Endgame (The Red Gambit Series Book 7)

by Colin Gee

  “Yes, Sir. That remains a serious possibility, although we cannot confirm or deny it for now.”

  “So do we know anything more about these things… what they’re capable of?”

  Yes, Sir. We know that the Special types can accommodate three aircraft each. That’s confirmed. What isn’t confirmed is their range. We have interrogation evidence from a civilian designer which we are having corroborated by our own technical engineering people right now. One moment please, Sir.”

  Waynes consulted his notes and MacArthur took the opportunity to fire up his pipe, a signal that transferred to his orderly, who magically appeared with coffee.

  “Yes, Sir. Our own data on the AMs is sound, and supported with evidence gained from Japanese naval records. They can theoretically sail for twenty-four thousand miles without refuelling. Our Gatos will do something over fourteen thousand.”

  MacArthur puffed away without a care in the world, although his insides were churning.

  “From what we can glean, the Special Types will go forty thousand miles.”

  “Forty thousand?”

  “So it seems sir. We have discovered a paper from Admiral Yamamoto on the subject of large raiding submarines, in which he gives the specification that the new submarines must be able to sail to any point on the planet and return without refuelling.”

  “Good god.”

  “There is a part of Yamamoto’s specification that Admiral Towers wanted me to make sure you understood, Sir. That is that the Special Submarines should be capable of making three journeys from Japan to the western seaboard of the United States without needing more fuel.”

  “Good Lord! So Admiral Towers thinks that they are going to do something to us on the west coast?”

  “Actually no, Sir. But he’s presently looking at the possibilities, and stepping up our defensive measures at all points east of Midway. That’s why he can’t be here, Sir.”

  “Why doesn’t he think the West Coast is threatened?”

  “If they’ve split up, then it is, Sir. Admiral Towers can’t take the chance that they haven’t, but an interesting piece in the puzzle fell into place at six this morning.”

  The lighter clicked again and rich smoke flowed around the room.

  Waynes produced another set of photos and laid them out over the pictures of the Sen-Tokus.

  MacArthur understood exactly what he was looking at, but asked the question anyway.

  “What am I looking at here, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir, these items were recovered from the ocean on Christmas Day… by the frigate, HMSAS Transvaal. They were in a weighted bag. According to the report, the find was purely accidental.”

  He placed the written report from the commander of the Transvaal in front of the general.”

  “Sir, the Transvaal was searching for recently identified U-Boat supply points, with orders to recover anything of importance and nullify the contents, leaving no risk to civilians. This was found during their Christmas Day lay over at one of those sites.”

  The pictures showed a Japanese naval rank marking, a leather wallet, the contents of which had not survived the ministrations of saltwater, a silver neck chain, and a uniform cap.

  “The bag itself had suffered. However, the rank insignia are clearly those of an IJN ensign. The wallet is no help, except that it has a wooden button, which might make it recent… the nips moved to wooden buttons as resources failed… the chain is nothing special… but it’s the cap that gave us what we needed, Sir.”

  The rate of puffing increased.

  “Ensign Kisokada I… we have him on record, Sir.”

  Waynes produced his final copy with a flourish and placed in front of MacArthur, to whom the Japanese writing was nothing but gibberish, but for whom the English language notation meant everything.

  He read the simple words aloud.

  “Kisokada, Ito… passed… 4/62… assignment 6th Fleet… STS… STS…”

  MacArthur caught sight of a heavily marked section of the original document.

  “What’s this, Lieutenant?”

  “That is the most interesting part of all, Sir. Our best guess is that the clerk noted down his duty station and then erased it and inserted STS.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Our best guess is 4-0-1, which is probably the I-401.”

  “I-401?”

  “Yes, Sir. It should be noted that the official Combined Fleet records do not show an I-401, even in the planning stage.”

  “Alternatives? What else could it be?”

  “None that we can imagine, Sir. No surface vessel could have made it to South Africa. Had to be a submarine that this Kisokada came from, Sir.”

  MacArthur rose up, pipe in mouth, coffee in hand, and walked briskly to the map that had priority place on the wall.

  He dropped onto his haunches and used the stem of his pipe to trace the route from Imperial Japan to the east coast of Africa.

  “So, what’s Admiral Towers’ think about their plans… what the nips are up to… what’s got them so interested in Africa… what’s around there…?”

  MacArthur looked for anything that jumped out at him.

  The other officer Lieutenant j.g Takeo, spoke rapidly.

  “Sir, I’m sorry. Did you not see the map work? The items were found at the mouth of the Ondusengo River, where intelligence had placed a U-Boat supply dump.”

  Takeo, being nearest the map, dropped down alongside the general and pointed.

  “That would be here, Sir… in South-West Africa… on the Atlantic coast.”

  “What?”

  The two stood up in response to Waynes’ cough as he stood ready with the map he had placed before MacArthur very early on in the briefing.

  “Admiral Towers is making sure the West Coast stateside is prepared, but sure as eggs is eggs, whatever the Japs are planning is not within our area, Sir.”

  “Hold on one cotton-picking minute, sailor. Are you telling me that the Nip navy had submarines, probably four big submarines, at large in the Atlantic since… when?”

  “Probably since late July, early August, Sir.”

  “Goddamnit!”

  The pipe started to chug as General MacArthur worked the possibilities.

  “Anywhere in the world, you say?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Goddamnit!”

  He headed back to the desk, followed by the two junior officers.

  MacArthur’s mind was working overtime.

  “We know that some of the Nips are quite happy to fight on… but that’s mainly those who haven’t heard of the surrender… or who disbelieve it.”

  He rummaged through the evidence on his desk, here and there examining a piece more closely.

  “This is organised. Slipped out of Japan… in convoy probably… to the Russians… then they sail into the Atlantic…”

  “There are people working on the possibilities right now, Sir.”

  “So, lieutenants… where could they be by now?”

  The two men exchanged looks and Waynes took the lead.

  “Anywhere on the planet, Sir.”

  That piece of information, along with the rest of the intelligence brief, arrived with General Eisenhower later that evening, as a priority message from Washington.

  A pleasant but extremely cold Thursday was suddenly transformed into a boiling maelstrom as department after department was brought in, all with a view to answering a number of questions that were foremost in the mind of the head of NATO’s European forces.

  All of a sudden, the world seemed to be less safe.

  1054 hrs, Saturday, 4th January 1947, the Apostles Simon and Jude Thaddaeus Church, Skawina, Poland.

  This was not the first time that he had been in a church in recent weeks.

  The last time he had slipped into Wawel Cathedral in Krakow and lit a candle in memory of those who had perished in the camp.

  His mind wandered to that visit, and the events of Christmas Day.
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  Lavalle leant closer to his friend and whispered, startling him from his reverie.

  “You know, your sergent… Hässelbach… he’s got a book running on when she’ll arrive. Celestin’s the official time keeper apparently.”

  Knocke raised an eyebrow and looked at the French officer at the end of the row of benches, eyes glued to a pocket watch, before returning to fix the gaze of his commander, Lavalle.

  He mercilessly interrogated the Frenchmen with his eyes, the slightest of grins revealing his amusement.

  “Yes, ok…a small wager…but at least I said she’d be on time… none of this late nonsense… unlike some.”

  He eyed Haefali and Uhlmann, who seemed to be constantly checking their watches.

  Knocke followed his line of sight and received smiles in return.

  “So, whilst I’m embarking on the most important of events, you and your officers are trying to make money out of the proceedings?”

  “C’est la guerre, mon ami.”

  They both snorted loudly, the sound almost echoing around the inside of the old church.

  Outside, the white walled building blended seamlessly with the recent heavy snowfall, despite the efforts of teams of legionnaires, who laboured long and hard to remove as much of the blizzard’s product as possible.

  The same men now formed a guard of honour, waiting for the arrival of the woman who was to marry their commander.

  Knocke looked at his two daughters, sat either side of Madame Fleriot and being fussed over by old Jerome, their attendance made possible only by the direct intervention of De Lattre, who sat prominently in the second row of the bride’s side, the empty spaces around him emphasising his importance.

  The number of his officers looking at watches became apparent, and Knocke realised that Hässelbach had been very very busy indeed.

  The smile on his face spread, for he knew that Lavalle’s bet was safe.

  At 1100 to the second, the doors opened and the choir started to sing, as Anne-Marie de Valois, on the arm of Georges de Walle, proceeded steadily down the aisle.

  More than one eye greedily took in her beauty and form.

  Despite the unrevealing nature of the dress, the fact that Anne-Marie was a woman in her prime was evident for all to see.

  Knocke risked a look in all directions, seeing disappointed faces checking and rechecking their watches.

  He returned his eyes to the vision of beauty that was approaching and, not for the first time, thanked fate for bringing this woman to him, and for giving him the greatest gift; her love.

  The ceremony was brief but elegant, with De Walle giving away the bride and Lavalle acting as best man.

  It seemed like only a few moments later that they were married and walking back down the aisle, arm in arm, surrounded by friends and comrades, all armed with the broadest of smiles.

  Ernst-August and Anne-Marie Knocke stepped out into the cold to be illuminated by the brightest of winter suns and greeted by the smartest detachment of legionnaires in parade dress, who immediately gave a general’s salute at the order of Capitaine Durand, who had slipped out of the church unobserved.

  At Durand’s invitation, the newly-weds inspected his formed detachment, something that seemed odd to the civilians watching, but that was fully understood by the military observers.

  Photographers plied their trade, and friends and comrades closed in or dispersed, depending on who was summoned.

  After a long delay, the bride and groom mounted the carriage that would take them to the reception at the Sports Club in the old Falcon Palace.

  1155 hrs, Saturday, 4th January 1947, Pałacyk Sokół [Falcon Palace], Park Miejski, Skawina, Poland.

  The food was amazing, considering all the privations that visited themselves on Europe.

  Over two hundred people were crammed into the main rooms of the Falcon Palace.

  It had been agreed that lots would be drawn amongst the legionnaires and the lucky men, three from every unit under Knocke’s command, plied their commander and his new wife with soldier’s gifts from their different units, given to the man and woman out of true love, comradeship, and respect.

  Although not a draw winner, Haefali had arranged for one legionnaire to attend, albeit briefly.

  Offering the newly-weds a gift of two hand-carved wooden candlesticks was Yitzhak Rubenstein, the old legionnaire who had helped Knocke and Haefali bring peace to the dead Soviet paratroopers in the courtyard of the Chateau so long ago.

  Rubenstein and Knocke shared a handshake, and for a few seconds as they clasped hands, they shared a silent memory.

  “Thank you, Yitzhak. They will be treasured.”

  The old legionnaire slipped away without further ceremony.

  Knocke was refreshed that the recent events had not lain too hard on his soldiers, and that this wedding seemed to have brought them back closer together.

  He could only laugh when daughter Greta proudly announced that she was the official mascot of the 1er RdM, a position granted to her by the three men from Emmercy’s unit.

  The top table was set with its back towards large French windows that allowed the winter sun in and provided a superb white backdrop to the wedding party.

  The hall was graced by many displays of material flowers worked with evergreen foliage, the most impressive of which were set in front of the feet of the main table; two large ceramic pots, hand painted with local scenes, which contained the finest and tallest of the handmade displays.

  Waiting staff from the local population walked out with glasses already primed with champagne, or as close as they could get in war-torn Poland, and started to distribute the contents of their trays amongst the well-wishers.

  The waiter bringing the drinks to the top table seemed to be the clumsiest of all the Poles, and certainly the oldest, but he had given his time freely and was apparently in charge of the volunteers.

  With studied care, he set a glass down in front of each person…

  Lavalle…

  Greta…bridesmaid

  Armande Fleriot…

  Magda…bridesmaid

  De Lattre…

  Sabine de Rochechouart, maid of honour and Anne-Marie’s long-time friend.

  Ernst…

  Anne-Marie…

  De Walle…

  Plummer…

  Clementine Plummer, his wife…

  Haefali…

  Each in turn received a glass.

  The old man set down the tray to place out the last two glasses and coughed, extinguishing two of the candles with the gust of air, and then contrived to knock the last glass onto the floor.

  The shattering of glass drew a few looks, but nothing was particularly out of the ordinary, so all minds returned to the task of celebrating.

  All except one, a trained mind that understood something simply wasn’t correct but couldn’t identify what.

  Madame Fleriot had quickly engaged with General De Lattre, and the two became involved in deep conversation for most of the reception, or up until the glasses started rattling to quieten people down, ready for the speeches.

  De Walle rose to his feet, the act accompanied by a few growls from officers, keen to bring the group to order.

  The old man bent down next to the large floral decoration, and picked up the pieces of glass with studied care.

  The redness in his face marked embarrassment to those who gave him a second look, but not to the eyes that bored into him as he moved up and down from floor to table.

  The old man finished picking up pieces, relit the candles, and moved away.

  De Walle stood to give his speech, as the new Frau Knocke rose to shout a warning.

  “Stop!”

  The room fell into instant silence, marked only by the sounds of breathing and a single set of footsteps.

  “Stop him!”

  From those on the top table, Haefali was the nearest, so he and two legionnaires grabbed at the old man who grimly tried to push them away with his tray
full of broken glass.

  Another legion officer grabbed the tray, allowing the two legionnaires to hold the man.

  All eyes then swivelled to Anne-Marie who pointed at the floral display.

  “The display!”

  He had been clever, but not clever enough.

  The candle smoke had masked the slight smell of burning associated with a pencil fuse.

  The glass had been the perfect distraction, and provided him with a reason to get down on the floor next to the floral decoration.

  Without a second thought, Plummer, now the nearest, moved round the table and looked into the display, his face reflecting his horror even as his mouth started to work.

  “Get out now!”

  The room galvanised and the reactions of the soldiers took over, most grabbing someone less aware.

  Plummer grabbed the charge and ran for the French windows.

  He half kicked, half-shouldered open the double doors and ran, mentally counting off ten large bounds before he threw the device as far as he could.

  It exploded two seconds after bouncing for a second time, transforming an old wooden cart into something much less recognisable, but infinitely more deadly.

  Inside the building, the explosive shock wave showered the occupants with glass moving at high speed.

  There were many injuries.

  Knocke’s two daughters had been swept up in strong arms and shielded from the blast, Greta by the body of Lavalle, who simply turned his back on the blast as he hurried her away in the opposite direction, and Magda, who was pushed to the floor and lain on by Armande Fleriot, whose still sharp reactions betrayed her murky past.

  Both Lavalle and Madame Fleriot were cut by glass, but nothing that was serious, at least not when compared to others.

  De Lattre escaped without injury, as did Knocke, although his dress tunic was cut in three places by flying glass.

  Anne-Marie received her injury when her face collided with a rapidly moving chair and her eye closed up within seconds.

  Clementine Plummer’s back was bloodied from head to foot from many glass and wood splinters that had opened up her flesh and turned her yellow dress red. The wounds were numerous but none was severe.