Sacrifice (The Red Gambit Series. Book 5)

by Colin Gee

  Newly promoted Lieutenant-Colonel Sacha Istomin, Hero of the Soviet Union, only recently considered fit enough to return to flying duties, watched from the relative warmth of the control tower.

  The glass-walled structure, normally staffed by a six man shift, was stuffed to the brim with over twenty additional personnel, all, with the exception of Istomin, present to witness the first full test flight of the newly modified MIG-9.

  The tower commander, an ageing Captain, was clearly perturbed by the presence of so many high-ranking personages, including GKO member Georgy Malenkov, present in his role as head of aircraft production.

  The senior radio operator requested permission for a flight of aircraft to land.

  “No, no, no. Wave them off. Send them to an alternate airfield.”

  The Serzhant operator talked into his mouthpiece, his voice growing in volume as the sound of the MIG-9’s reverse engineered BMW 003 turbojets built up, ready for take-off.

  “Comrade Kapitan, Mangusta-Seven-One states he is ordered to land specifically at this field.”

  No one noticed the slight reaction from Malenkov.

  “Ordered? I have no flight plan logged for a Mangusta flight? Tell him to maintain holding pattern,” he consulted the vertical map, partially obscured by increasingly excited bodies, “Four, pattern four, over Bronnitsy.”

  “Sir.”

  The operator relayed the order as the female operator alongside him burst into life.

  “Comrade Kapitan, Zvezdnyy-One requests permission for take-off.”

  A nervous sound rose from the watchers, but was cut short by the commander’s voice.

  “Wait, Comrade Yefreytor. Comrade Serzhant, confirm the Mangusta flight has been waved off?”

  “Yes, Comrade Kapitan. Set on station four, over Bronnitsy, crusing floor ten thousand.”

  He thought for a moment.

  “Make the floor twelve thousand, Comrade Serzhant.”

  The MIG was to remain below ten thousand for its test, but he considered it prudent to make the change.

  “Comrade Yefreytor, inform Zvezdnyy-One of aircraft at twelve thousand, bearing 178 at ten kilometres. Advise him he is now clear for take-off.”

  Djorov released the brakes and felt the immediate surge as the MIG moved forward, pushing him back into his seat.

  Everything felt right; the whole aircraft just seemed ready and anxious to perform for the high-ranking officials gathered to witness a full flight test.

  The wheels left the concrete runway and Djorov brought the MIG’s tricycle undercarriage up, all the time marvelling at the differences between this time and the last time he had flown it. Those watching on the ground were in awe of its sharp climb and high speed.

  Levelling out at nine thousand five hundred feet, Djorov noted a slight flutter and his eyes flicked across the gauges in search of any issues.

  There were none, the flutter went, and he commenced a gentle dive and turn. As his confidence grew Djorov started extra manoeuvres, gently at first, then more pronounced.

  In the tower, and on the ground, hands pointed out the returning aircraft and were then clapped to ears as the MIG-9 swept down the runway at one hundred feet, the twin turbojets roaring under four-fifths power.

  Djorov simultaneously pulled the nose up and advanced the throttles, making the fighter aircraft rise like a rocket.

  Istomin’s mouth fell open in wonder.

  ‘That’s impressive!’

  For the next twenty minutes, Zvezdnyy-One performed a series of manoeuvres for the onlookers, all without problems.

  The climax of the display was to be an actual firing of the weapons in a ground attack, a worn out T-26 having been set on the edge of the airfield to provide a serious target.

  The MIG-9 was designed, primarily, as a bomber interceptor, which resulted in it carrying an armament suitable for knocking heavy bombers down with a handful of hits.

  In this instance, Djorov brought the full power of one 57mm and two 23mm cannons to bear on the dilapidated old tank.

  He missed spectacularly, churning up the grass nearly two hundred metres beyond the target.

  Adjusting his speed, Djorov brought the MIG round in a long and gentle turn, bleeding off height until he was barely one hundred and fifty feet above the ground.

  The T26 disappeared as all three weapons spat their shells accurately.

  The spectators on the ground were noisily impressed, and more than one senior officer or Mikoyan engineer looked smug beyond measure.

  However, the tower staff now had other problems, the tower Kapitan having to shout to make himself heard over the sounds of joy.

  “Silence in the tower!”

  A few eyes swung in his direction, mainly men unused to being on the end of such treatment.

  “Say again, Serzhant.”

  The senior operator repeated his warning.

  “Mangusta-seven-one has an emergency and must land. Twin engine failures. The aircraft is inbound already, Comrade Kapitan.”

  Pointing at the female corporal, the Captain reeled off some quick instructions.

  “Tell Zvezdnyy-One to discontinue the display, take a bearing 90, circle at point 2, Arinino. Make height eight thousand and await further instructions.”

  He listened as the order was relayed to Djorov and then turned his attention back to the Mangusta aircraft.

  “Tell him he is clear for landing, Comrade Serzhant.”

  Procedure dictated that the crash crews would be prepared immediately an emergency was inbound, and their sirens were now added to the sound of the departing turbojets and the growing hubbub of disquiet amongst the tower’s occupants.

  The Captain moved through some of those who now served no purpose but to get in the way, making his way to a side window, where he brought his binoculars up.

  There was Mangusta-seven-one, both its port side engines clearly feathered.

  Whilst part of him took in the details of the problem, another part of him was questioning what exactly he was looking at.

  He moved back into the heart of the tower, listening as his Serzhant talked the large aircraft through its final approach.

  Suddenly aware of an adjacent presence, he look up, straight into the angry eyes of Georgy Malenkov.

  “Comrade Kapitan, make sure you get it down in one piece. We only have three of these.”

  Being addressed directly by a member of the GKO was not a commonplace occurrence, but he retained enough presence of mind to keep his mind on the job in hand.

  “Report, Comrade Serzhant.”

  “Sir, twelve hundred metres out, pilot reports no handling issues at this time. Emergency crews in position at points one and four.”

  The extra personnel in the tower now crowded the viewing area for a different purpose, willing the stricken aircraft to land safely. Some, for whom its future was a matter of certain knowledge, knew that more than just one aircraft and a handful of aircrew were at stake.

  All around Ramenskoye, those who had gathered as spectators for the MIG-9 test, now had the opportunity to watch something equally dramatic.

  One common thought hit many minds.

  ‘What the fuck is that?’

  Most recognised that the aircraft was in US markings

  Very few observers recognised Mangusta-seven-one for what it was, namely a Boeing B-29 Superfortress.

  Malenkov was furious, at least internally so.

  Even as Mangusta-seven-one, named Ramp Tramp by its former owners, touched down safely, he wondered about the organisation that had brought so many people to Ramenskoye on the same day that a vital ingredient of the Soviet Union’s plans for 1946 was supposed to arrive in relative secrecy.

  What made him even more furious was the fact that he rather thought he had made the error himself, and, as befitted a survivor in the political arena, he had already worked out who would take the blame for the matter should it became necessary.

  Two more B-29s landed without incident, name
d Ding How and General H H Arnold Special, all three aircraft being immediately shepherded to a remote part of Ramenskoye’s north-eastern perimeter.

  Granted permission to return, Djorov couldn’t fail to spot the three large aircraft taxiing slowly to their concealed positions.

  He had seen such beasts once before, killed one in fact, but their presence here, at Ramenskoye, was unexpected.

  Later, when he and his new friend Istomin met up, they consumed a great deal of vodka whilst discussing the merits of the MIG-9 and the purpose of three long-range heavy bombers in US markings.

  Their discussions on the latter could not have been further from the truth.

  1903 hrs, Saturday, 9th February 1946, on board S-22, Østerskær Island, Denmark.

  The submarine had made the journey entirely on the surface, and in daylight, or what counted for daylight in February on the Baltic.

  The lookouts suffered badly, their nerves frayed by the sight of a simple seagull or a sudden patch of white in the swelling sea, and they were changed round frequently, such was the tension and strain on the damaged submarine’s crew.

  Darkness had come far slower than they desired, but its arrival had brought some relief, if only in the minds of some, as Allied maritime aircraft, more often than not, possessed radar capable of seeking them out on the darkest of nights.

  But they were lucky, and Jabulov conned S-22 into the quiet bay he had chosen, where he was confident he could disguise his vessel and buy time to effect repairs.

  Bringing S-22 into the small bay, he dropped anchor close by on its western edge, set an armed watch on deck, and took the opportunity to get his first sleep in nearly forty hours.

  His sleep was interrupted by an urgent summons to the bridge as the dawn sun started to make its presence known.

  Never a man to take being woken lightly, an irritable Jabulov arrived on the bridge.

  “Well, Comrade Michmann Farenkov?”

  “Comrade Kapitan.”

  The Petty Officer merely pointed northwards down the line of the submarine.

  Jabulov followed the line of the finger down the submarine, across the water, all the way to the heap of tangled silver metal that had once been an aircraft.

  Submarine commanders are not noted for their hesitancy or indecision.

  “Comrade Michmann, I have the bridge. You are relieved. Organise a six man boat party, armed, including yourself and me. Order the Starshy Leytenant to report to me immediately.”

  The Petty Officer sped away as Jabulov swept his binoculars over the metal heap once more, this time spotting the telltale white star of America… and a man.

  The rubber dinghy had no sooner grounded than the party was up and moving, fanning out as they headed straight for the destroyed aircraft, weapons at the ready.

  The man seemed transfixed by their arrival, almost in shock.

  One of the ratings spoke English, and the Michmann directed him forward as had been agreed.

  Relaxing his posture, the young sailor strode steadily up towards the bearded man, who seemed to suddenly understand that salvation was at hand.

  He whooped, making the Soviet sailors grip their weapons harder, and then started to bounce around like a mad man, laughing and screaming in joy.

  The English-speaking rating tried to engage the man in conversation, but it was one-sided, the man’s relief at being rescued taking over completely.

  Food and drink calmed him down a little, and they all started to relax.

  Leaving the Michmann to supervise outside, Jabulov and another sailor made a tentative entry into the wrecked B-29, once known as Jenni Lee.

  There were dead men, some intact, in almost ordered repose, others in pieces, and in positions of extremis. One corpse, in the cockpit, impaled on a metal strut and held aloft like a crucifixion, was particularly horrible. The cold weather had done much to maintain the integrity of the bodies, so there was no putrefaction or significant decay, preserving the horrors of their end for all to see.

  Picking their way through the fuselage, Jabulov directed the rating to take photographs of things he considered important enough to need preserving.

  He stuck his head outside for a moment, ordering the Michmann to take the survivor back to the submarine, and bring more men back.

  Over the next few hours, as work progressed on board S-22, a party of sailors worked their way over the whole crash site, dismantling items under the direction of Jabulov, and photographing larger items. The Navigation Officer had been recruited into the party to take measurements of items that could not be removed.

  As the aviation fuel had long since evaporated, Jabulov sought the comfort of the fuselage to enjoy a cigarette out of the growing wind.

  “Comrade Kapitan?”

  Jabulov held out his pack of cigarettes.

  “Thank you, Comrade Kapitan. This object. Do you want it measured? It seems to have no place here.”

  Lighting both their cigarettes, Jabulov looked at the metal structure his Junior Lieutenant was referring to.

  He had walked through this part before, but didn’t remember the large round construction.

  The younger officer understood what his commander was thinking.

  “It was covered up with parachute silk and some aluminium panelling, Comrade Kapitan.”

  Jabulov said nothing as he stared intently at the object, but his reaction startled the Navigator.

  “Comrade Kapitan?”

  “It’s a bomb.”

  “What?”

  “I said it’s a bomb. A very big one, an unusual one for sure, but none the less a bomb.”

  The Michmann arrived to make his report, but halted, sensing that all was not well with the two officers.

  The Navigation Officer was as white as a sheet, and Jabulov seemed totally distracted by the large round thing in the floor of the aircraft.

  Jabulov nodded at him.

  “Comrade Michmann, direct the photographer to take numerous shots of this object,” he indicted the pumpkin bomb, “And do make sure he is careful. It’s an unexploded bomb.”

  Michmann Farenkov drained of colour, and he quickly moved away to find the photographer.

  The Navigation officer, under Jabulov’s direct supervision, made some drawings and measurements of both the bomb and the damaged framework that it had been held in.

  Every single piece of paper was removed from the aircraft; maps through to chocolate bar wrappers.

  The bearded man had survived initially on crew rations, but evidence of his fishing prowess was everywhere in and around the shelter he had created for himself against the rocks, where part of the B-29’s wing assembly had come to rest, creating a windproof and water tight cocoon for the sole survivor of the crash. Stuffed full of silk parachutes, life jackets and items of clothing, the modest sized area had proven sufficient to protect the survivor from the awfulness of the winter outside.

  The embers of a fire still glowed in a bespoke metal fireplace set against the bare rock at the far end of the space, and Jabulov could quite imagine how comfortable the man had been.

  Finding a kit bag amongst the items bulking out the bed area, the Soviet officer gathered up the array of handguns, eleven in all, laid out neatly on a natural shelf in the rock.

  A notebook, newspaper, and small briefcase also caught his eye, and all followed the handguns into the kit bag.

  Emerging from the hide, Jabulov encountered the Navigation Officer.

  “Comrade Kapitan, we have completed photography and dimensional drawing work. The cameraman reports that he has seven frames available for overall site pictures, with your permission?”

  With a look at his watch, he assessed the situation.

  ’11.20. Must be nearly done with the repairs by now surely?’

  “Very well, Comrade Mladshy Leytenant. Have him take his last photographs and let’s get the shore party assembled. We’ve done all we can do here.”

  Every piece of intelligence and every sailor was
back aboard S-22 by 1155, by which time Jabulov received some positive news on his vessel’s recovery.

  At 1210, he dropped the submarine below the surface in a controlled vertical dive to the floor below, choosing to remain in the bay during the day to permit further repairs to take place on the submarine’s electrical system in the relative safety offered by the island.

  S-22 surfaced in the dark to top up her batteries and, as Sunday night moved into Monday morning, the silent boat headed out into the Baltic and dropped below the waves.

  2159 hrs, Monday, 11th February 1946, Temporary Office of the Deputy Chief, Deuxieme Bureau, Heming, France.

  De Walle was contemplating the short journey from his desk to the cot bed he had ordered placed in his sumptuous office, when the door rattled with urgent knocking.

  “Come in!”

  He didn’t mean to shout in anger, but it had been a long day.

  He regretted it even more when De Valois came in, clearly a woman on a mission.

  “Apologies, Anne-Marie; it’s been one hell of a day.”

  She shrugged as only the French can shrug, expressing her full opinion on the matter.

  Suddenly De Walle became confused.

  “I thought you were going to Reims to see the girls today?”

  She shook her head.

  “Last minute change of plan. We go early tomorrow, back on Saturday evening.”

  “C’est la Guerre, eh?”

  De Walle’s smile faded instantly, as he saw his top female officer was agitated by the matter.

  “No, it’s the cursed Legion taking priority as always.”

  It was a touchy subject for Anne-Marie, for reasons known only to very, very few people.

  “Anyway Mon Général, this message just came in from our British Allies. It’s marked for your attention. It’s been decoded already.”

  She passed the sealed message envelope.

  De Walle read the contents three times before he passed it to her.

  “Read it… aloud if you please, Anne-Marie.”