Endgame (The Red Gambit Series Book 7)

by Colin Gee

  ‘Unknown group… what the deuce? She answered the phrase!’

  She tilted the glass towards him in mock acknowledgement, or so he thought.

  “Pretty words, Polkovnik Ramsey. My loyalty is to the Motherland first and foremost, you understand.”

  She weighed up matters in her mind and decided that her compliance might bring indiscretion from the Englishman, which might enable her to gather sufficient information to denounce the traitors in their midst.

  “I will follow the example set by my old friend Pekunin, and trust to his judgement that what I’m doing is not damaging to my country. If it proves otherwise, there’ll be hell to pay. You understand?”

  Ramsey raised his glass.

  “Indeed I do, Comrade Leytenant General Nazarbayeva. Cheers and welcome to the club.”

  “Na Zdorovie, Polkovnik Ramsey.”

  The Swedish barman was puzzled, having heard nothing of the conversation, the two officers suddenly clinked glasses and celebrated some sort of deal… joining a club as he thought he had heard.

  His report to Tørget carried little of worth apart from those few words. The Swedish spymaster suspected that he knew exactly what that entailed, and decided that Nazarbayeva must now be on board with the operation.

  “Now, I would like to ask a question of you, General.”

  “So soon, Polkovnik Ramsey?”

  “It is a matter of some urgency, and I would hope that you can feel free to answer.”

  “Go on.”

  “In early February, our intelligence services identified a secret shipment passing through Lithuania. That was subsequently identified as Anthrax.”

  “A biological weapon?”

  “Not weaponised, no. One hundred litre drums, a large number of them.”

  “Go on.”

  “Your submarine was in fact sunk by our forces, and men were rescued, all tainted with Anthrax, which we have subsequently discovered as being aboard the submarine in roughly the same numbers as was transported by the NKVD down the River Neman.”

  Ramsey embellished the truth a little, totally accurately unbeknown to him.

  “I know nothing of this, Polkovnik Ramsey… but such an act is not planned by my leadership, of that I am absolutely sure.”

  Her sincerity was apparent, although he could not read her mind.

  ‘Again, it is confirmed… all of Raduga is still running… the delivery of anthrax into water systems in Northern Germany and Denmark… it is all still running!’

  “I can help you no more, Polkovnik Ramsey.”

  They both stood, each showing physical discomfort in their own individual way.

  “General.”

  “Polkovnik”

  They saluted formally and went their separate ways.

  Nazarbayeva left the secure signals office, content that her nondescript message to Kaganovich would simply be seen as a normal request for a visit, not an urgent need to bear her soul and commence an anti-revolutionary manhunt within the higher echelons of Soviet government.

  At 2200 hrs the Signals Colonel went off duty and knocked on her door, bearing a bottle of vodka and a jar of pickled herrings.

  The herrings lay unconsumed, the bottle half empty, as Nazarbayeva took her sexual pleasures well into the night.

  0100 hrs Saturday, 15th March 1947, somewhere in Poland.

  Guderian watched the night exercise without really seeing anything, his mind so focussed on other events in progress.

  In his mind’s eye, he could imagine the special groups moving silently towards their targets, each bringing along one, two, or three Russian prisoners, kept healthy and alive until this very evening, soon to be shot dead at the site of each attack and left as undeniable proof of Soviet treachery.

  The targets were ones that would help conceal what was about to come; units that had the capacity to interpret that all was not as it seemed.

  Guderian had recently finished a telephone with the new NATO commander.

  Whilst he understood the man’s ego issues, or at least thought he did, he couldn’t help but like the man’s drive and singularity of purpose.

  Since May ’45, Patton had preached that they should continue on eastwards and take on the red hordes on their own ground.

  The idea of getting him placed in charge of NATO had been the contrivance of a moment of opportunity created by the loss of the leadership in one incident.

  That the incident had originated with a German device intended to take down one man was of no consequence in the greater run of things.

  Circumstances had provided the Fatherland with an opportunity that none of them could have dreamed of and, whilst he was full of trepidation about the possibility of leading men onto the steppes of Russia once more, he also knew it would be very different this time around.

  Guderian took a gentle stroll, enjoying the crisp night air and silence, made more intense by what he knew was to come, and made his way to the intelligence centre.

  “Good morning, meine Herren!”

  The men gathered around the large table sprang to attention.

  “Relax, relax. Is there anything I should know?”

  The senior man, Lieutenant General Albert Schnez, pointed Guderian towards the intelligence situation map.

  “Herr Feldmarschal, there’s some recorded air activity over the British lines near Braunsberg. We understand that night fighters have clashed over our own lines, east of Jata. I suspect that’s only because we’ve asked our airmen to be more vigilant in their policing of our air space tonight.”

  “And this plot?”

  “Ah, that’s a Soviet flight that will be inbound to Berlin. An agreed routing of three transports plus two escorts. Nothing out of the ordinary, of course, but…”

  “But they’ll have to go.”

  “Yes, Herr Feldmarschal. Our Luftwaffe officers understand this.”

  He nodded towards the highly decorated air force officer who was already lost in his own intelligence world.

  “Gut. Continue, Albert.”

  “From what we understand, the only two places of concern are Vienna, as always…”

  “The usual discontent?”

  “So it seems. A few shots, perhaps nothing more than harsh words, but enough to get our American allies hot under the collar. Their radio network is alive with requests to fire… which may suit our purpose, of course.”

  “Of course. And?”

  “And the French, specifically our old friends of the SS. Apparently there was an accidental discharge of a tank weapon at Krzcin, resulting in an enemy casualty. It’s being sorted now, but the two forces have gone on alert.”

  Guderian again wondered if some guiding hand was at work, but decided it was simply fate taking a hand once more.

  “Anything from our Abwehr colleagues?”

  “Yes, we’re getting regular updates, but nothing at all that causes me concern, except for the apparent repositioning of the new Guards Mechanised Army. I’ve already passed it through to your headquarters. They appear to have been on the move since Thursday.”

  “Show me.”

  The map was cleared of pencils, rulers, and hands in order to permit Guderian to see the new situation. He was already aware that the 1st Guards Mechanised Army had moved from its previous position in reserve opposite the junction between the Polish and German armies at Elk, set back in and around the city of Grodno.

  “Yes, we factored in their departure… our Polish comrades were more than happy of course… so where are they going do you think?”

  “I’m unsure, Herr Feldmarschal, but…”

  “But you have a feeling of course?”

  “Lvov.”

  “Enlighten me, Albert.”

  “If they want a big hard-hitting mobile formation below that there are two other alternatives in the Southern Ukraine and Bulgaria… plus the railway line they are on… we think they are on goes through Lvov.”

  Guderian inspected the map, checked the locations
of the other new Guards Mechanised Armies, and decided that his CoS was probably correct.

  “And this one?”

  He pointed at the 3rd Guards Mechanised Army positioned around Leningrad.

  “Nothing as yet, but I’ve requested information from our assets. If they’re moving down to reduce the gap then we should be able to work out what’s going on.”

  “But if the 3rd is moving down, that will be the British Army’s problem in the first instance.”

  “Yes, Herr Feldmarschal.”

  “So, Generalleutnant. I see nothing here to make me worry, and certainly nothing that would obstruct Undenkbar. Agreed?”

  “I agree, Herr Feldmarschal.”

  “Gut. Keep me informed, Albert.”

  Guderian walked alone out into the morning with his forces now committed to Undenkbar.

  Despite the greatcoat, he felt a sudden shiver go down his spine.

  The last time he had felt such a shiver was on the morning of 5th December 1941, when he had called off the ground offensive against Moscow, knowing the German Army was spent.

  ‘Calm yourself, man. Now you’ve other advantages. The great industrial power is with you. There’s no defeat ahead, no retreat on the freezing steppe; only victory.’

  “Or death!”

  He laughed at the sound of his own voice carrying on the rejuvenated wind.

  ‘Or death indeed.’

  0158 hrs, Saturday, 15th March 1947, the Elk-Bydgoszcz-Küstrin-Berlin safe air corridor. Northeastern Europe.

  “I swear if that fucking Fokker comes close again, I’ll put him down.”

  “Calm yourself, Starshy Leytenant, set an example to this enlisted man.”

  “It’s bad enough that I have to baby sit these lumbering hogs, let alone that I’ve to put up with your babblings.”

  “Hang on…”

  Braun went all business and fiddled with the radar set.

  “There’s two barrelling in to come under the transports… directly into the corridor. That’s not allowed.”

  “Steer me in.”

  Braun delivered the steer and the last He-219A7 in the Soviet Air Force dropped down to play cat and mouse with the harrying German night fighters.

  Jurgen Förster, the Soviet Union’s top living night fighter ace, formed a superb team with Hans Braun, both of whom were died-in-the-wool committed German communists.

  The Heinkel drove in hard, but both men were confident that the enemy aircraft would see the error of their ways and draw off.

  They did not, and the situation became even more tense when another two enemy night fighters dropped in astern of the He-219.

  “Seems like they’re playing to new rules tonight, Oberleutnant.”

  “One more time and I’ll… Mein Gott!”

  The world went white as shells hammered into their fuselage, and Förster instinctively flipped the Heinkel into a tight right diving turn.

  “What the fuck… Jesus, Jurgen… they got the transports, all three are going down… Scheisse!”

  Had Förster been able to look he would have seen that the three Lisonov-2 aircraft had succumbed to Schräge Musik fire, the vertically mounted cannons in the German night fighters ripping open the tender bellies of the transports and dispatching each to a fiery death below.

  Tracer bullets flashed past the canopy and Förster improvised into a rolling dive loop that pushed the pair of them back into their seats as the G-forces acted upon them.

  “Get on the radio… tell base exactly what’s going on here!”

  “But I don’t have any idea what the fuck’s going on here.”

  Braun flicked the transmit switch and instinctively knew something was wrong.

  “Radio’s out.”

  He looked at the screen and shouted a warning.

  “Target dead ahead… watch out man!”

  Förster had but two seconds to react; it was enough.

  Six 20mm MG151s put hundreds of bullets into the void and quickly closed down the gap, many smashing into the enemy aircraft, one of the DRL’s much vaunted FW Ta-154 Moskito.

  It simply came apart and spread itself and burning jet fuel across the night sky.

  Their wingman lost the unequal struggle first, and the awful squeals over the open radio told them of the death of their friends.

  The old veteran radar operator screamed for his wife and children all the way down as his Heinkel burned around him.

  The unsettling noise stopped, either by contact with the ground or by fire spread.

  Neither man had time to reflect on the loss of comrades.

  They were suddenly in a sky all alone with five enemy jets whilst the ground below sparkled with guns firing.

  “Try that fucking radio again!”

  Braun fiddled with it and saw it stutter into life.

  “Yes! It’s wor…”

  Six 30mm cannon shells entered the side of the crew compartment, striking everything that was vital.

  Braun lived long enough to see his friend’s head simply disappear as one shell transited without exploding.

  The nose of the aircraft was already coming apart as the last but one shell struck the corner of his radar set and exploded.

  The final shell did further ignominy to Braun’s flayed carcass and the disintegrating Heinkel prescribed a slow fiery arc as it dropped away to the battleground below.

  The most persistent sound which reverberates through men's history is the beating of war drums.

  Arthur Koestler

  Chapter 192 - THE REENGAGEMENT

  0200 hrs, Saturday, 15th March 1947, Europe.

  In numerous locations, the special teams had gone to work prior to H-hour, and men had died long before they realised that the war had gone hot again.

  At 0200 precisely, artillery shells started to land amongst Allied units and created the first frontline casualties of the renewed ground war.

  Officers ordered counter-battery fire, or barrages on suspected concentration points, or strikes on areas where an attacking enemy had to be, and quickly the artillery of both sides were working with gusto.

  Aircraft, no longer confined by orders, ranged freely and killed with equal freedom.

  Reports flew back to corps and army commands on both sides of the line, with accusations of treachery on every officer’s lips.

  German and Polish units, already alert and ready to roll for an exercise, suddenly found themselves tasked with moving forward to respond to the obvious and imminent Soviet threat.

  In Frankfurt, George Patton was woken from his slumbers to find himself in the position he had always coveted.

  Solely in charge of his own war.

  He sought information before making his decisions, but he also empowered each and every one of his senior commanders to do everything they could to do the enemy harm.

  0200 hrs, Saturday, 15th March 1947, Camerone Headquarters, Staszow, Poland.

  Knocke was up even at that late hour, not because of official duties, but because of the anguish brought on by the communication he had received from his wife.

  That his daughters were both safe was a blessing.

  That the unborn child appeared unharmed by the experience seemed to be a miracle.

  He read the section again, where the injuries sustained by his wife and Armande Fleriot were described, seeking something he may have missed; a word indicating matters to be more serious or an unspoken hint of greater harm than directly described.

  Ernst-August Knocke could find nothing.

  His family had been delivered from harm once again.

  At first he thought it was a spring storm, as his solitude was disturbed by a flash-lightened sky.

  But only for a moment, as a veteran of the Russian Front knew exactly what was creating the flickering night sky.

  “Scheisse!”

  He grabbed his tunic and kepi and dashed from his quarters to the command centre, where the duty watch were rapidly being drawn from their shocked state, as tele
phones and radios burst into life.

  The irrepressible Lutz arrived at his shoulder bearing a mug of coffee.

  “Here we go again, Oberführer.”

  The situation board was still blank but the words coming through from the numerous devices told of death and destruction being visited upon the men of Camerone.

  “Mon Général, Général St.Clair’s headquarters for you.”

  Knocke moved quickly to the proffered handset.

  “Knocke.”

  He listened intently as his counterpart in Alma told his own story, one that seemed less of an issue, given what was now appearing on the situation board.

  “I have no idea at the moment, Celestin…none whatsoever. I do know that I’ve artillery and mortars incoming on my forward positions, from where I meet up with the German Army north of Czyżów Szlachecki, south to Obrazów.”

  Hässelbach arrived with a handful of heavily armed legionnaires, the headquarters security immediately beefed up and highly alert.

  “No… nothing about ground action as yet… no, I have no orders… yes… you do that. Thank you, Celestin. Bon chance.”

  He tossed the handset back and swigged the hot coffee as he examined the situation board.

  “Nothing on the ground yet?”

  “Non, mon Général.”

  “Has Colonel Uhlmann reported in yet?”

  “Oui… there’s nothing with his command, except the detachment placed in support of the infantry near Radoszki, which is under fire from heavy artillery. No casualties reported at this time, mon Général.”

  Colonel D’Estlain, the acting CoS for Camerone, was matter of fact and controlled in his delivery, something his commander greatly appreciated.

  “Anything from General Lavalle as yet?”

  “No, Sir.”