Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6)

by Colin Gee

  Understanding that he had been dismissed, the Bulgarian saluted and beat a hasty retreat, much to his own relief.

  The NKVD officer switched on his torch and slipped inside.

  “Comrade Mayor?”

  “Comrade Lapitin! Here… look at this!”

  Major Voronin was the unexcitable type… normally.

  But this was not ‘normally’.

  Not by any stretch of the imagination.

  “Comrade May…”

  Lapitin’s jaw hung open as the torch beam flicked from him to a row of aircraft fuselages, all marked with the Balkenkreuz of Nazi Germany.

  “This way… I need your help… quickly…”

  Voronin led off hurriedly, almost losing Lapitin in his haste to get where he was going.

  Almost as quickly, he slammed into the back of his Major, who had stopped at a solid steel door.

  Voronin shone his torch on a sign.

  “Look… stromgenerator… help me with the door.”

  Lapitin’s German was not very good, and he understood the signage more by the graphics than the words.

  The two of them heaved on the locking handle, and were greeted by a response.

  Inside the room was clean and tidy, and smelt of oil.

  They examined the silent generators, wordlessly, thoughtfully, deciding what to do next.

  Voronin made the decision, having wisely checked that the generator was connected to a vent.

  “Let’s get one started.”

  The task was quickly performed, and it was a testament to German engineering and maintenance that a machine that had lain undisturbed for over a year started smoothly and without issues.

  “I think this one here,” Voronin announced, more for his own benefit, as he threw a large switch.

  Nothing.

  Lapitin found the wall switch and flicked it warily, bathing the generator room in yellow light.

  “That’s a lot of generator for so small a light, Comrade!”

  The light was also creeping through the door jam.

  Both officers approached the steel door and pushed it open again.

  They were rewarded by light everywhere they looked.

  And everywhere they looked they saw things… things with the Balkenkreuz… or the swastika… or…

  “Blyad!”

  As they walked on through the huge tunnels, the contents became more and more bizarre.

  Aircraft…

  Large rockets…

  Small rockets…

  Sealed rooms with heavy duty vision panels containing solid metal chests marked with the symbols of death…

  The two officers, motivated by greed and curiosity in equal measure, opened one, striking off the heavy duty padlocks.

  Lapitin opened a heavy casket and ran his fingers over the object it contained.

  Whatever the metal was, it was clearly not valuable, so they closed the lid and moved on, sealing the room back up behind them.

  Fuel vapours of some sort assaulted them as they moved deeper into the unknown, the odours making them both light-headed as they moved past that particular storage tunnel.

  Starting to feel sick, the two men decided they had seen enough to make an exciting report to their commander, and returned to switch off the generator.

  Voronin posted a full NKVD security detail to secure the underground site, and the two returned to Sankt Georgen to telephone a report to Voronin’s superior officer.

  Both men were blissfully unaware that from the moment they had let greed overcome natural caution, their lives were forfeit, and that they had been fatally wounded. Their wounds made no marks, left no trace, at least not yet, but they were deep and deadly, and neither would see Christmas or his family again.

  The metal they had uncovered was valuable in a very different way.

  1132 hrs, Tuesday, 2nd July 1946, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.

  The briefing on the welcome increase in Italian Communist partisan activity was concluded before Stalin turned to acknowledge the woman officer’s presence.

  “We are thankful that you have been spared, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”

  Unusually for Stalin, he actually meant the words of sympathy he offered the injured GRU General.

  The flight she was on had come under attack from Allied fighters, fast jets by all accounts.

  The speed differentials had saved the Li-2 transport aircraft at first, and then the escort rallied and drove off the enemy jets, but not before the fuselage had received a number of hits, and Nazarbayeva had her arm slashed by a piece of flying debris.

  The meeting had commenced at the allotted time and was already in full swing when she arrived.

  A folder containing the latest military production and training figures was thrust at her and she quickly came up to speed on events behind the lines as the briefing continued.

  Production and training were good, although the manpower pool was smaller than ever.

  The problem of getting new equipment forward remained and losses were still running high due to Allied air intervention, but less so to partisan activity.

  Enough higher quality weapons were getting through to make a difference, although she had seen a number of military reports that suggested priority should be given to ensuring adequate deliveries of standard ammunition, qualified replacements, fuel, and food, rather than the latest weaponry.

  Three other folders lay silently in front of her position, containing information on the briefings that had already taken place.

  She had missed the latest update on the Ukrainian uprising but was, in any case, fully aware that it was almost totally suppressed now, the ex-POWs keen to display their prowess and renewed commitment to the Motherland. The file held no real secrets for her.

  She had also missed the Army position on the events in Europe, and how the plan to inflict more casualties on the US forces seemed to be succeeding. Again, Vasilevsky had ensured she had been kept fully informed along the way.

  Malinin, standing in for Vasilevsky, tapped the folder containing the latest production figures for oil and coal, suggesting she might like to look at it.

  She cast her eye over it, not sure if she liked the figures or not, but was quickly distracted by the discussion on armaments, and the extremely positive statements about the new weapons, particularly tanks and aircraft.

  As normal, she divided every figure by a half, but still the projections were every bit as impressive as the current values.

  In her mind, Nazarbayeva pondered the addition of the POWs to the order of battle…

  The urgent knocking at the door cut through everything, except Stalin’s indignation at the disturbance.

  “I said no interruptions…”

  Stalin’s anger turned to curiosity in an instant, the sight of a red-faced NKVD Lieutenant-General holding an armful of files enough to stop his tirade in its tracks.

  “Comrade General Kaganovich?”

  The Deputy Head of the NKVD, recently promoted for his part in the prevention of assassination attempt on Stalin, spoke quickly.

  “Comrade General Secretary, my apologies, but I knew you would not wish this information kept from this meeting. It is of vital interest and I believe you should see it immediately.”

  Kaganovich held a folder out, and it was greedily accepted by the Soviet Union’s leader.

  The NKVD General knew better than to hand out any more folders, even though Beria held out a demanding hand.

  Stalin looked different, his face coloured by shock or excitement.

  “This is confirmed, Comrade General?”

  “No doubt, Comrade General Secretary. Those numbers are from a very quick examination. I have asked for a fuller report as soon as possible, but there are other issues, as you can see.”

  Stalin hadn’t.

  “Other issues? What other issues?”

  Kaganovich went from memory.

  “Middle section on page four, Comrade General Secretary. Perhaps…”

 
; He approached Stalin and leant to whisper.

  “Perhaps Comrade Kurchatov or Comrade Polkovnik General Vannikov could assist you better than I, Comrade General Secretary?”

  Whilst Stalin did not fully understand the specific section of the report, he understood the significance of the two names, which, of course, immediately added to his understanding of the report.

  “Show me…”

  Stalin moved to the huge map of Europe, a clean one, unencumbered by the normal plethora of military markings.

  His eyes roved Austria, seeking the location of this incredible news.

  The rest of the ensemble closed in around the Soviet leader, who waited expectantly for a clue as to where Sankt Georgen an der Gusen was.

  The General Secretary puffed on his pipe, sending out a thick cloud that caused more than one of those nearby to cough.

  His thick finger tapped the map roughly where he thought Sankt Georgen to be.

  “Comrade Malinin,” he waited until the CoS of the Red Banner Forces of Soviet Europe stepped forward, “Assure me this position is secure.”

  Malinin, being Malinin the efficient, had brought details from Chuikov’s forces to the front of his folders the moment he saw the attention being given to the area around Linz.

  “Where exactly is the location, Comrade General Secretary?”

  Kaganovich helped Stalin out.

  “Sankt Georgen an der Gusen, Comrade Polkovnik General.”

  Malinin did some swift calculations, a soft snort betraying some slight amusement, a snort that drew unwarranted attention.

  “Something funny, Comrade?”

  “No more than a coincidence, Comrade General Secretary. The nearest enemy forces are roughly one hundred kilometres away…,” he leant forward to mark the spot with his finger, “As of 0800, Marshal Chuikov reports American forces here, at Sankt Georgen im Attergau.”

  Despite the official view of religion within the Communist state, the importance of St George was not lost on any of those present.

  He was, after all, the patron saint of Moscow, were they to acknowledge such things.

  “Ensure that 1st Alpine preserves this location at all costs, Comrade Malinin.”

  He stepped away from the map, moving people aside by his presence alone, puffing on his pipe and thinking aloud.

  “We have an opportunity here, and we must seize it with both hands.”

  He nodded at Kaganovich, indicating that he could distribute the files he was holding.

  “From preliminary reports, there are a great deal of items to bring away… and much to be learned by studying certain other pieces in the caves.”

  He sat down heavily, bringing an ominous sharp protest from the chair.

  “There is no time to lose.”

  Most people in the room were nose down in the file, either trying to understand the enormity of the find, or working out the logistics of transporting that many aircraft and missiles.

  Only a few fully appreciated the real significance of the middle section on page four.

  Nazarbayeva did, and moved closer to Stalin.

  “Comrade General Secretary.”

  “Speak, Comrade.”

  “I am aware that Comrade Polkovnik General Serov is in Austria. Given his track record, perhaps he should be ordered to the location immediately?”

  Beria almost hissed at the GRU General, but confined himself to volunteering more information on Serov, the man who had secured uranium oxide and scientists at the end of the German War, a man better placed than most to understand and recover the secrets contained within the caves at Sankt Georgen an der Gusen.

  “Comrade Polkovnik General Serov is in Austria acting on new information discovered by my department,” both Nazarbayeva and Kaganovich looked at the NKVD Marshal, both knowing that he had just lied.

  “Serov is at Lake Toplitz, controlling recovery operations. We have had reports that the Germans secreted items in the lake at the war’s end.”

  Beria fished in his briefcase and brought out a report on the matter, one he had previously had no intention of producing in front of the GKO, until his hand was forced by the woman who, unknown to him, had made the discovery in the first place.

  Some days beforehand, Nazarbayeva informed Kaganovich and, at his suggestion, had conceded that Serov was the best man for the job, and passed responsibility to Beria’s department, something her new relationship with the Deputy Head of the NKVD made much easier.

  “And has Toplitz yielded anything of note, Comrade Marshal?”

  Beria shrugged.

  “So far, some office equipment, printed paper work, administrative records… some gold…”

  “Send Serov to Sankt Georgen immediately. I want his first report on my desk by the morning.”

  Stalin tapped his pipe out into his hand and disposed of the remnants, allowing Toplitz to move to the back of his mind in favour of Sankt Georgen, where luck had provided the Soviet Union with an opportunity not to be wasted.

  The discussion on the new discovery was brief.

  From initial reports, it seemed likely that an underground facility over a million square metres had existed under their noses for months.

  The initial appraisal of the contents was mind-boggling.

  …Factory equipment and jigs for producing some of the Reich’s finest technological miracles…

  … High-octane fuel in the millions of litres…

  … And Heinkel 162, the Salamander, or so-called People’s Fighter, most seemingly in flying condition…

  … Dozens of V2 rockets… with pristine launcher vehicles and associated ephemera…

  … And other rockets of all shapes and sizes, complete with blueprints and notes…

  … And crates… even sealed rooms …

  … Crates and sealed rooms bearing the markings of German scientific research on that most secret of developments…

  A veritable Aladdin’s cave for a Motherland outclassed and outgunned in everything but fighting spirit.

  Nazarbayeva’s small briefing on the latest intelligence developments included an unsubstantiated report that the British Field Marshal Montgomery was back on the active list, and that he had been seen in, of all places, Tehran.

  Even though the ‘rumour’ was accompanied by credible reports of increased Allied naval and air activity in the Arabian Sea and Gulf of Hormuz, nothing could dampen the enthusiasm of the GKO and military men, and few attached any significance to the information, although Beria made a mental note to check his own reports to see if anything supported the woman’s claim.

  The matter was set aside and the briefing moved on to the reports of Donitz’s ill health.

  Stalin and Beria remained when the others had left, the politicians and military all clearly buoyed by the collapse of Ukrainian resistance, the political and military successes against the USA, and the wonderful news from Austria.

  Sipping his tea, Stalin stared his NKVD chief into submission.

  “So, Lavrentiy… Montgomery.”

  Beria felt relief. He had expected a completely different question.

  “An irrelevance at first glance, Comrade General Secretary… but the woman seems to think it important.”

  “She’s rarely wrong.”

  Beria smarted at the words, even though he knew them to be true.

  “I will have my men work to discover the truth of this but… my first thoughts are maskirovka, nothing more.”

  “Explain, Lavrentiy?”

  “He is an icon for the British, but he was badly wounded, and, according to my last reports, had not recovered enough to even walk unassisted.”

  Stalin lit a cigarette, not taking his eyes of the NKVD boss.

  “Recent information?”

  “Two weeks old, no more, Comrade General Secretary.”

  “So… probably maskirovka… a cheap move for them… no assets needed to try and make us move resources to the southern borders.”

  He accepted the tea t
hat Beria had poured and greedily consumed it.

  “None the less… watch the situation closely, Lavrentiy. Liaise with Comrade Nazarbayeva too.”

  Even though the cup was raised to Beria’s lips, it didn’t mask the automatic snarl that formed at the mention of the GRU general’s name.

  Stalin changed tack pouncing on something he had noticed earlier.

  “So, what do you have to tell me about Toplitz, Lavrentiy?”

  Beria had made the right noises for the rest of the briefing, but his mind had still remained firmly on the Toplitzsee, for reasons presently known only to him and Serov.

  Stalin had spotted the change in his man, and now gave him no way out.

  He bought himself a moment by carefully placing the bone china cup and saucer back on the table.

  “Comrade General Secretary, I did not wish to proceed further in front of the others. The matter of Toplitz will require some… err … delicacy of thought, so I felt I should inform you… and only you… in the first instance.”

  From behind his raised cup, Stalin managed a strangled ‘go on’.

  “Comrade General Secretary, the printed material so far recovered reportedly equates to roughly five hundred million pounds of counterfeit British currency…”

  The conversation continued well into the evening.

  1152 hrs, Thursday, 4th July 1946, Salisbury Plain, UK.

  A large number of dignitaries had gathered to witness the demonstration, and many were already suffering in the relentless heat, the sun beating down on all, regardless of status or rank.

  After a briefing in Westdown, a convoy of vehicles had taken the entourage to the firing range, where they waited for the short display to begin.

  A small fire had been quickly extinguished, probably started by the sun’s rays striking some long abandoned glass fragments.

  Those with an experienced eye had spotted the targets and the intended killers, successfully identifying all but the sleekest of the enemy vehicles placed downrange.

  These consisted of captured tanks; an IS-II, IS-III, the huge ISU-152, and the mystery beast.

  At the firing line sat two more familiar types; an Archer SPAT and a Centurion.