the great storm that had started this whole offensive. It would be a bad one none the less. The corporal guessed that the Army would be using that storm to break off and retreat. The offensive had failed. Everybody knew it. Only this long contest between the mechanized column and the American Navy gun was still going on. It had become almost a private war in itself.
The treeline was ahead and the scouts planed into it. They sought out their commander in the prepared positions. Asbach had seen them come in and was hurrying out to meet them. His snow-shoes eased his passage across the packed ground.
“Report corporal?”
“The train has stopped. Some eight kilometers behind that ridge. We saw men dismounting from it. We think they are the railway engineers and the sailors. Perhaps they are moving up to attack.”
“If we are lucky, perhaps. Corporal, take your men back. There is fresh coffee made and some stew. You have done well.” Asbach turned around and thought. Why had the train stopped so far back? “One moment Corporal, did you see the Siberians?”
“No, no sign of them.”
That was bad. They were up to something but what? They were only a depleted platoon in strength. Even Siberians couldn’t attack a reinforced unit like this, not one that was dug in and waiting. Not unless they got some help.
“Lang, we have flank guards out.”
“Yes Asbach, a light platoon each side. And I sent a squad to watch our rear as well.”
“Good, take as many men as we have left and form a reserve. Form it around a couple of half-tracks for support. If we get attacked, move to reinforce wherever the attack is coming from.”
“Very good Asbach. I’ll have two good squads each in a ‘track.”
Asbach nodded and returned to his thoughts. There was one source of manpower that the train could access. Partisans. They were all around him. He always knew that. Now they were closing in to help the train. That damned train.
He shook himself. It was as if that hell-spawned train was alive, that it was fighting him all by itself. It had sucked him and all the other forces around him into a private little war. One that had little to do with the greater war that wa
s going on around them. Had the devil himself possessed that great gun and was using it for his own plans? Asbach hadn’t been a religious man since his youth. He’d lost his faith in God during the stone-by-stone fighting for Moscow. But he believed in the devil and now he was getting a growing feeling that the devil was becoming inordinately interested in him.
Behind him, the sun started to edge over the horizon, the dark of the night turning into royal blue. And that’s when Asbach heard the sound of aircraft engines.
F-61D “Evil Dreams “ Over Letnerechenskiy, Kola Peninsula
It had been a hard night. First of all, two hours over Helsinki being buffeted by the rising air currents from the growing fires down below. They had hunted the anti-aircraft guns that threatened the B-29s. They’d got most of them, or at least the ones that opened fire. Sometimes they’d been too late. They still remembered the sight of one B-29 with its port engines on fire. It had folded up in mid-air and crashed on to the city beneath. And another just exploded, sending fire and fragments in great arcs downwards. Then, they had landed at their home base, to be hurriedly reloaded with bombs and rockets. All so they could go and support the train that was trying to get through to safety in the north.
Lieutenant Quayle thought that it was only fair. He had been the one who had shot up the trains in the first place. But he didn’t like being out this close to dawn. No, that wasn’t quite right, it was at dawn and the sun was already showing its tip over the horizon. Wasn’t there a legend that witches melted in the sunlight if they were caught out after daybreak? Or was that vampires?
Evil Dreams headed south, looking down at the rails in the dawn twilight. Their shine was a faint but ghostly trail that reminded him of a snail moving. His first job was to find the train. Apparently only a single gun survived, and he had to ensure it was clear of the battle area. Then he had to track the rails back and try and work out where the German force was hiding. Word was they were hidden in the woods. That was bad news. His favorite anti-personnel weapon, napalm, wasn’t that effective against targets hidden in dense trees. The fire tended to run through the tree tops and miss the troops underneath. So he had one thousand pound bombs and five inch rockets. Plus his cannon and machine guns of course.
