Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers

by William Brown

  In his heart of hearts, Churchill was a nineteenth century man, perhaps even seventeenth century if he cared to admit it, but so was England. For generations she had been safeguarded by her hallowed moat, the English Channel. The V-2s, however, had changed that paradigm forever and laid all England open to destruction. War was never a pretty thing, but if these rockets and the other hellish new weapons pouring out of Nazi Germany were typical of the technological insanity now dominating warfare, Churchill wanted no part of them.

  The V-2 was a pure terror weapon designed to sow random death and destruction amongst the civilian population and demonstrate the superiority of German technology. It was easy enough to blame Herr Hitler and his pack of mad scientists; but the truth was, this type of cynical, brutal behavior had been typical of the Hun for many decades. While the technology might be different, German behavior in this war was no different than it had been during the Great War or the Franco-Prussian War before that. They had a long history of bombing, shelling, and terrorizing the Belgian cities, the Dutch cities, and the French cities at will. They turned their submarines loose on commercial shipping, kidnapped thousands of innocent civilians for forced labor in Germany, and starved the populations of the countries they occupied. Churchill hated them, and he hated their so-called men of science who had designed and built all of those cruel new weapons for them. If it was his choice, he would have the lot of them taken out and shot, and he still might. This continuing escalation in terror must stop, he thought. It must, but how?

  Churchill picked up the telephone. “Get me Field Marshal Montgomery,” he said. When the connection was finally made and he had the pompous martinet on the line, Churchill demanded Montgomery’s personal assurances that he would immediately push forward and seize the remaining V-2 launch sites. It was the only way to stop the rocket attacks. They might be a minor irritant to a field commander, but they had the people of London in a near panic.

  “This is no time for caution!” he braced the Field Marshal, no longer tiptoeing around the man’s monumental ego. Monty had been frequently criticized for his lack of offensive zeal, particularly in the American press, so Churchill’s choice of words were intended to cut the little man right where it hurt the most — in his self-image. So be it! His divisions were plodding though the Dutch low country at a snail’s pace. Surely, they must be in sight of the last of the Nazi rocket sites by now. “Take them out now, General! Ignore Patton and all the rest. Destroy the last of them, and you shall have the undying gratitude of our people.”

  Churchill rang off and paused to look out his bedroom window with its panoramic view across the formal garden below. It was a lovely spring morning. Perfect. After breakfast, he might retire to the garden with his easel, his brushes, and his paints. He had not touched them in months, not since he left for Yalta and spent a week closeted with that old pirate, Josef Stalin, and his crowd of foul-smelling Bolsheviks. It soon became obvious that the only hot water in the Kremlin was in the samovars they used to heat the water for tea.

  During a tour of a defense plant in Dorset several weeks ago, a middle-aged woman inquired why he smoked his highly aromatic Havana cigars. “Madame,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye, “it is apparent you have never been in close quarters with the Russian bear in winter. The cigar is purely for defense — purely for defense.”

  Yalta! What a disaster, Churchill grimaced. Not that it could be avoided. His dear friend Franklin Roosevelt was too ill to argue, and the Russians knew it. Like a hungry wolf, Stalin went after the weakest member of the herd, chased after it at a slow, measured pace until he had sapped its last strength, and took it down. Such was the nature of the wolf. One could hardly blame it for being what it was. In his time, Franklin had been a great man and a greater friend. No longer, though. The last time Churchill saw him, death hung on the American president like one of his heavy old Navy capes. Pale and thin, his handshake was weak and his skin had taken on a translucent, ashen hue. With victory finally on the horizon, it was tragic, truly tragic.

  When death finally does take the great American, who will step forward to fill that immense void? In the British system of parliamentary democracy, when a Prime Minister is lost, there is a political process through which the next most qualified minister is selected to replace him. That was usually the Foreign Secretary, Chancellor of the Exchequer, or someone else who has been at the very center of policy development and decision making. Not so with the Americans. Their system pre-ordained that the Vice President would be elevated, a man whose sole qualification for office had been some sort of electoral or geographic compromise. To compound the folly, no sooner was he elected than they invariably gave him the most inconsequential of tasks and left him out of any position of responsibility, decision making, or meaningful information flow. Such was the fate of a backwater political hack from the American hinterland named Harry S. Truman. A one-time haberdasher and reserve Captain in the horse artillery in the Great War, he came out of the political machine of a small Midwestern state. Not only did he have no experience in foreign affairs, he did not even have a middle name, only an initial.

  Churchill dimly recalled meeting the fellow once. He was a small, nervous man, and completely inadequate to the tasks at hand. It would be a disaster. Not that Franklin was without faults; but his charm, breeding, strong character, and a superior intellect more than offset them. Most importantly, he was a friend, not only of Churchill, but also of the British people. Together, they stopped the Hun and rolled his armies back, but the process utterly bankrupted the British Empire. Franklin understood that. Without his help, the Wall Street power brokers would have picked Britain clean long ago. Britain would have become the poor stepchild, a lowly pawn in American policy; and she may still.

  Done with the newspapers, Churchill reached for the stack of correspondence and dispatches, which an aide had placed on his bedside table next to him. An hour later he came upon a report from an obscure Reserve Colonel named Bromley at SOE. At first blush, it seemed a minor enough matter dealing with a planned foray by the American OSS to grab the German aircraft designers at Volkenrode. Anyway, as Churchill later remembered, that was how he first became involved in this sordid business. It was in the big four-poster bed in Chequers that those three disparate threads began to weave themselves into a colorful tapestry in his mind — the destructive force of the German wonder weapons, the imminent demise of Britain’s last great friend in the White House, and this inexplicable power grab by the Americans. What on earth were they up to, he questioned? Since Pearl Harbor, the Allies had been bound together by the one unwavering principle of unconditional surrender. There were to be no bargains, no separate peace, no deals, and no exceptions. They would share the pain and share the fruits when it was over. While one might excuse the professional German soldier for doing his wartime duty, it was the Nazi party hacks, the secret police, the SS, and those twisted scientists and engineers who had created Hitler’s terror weapons who must be sought out and punished. Those people deserved no mercy. There must be a day of reckoning for them.

  Unfortunately, Churchill could see that was not what was happening here. The Americans had begun sneaking around behind his back, negotiating with the SS in Italy, with Von Braun’s people and the Luftwaffe in Switzerland, with Ribbentrop’s Foreign Ministry in Sweden, and even with Heinrich Himmler’s agents in Spain. What perfidious conduct. With Franklin Roosevelt gone, the American industrial corporations would grab all the technology for themselves and leave their allies out in the cold. Had the Americans taken leave of their senses? No wonder Stalin did not trust us. The jet airplanes, the rockets, the deadly new munitions, new submarines, and the metallurgy would give the Americans world hegemony for decades to come. Denying that technology to the Russians was perfectly sensible. They were incapable of putting it to significant use anyway. Denying it to Great Britain, however, was another matter altogether. Without the technology, she would become irrelevant to America’s future and lose any hope
of getting significant American aid to rebuild her shattered economy. Obviously, the Americans must be saved from their own short-sightedness and stupidity. That was why this reckless adventure in Volkenrode must be stopped at all costs.

  Churchill reached for the telephone a second time. “Connect me with a Colonel Bromley at SOE,” he said. “When you reach his extension, be certain he knows who is calling, and let him wait for five or ten minutes before you connect me.” An adequate period for self-reflection often does wonders for a man’s soul, Churchill knew all too well.

  Bromley was shocked to receive a telephone call from the Prime Minister’s military aide, calling for the Prime Minister himself. Churchill? Calling him? He sat bolt upright in his desk chair, wide-eyed and at full attention, waiting for the Prime Minister to come on the line, still wondering if this was a prank. When the connection was finally made, Churchill’s gravelly voice was unmistakable. This was no prank.

  The Prime Minister’s message was personal and strictly private, and it found fertile ground in George Bromley’s ears. “Colonel, we are Englishmen, you and I,” Churchill told him, “and we shall be Englishmen long after this war is over and our American cousins depart these shores; so we must look after ourselves. If we do not, no one will do it for us. That is why I need your discreet assistance in this business of the German airplane engineers…”

  Bromley’s eyes went wide when Churchill began questioning the Volkenrode mission, but the Prime Minister’s arguments were simple and compelling. “It is a matter of Great Britain’s power and national influence in the post-war world. If the Americans obtain all of these new weapons, they will become a super power — the only super power. Everyone else will be relegated to second- or even third-rate status, including Great Britain. I cannot watch that sad chain of events happen. Can you? It would be far better for the Russians to get them. Even if they did, the Russians could never topple the Americans. However, a credible Soviet Union would restore some balance of power in the world, and maintaining a strong Britain would continue to be of value to the Americans. Do you understand, Colonel?”

  “Absolutely, Sir,” Bromley obediently agreed.

  “So you must see to it that this mission to Volkenrode fails. See that it becomes confused or delayed. You know, for want of a nail. Perhaps the Russians will get there first, or Herr Himmler will learn of the Luftwaffe’s plans to defect and solve the problem for us. As a last resort, we shall have to find some excuse to bomb the place into oblivion, but that would lay bare our intentions to the Americans. That is why you must handle it quietly, deftly, and very, very discreetly. No one else at SOE is to know of this conversation, or of my involvement. It is that important, Colonel. For the sake of Great Britain, you must see that it fails. If you do, our people shall forever be in your debt… and so shall I.”

  Later, Bromley turned and looked out the window, thinking back on his conversation with the Prime Minister. It had been brief, but the Colonel had no doubt about what Churchill expected of him. As he told Scanlon, it had been a long, painful war and it would be an even longer peace, especially for a shopkeeper’s son and ex-army Colonel. Bromley knew he had limited prospects. With no distinguished combat record to his credit, he even lacked a proper regimental tie or school connections. Staff officers like him would be selling for a sixpence on the High Street, especially backroom types like him who were not allowed to even hint about what they did in the war. Yes, George Bromley would need all the friends in high places he could muster, and Winston bloody Churchill would do very nicely for a start.

  Bromley turned back to his desk and summoned Carstairs. When the big Sergeant Major arrived, Bromley motioned for him to close the door. “I want you to escort our friend Captain Scanlon on his flight tonight. Do not let him out of your sight until you see him dropping through the hatch.”

  “Sir!” Carstairs snapped to rigid attention, rendering a crisp parade-ground salute.

  “When he does,” Bromley added with a dark, sinister glint in his eye, “a parachute will be optional attire. Is that perfectly clear, Sergeant Major?”

  The satisfied smile on Carstairs’s face said it all.

  PART THREE

  LEIPZIG, GERMANY

  APRIL 1945

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was another night drop into Germany.

  The closer he got to Leipzig, the faster Ed Scanlon’s stomach churned and the more the tips of the fingers on his left hand began to itch. He jammed them deep into the pocket of his flight suit and rubbed them hard on the rough fabric. Still, the itching only grew more intense. It was hard to blame the fingers, though. They knew he was taking them back into Otto Dietrich’s back yard, and they knew how truly insane that was. Among the men he met in training, how many of them had been dropped in and never come back out? How many would do it once, and then risk it a second time? Only a fool who thought he could silence the bad memories, turn back the clock, and make everything right again, even if it killed him.

  The heroic excitement of dropping behind enemy lines the first time was long, long gone, and he was going in alone. Without Will Kenyon to help drive it away, Scanlon felt fear wrapping itself around him like a boa constrictor in the city zoo, slowly squeezing the life out of him. This time, his only companion in the back of the “Iron Annie” was his old nemesis Sergeant Major Rupert Carstairs, playing ‘minder’ again, and he was far worse than no company at all. The big Brit sat near the hatch in the floor, glaring at him like Charon at the River Styx, beckoning him to come closer and pay the toll; but Scanlon ignored him. He did not believe a word Bromley told him about the German airplane designers, the Hermann Goering Research Institute, or Volkenrode, but he was determined to find out what happened to Hanni Steiner. The rest of it could go to hell for all he cared.

  Scanlon turned in his seat and stared out a small side window of the Ju-52 into the moonless night. He and Carstairs had not spoken a word to each other since the plane took off. That was fine with him, since there was nothing to say. For the frigid flight across, Scanlon had pulled on a thick parka over the dark gray Luftwaffe flight suit he wore. It covered him from neck to ankle. Underneath was a blue Luftwaffe officer’s uniform with all the appropriate ribbons and insignias, and he had a regulation Luftwaffe parachute strapped to his back. Carstairs, on the other hand, wore a bulky black British flight suit and his usual expression of utter contempt. Why not? He was along for the ride, but he would not be jumping. He also had a Webley service revolver strapped to his hip, no doubt in an attempt to intimidate the American, but it did not work. Wrong man, wrong place, and wrong time.

  Carstairs realized it too, but that didn’t stop him. “A bit tense tonight… Sir?” Carstairs asked with a satisfied smirk on his face. He was no doubt looking for the first signs of fear in Scanlon’s eyes, but the American was not about to give him the satisfaction. He felt the nose of the plane rise and realized they were now on final approach and the pilot was gaining altitude for the jump. Finally, the light above the cockpit door switched from red to amber. Carstairs rose from his seat, stepped to the belly hatch in the floor, and pulled it up and open.

  “Two minutes, Yank,” he screamed triumphantly over the engine roar. “We wouldn’t want to keep Herr Dietrich waiting, would we? He would be so disappointed… and no funny business with my leg this time. You won’t get away with that twice.”

  Scanlon pulled off his parka and walked to the other end of the hatch. He stood staring down into the black abyss, his stomach rising into his throat. Carstairs expression suddenly turned sinister as he stepped to the other end, tore the glove from his right hand and pulled out his Webley pistol. He pointed it at Scanlon and shouted with a sadistic grin, “Now unbuckle that parachute, mate!”

  Scanlon looked up at him and read the bastard’s eyes as all the pieces fell into place. Carstairs was a rigid disciplinarian and wouldn’t have even thought of it without orders. “Another present from your moron boss, George Bromley?” he asked.

&nb
sp; “What? You don’t think it’s my idea?”

  “You, Rupert? You don’t go to the crapper without a ‘by-your-leave, Suh!’ ”

  “Drop the ’chute, I said,” Carstairs growled, as the bulkhead light switched from amber to bright green. “Now, Scanlon! The Colonel didn’t much care whether you went out dead or alive, so drop that ’chute or I’ll drop you where you stand.”

  “You, a Sergeant Major? Shoot an officer? You don’t have it in you.”

  “Just watch me, you Yank bastard!” Carstairs cocked the Webley and extended it further. “The green light’s on, now drop the ’chute!” Carstairs screamed at him again.

  Assuming the American had jumped, the pilot dropped the Iron Annie’s nose and started his dive back down to treetop level. The airplane suddenly lurched and threw Carstairs forward, off-balance. Like a big oak, he had planted boots along the side edges of the open hatch, well balanced to fend off any last-minute stunt Scanlon might pull, but he was not balanced back to front. Scanlon reached out, grabbed the pistol barrel, and pulled. From the shocked expression on the Brit’s face, that was the last thing he expected to happen. Carstairs instinctively tightened his grip and pulled back. As he did, his weight shifted even further and he found himself toppling forward toward the open hatch, off-balance, wide-eyed, and arms flailing. Almost effortlessly, Scanlon pried the Webley from Carstairs’s grasp as the Brit’s hands grabbed the cowling on each side to stop his fall. It worked, but he now found himself helplessly spread-eagled over the open hatch, buffeted by the blasts of wind rushing inside.