Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6)

by Colin Gee

  As the Red Cross team walked the huge camp, they found no clues as to what would go on in any of the buildings they saw, or indeed, what was presently going on underneath their feet.

  “Who’s he?”

  Dryden took the briefest moment to check out the civilian observer, quickly returning to concentrate on the open wound in front of him.

  “Damned if I know, Hany. Hold that steady now…”

  A concrete fence post had fallen from a cart and smashed a German POW in the leg, messily dragging the soldier’s calf muscle off the bone.

  It looked a lot worse than it was, and the new equipment that graced the medical facility helped greatly, not that Hamouda and Dryden had abandoned their old tried and trusted collection of pieces.

  The civilian moved forward, until a growl from Dryden stopped him in his tracks.

  “I don’t care who you are, but not one bloody step closer.”

  “Apologies, Doctor, but my time is limited. I am Benito Deviani of the Red Cross, here to inspect this camp’s facilities and ensure you are being well treated.”

  Dryden looked at his Egyptian friend and silently invited him to take over cleaning the gaping wound.

  He stood back as Hamouda got to work.

  “Well, Mr. Deviani, it’s fair to say this place is a palace compared to where we’ve been before.”

  He noticed Skryabin’s eyebrows raise and understood the warning they represented.

  “Are you well treated, Doctor…err…”

  “Apologies… Leftenant Commander Miles Dryden, Royal Navy. My friend here is 2nd Leftenant Hany Hamouda, late of the Egyptian Army. Yes, Mr. Deviani, we’re well treated, certainly better than we have been previously.”

  He looked Skryabin in the eyes, falling just short of deliberate and overt defiance.

  “Need a hand.”

  Hamouda muttered a religious invocation as he searched for the source of the sudden bleeding.

  ‘Rahmatic ya Rab.’

  Dryden was back on the job in seconds, forgetting the audience.

  The Red Cross team moved on, leaving the medical team to their trade.

  Deviani continued his tour, finding himself steered towards the camp’s new showpiece medical facility.

  When the intelligence agencies received their reports, Camp 1001 lost any importance in the overall scheme of things, and the documents were archived.

  There was no hint of the importance of the facility on the Volga.

  1306 hrs, Wednesday, 10th July 1946, mouth of the Ondusengo River. South-West Africa.

  The San, Etuna Kozonguizi, was an old man, so old even he had forgotten how many seasons he had suffered. The wiry bushman had seen all that Africa, and in particular, the ‘Land that God made in anger’ had to offer.

  His dwelling was mainly made up of parts of the ill-fated ship, the Eduard Bohlen, plus pieces from numerous other vessels that had floundered on the unforgiving coastline.

  It was covered with skins from the seals he had killed over the months, as much to retain the early morning dew as a source of water as to provide shelter from the interminable sun.

  Kozonguizi lived a simple life…

  … that was until 1306, when his normal daily routine was disturbed by the arrival of a man-made leviathan.

  Armed with his spear, the old bushman sat on his receiving stool, awaiting the arrival of the ‘visitors’, who were now splashing in the surf as they struggled with their dinghies.

  The metal whale had disappeared as soon as the four boats had taken to the water.

  Instinctively, Kozonguizi’s eyes strayed to the rock promontory on the mouth of the river, where he had discovered many precious items, some of which he had taken for himself, and some he had bartered for some of the luxuries of life. Many other things still remained there.

  He instinctively knew that these ‘visitors’ had returned for their treasures.

  Gripping his spear more firmly, the old bushman straightened his spine and examined the leading man battling his way up the sand with studied disinterest… the clothing… the hat… the sword…

  ‘Strange man…’

  The leader shouted in a strange tongue unknown to him… not Khoisin, the click language of the desert people… nor Afrikaans, with which he was reasonably familiar… nor English…

  Waving his sword in the direction of the rocks, the nearest man encouraged the others with him to greater efforts, all the time keeping his eyes fixed upon the old native, assessing the threat and planning his approach.

  It was something in the voice, the imperatives of the unknown language, which carried warning to Kozonguizi’s ears.

  That and the body language of the approaching man, a body clearly preparing for action.

  Despite his sixty-two years, the San was still fit, his roving days curtailed only by the foot injury he had suffered on sharp rocks, his reactions and strength still present in abundance.

  The sword swept through the air, slicing only the space he had previously occupied, whilst the spear drove home into the man’s chest, stealing his life in an instant.

  Drawing the shaft clear, Etuna Kozonguizi waited stoically for his death, his spear dripping with the blood of a Kaigun daii; a Lieutenant of the Imperial Japanese Navy.

  The old man died well.

  [‘The Land that God made in anger’ is modern day Namibia.]

  1316 hrs, Wednesday, 10th July 1946, mouth of the Ondusengo River. South-West Africa.

  “It will be for the Commander to decide. Place our leader in the shade for now, and cover him well.”

  The Sub-Lieutenant directed two of his men to tend to the remains of the landing party’s commander.

  He spared a kick for the corpse at his feet, the dead African’s eyes still wide open, even in death.

  “Now, we must complete our glorious task.”

  He waved the German instructions to emphasise his point… and perhaps his own value to the mission… as he was now the only German reader left.

  Even though there were instructions in Japanese, the original technical manual for the fuel pumps and hose systems were in German, and more thorough than the Japanese versions.

  The plan of the site revealed the location of everything they needed, and the shore party from I-1 set to work with a will, determined to have everything ready for nightfall.

  1556 hrs, Wednesday, 10th July 1946, at sea, off the Skeleton Coast. South-West Africa.

  The distant throbbing of multiple propellers had first alerted the submarine to the presence of something large and powerful bearing down on them.

  According to the chart, the surface contingent of the special force should be well out to sea, some hundreds of miles to the west, if they were sailing to plan.

  The submarine commander discounted friendly ships as a possibility and came to periscope depth to see what was creating the immense noise band directly north of him.

  It took a few incredulous sweeps of the periscope to confirm what the multiple sounds suggested.

  “Down periscope. Take the ship to one hundred and thirty metres.”

  “Hai!”

  Commander Nanbu Nobukiyo, his promotion to Kaigun chūsa bestowed in Manchuria, moved to the chart table.

  The Sen-Toku creaked as it dropped further into the waters of the Atlantic, still carried northwards on the Benguela Current, which had lowered fuel consumption for all the vessels in his tiny fleet.

  His first officer waited on further commands.

  “Starboard thirty. One-third speed. Silent operation.”

  “Hai!”

  The orders were repeated and I-401 swung towards the shore of Africa, and away from the armada of Allied boats.

  “I didn’t see any aircraft, but we’ll take no chances whatsoever,” Nobukiyo announced to no-one in particular.

  “There must be two hundred ships up there… at least… all kinds… warships… fat merchantmen… I even saw three aircraft carriers… at least three…”

  M
any eyes swung towards their captain, hoping for attack orders.

  But none were forthcoming.

  “Such a shame our mission is so secret. We must let them pass… but…”

  Nobukiyo slipped into silence.

  He examined the chart again, not for his own course and destination, but to gauge that of the immense convoy that had borne down upon the Japanese submarine force.

  His first officer, Lieutenant Jinyo, waited quietly, knowing his commander would confide in him when ready.

  “Jinyo, we must operate secretly… but I feel obliged to report this huge enemy movement… somehow…”

  Dropping back onto his elbows, Nobukiyo drew his second in command closer.

  “This convoy is heading round the Cape and into the Indian Ocean… I’m convinced of it.”

  “To the home islands, Commander?”

  He shook his head.

  “No… I think not... no… I see three possibilities.”

  He drew a fine line on the chart.

  “To reinforce their Chinese lackeys in some way, either by invasion or reinforcement… not invasion though… no… that cannot be… the enemy has enough assets already in theatre… so…”

  A second line went all the way up and through the China Sea… to Siberia.

  “Here… which would trouble our new friends… but again… their Pacific assets could do the job.”

  Jinyo nodded, but stayed silent, although he knew where this was leading.

  “So, it is here, I think.”

  The line went from the Atlantic, round the Cape, across the Indian Ocean, traversed the Arabian Sea, and culminated in the Persian Gulf.

  He looked up at his experienced man and saw a question in his eyes, and encouraged him to speak.

  “Suez, Commander. Why not through the canal?”

  Nobukiyo smiled.

  “Good question. You didn’t see what I saw. Some of those vessels wouldn’t fit, I think. But, in any case, I think it’s secrecy. Remember all our wartime briefings on what went through the Suez Canal into the Indian Ocean? Always very precise. Never wanting for detail?”

  “Hai.”

  “Look at the course this immense fleet is sailing.”

  He tapped the chart and created a dotted line.

  “Well off shore… away from prying eyes. They don’t want to be discovered and reported about.”

  “You certainly must be correct. Commander.”

  “I think we must warn our new allies that the enemy is about to attack their vulnerable belly.”

  He circled the regions of Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan with great gusto, and added a firm arrow striking into the hinterland of the Soviet Union.

  “I agree, Commander, but how can we do that without endangering our secrecy?”

  Standing slowly upright, Nobukiyo placed the pencil with great care and eased his back with both hands on his haunches, letting his mind work the problem in silence.

  The silence was assaulted by the growing propeller sounds of the huge armada.

  Two minutes passed before he leant back on the chart table again, drawing Jinyo back into a soft conversation.

  “It can be done… will be done… and all we need is one man prepared to do his duty for the Emperor.”

  Dropping his voice to a whisper, he explained his plan.

  0356 hrs, Thursday, 11th July 1946, mouth of the Ondusengo River, South-West Africa.

  There had been a number of interruptions to the preparations ashore, as Allied coastal command and naval aircraft made numerous appearances, shepherding their charges southwards, on the lookout for anything that might pose a threat.

  A Hudson V of the SAAF surprised the shore party in the process of assembling the fuel hoses, but it did not have eyes for the land, and they were not seen.

  I-1, and then I-14, had gorged themselves on the fuel secreted there for the U-Boats.

  They had no need of the torpedoes and heavy calibre ammunition stored there, at least, not at that time.

  Whilst the torpedoes were compatible, the 88mm and 105mm main gun ammunition was not, but all would help with Nobukiyo’s plan.

  Whilst not part of the plan, both the Sen-Tokus arrived at the site.

  I-401 and her sister submarine did not close to top up their tanks, as soundings indicated that the depth had decreased from that marked on their charts.

  However, Nobukiyo did bring his vessel closer to land and risked a quick meeting with the other boat commanders, mainly to advise them of his discovery and beliefs, and discuss any changes to their operational plan.

  He also sent one man ashore, charged with a special mission.

  The volunteer’s comrades sought and received permission to come on deck.

  Smartly lined up, the eight men saluted their comrade and swung softly into the Japanese martial song, Umi Yukaba.

  If I go away to the sea, I shall be a corpse washed up.

  If I go away to the mountain, I shall be a corpse in the grass.

  But if I die for the Emperor,

  It will not be a regret.

  Ensign Ito Kisokada tried to control his tears, not shed for what he was about to do, but for those who stood in front of him, honouring him with their song.

  He failed, and his emotions overcame him when he realised that Nobukiyo and Jinyo were also stood erect, saluting him, and adding their voices to the anthem.

  It was the proudest moment of his short life, and he saluted as correctly as he could.

  Taking his leave, he made sure his equipment was secured in the small dinghy, and allowed himself to be slipped slowly off the casing and into the water.

  His comrades again struck up with Umi Yukaba, bringing his tears back. Digging the paddle into the sea, he moved himself away towards the beach, and his date with destiny.

  Forty-eight hours to the precise minute that he had said goodbye to the shore party, and become the only occupant of the beach around the mouth of the Ondusengo River, Ensign Kisokada checked his radio for the hundredth time, confirmed the frequency, and flicked the transmit button.

  He sent the message five times as ordered and waited, seemingly for an age, before two overlapping five-letter acknowledgements came back.

  His mission discharged, Kisokada switched off the radio and slumped, no longer driven by the need for service, or the mission with which he had been entrusted.

  Driving himself out of his temporary melancholy, he grabbed the radio and took it to the rocky promontory, where he placed it next to the reasonably comfortable seat he had constructed out of shell boxes and other stores.

  Before he made himself comfy, he took his rank markings, personal effects, and his identification tag, consigning them all to the weighted bag he had been given for the purpose, strode into the water, and hurled the bag as far as he could into the flowing waters of the Ondusengo.

  Returning to his seat, he examined the crystal clear starry display, and his mind drifted to his home village, where he would often gaze at the night sky.

  He poured a healthy measure of the German brandy for himself, and lit one of the cigarettes that had been liberated from the German stockpile.

  Life was good, and Ensign Ito Kisokada was now at peace and soaked up the cold breeze coming in from the dark sea.

  He flicked his lighter one more time and used the light to apply the pliers just as he had been shown.

  Twice he squeezed the tool before settling back again to savour his pleasures.

  The Asbach brandy and rich smoke stole his senses.

  He smiled at the images he conjured up; his ancestors images, those of his wife and daughter, and of his comrades, both dead and alive.

  The two British-made pencil fuses silently did their work, the cupric chloride eating through the retaining wire, which, when destroyed, would release the striker that impacted the percussion cap.

  The No 10 Pencil fuse performed its allotted task with great efficiency and, only seven seconds over the ten minute setting, ensured that
the stars were surpassed in their brilliance, if only for the briefest of moments, as the former U-Boat replenishment point evaporated in fire and light.

  As per Nobukiyo’s plan, nothing of note was left, least of all a recognisable Japanese radio set.

  Kisokada’s body travelled in all directions, none of which pieces were recognisable as human, let alone as one of the Emperor’s subjects.

  In a few days, his stripped bones were simply unremarkable additions to the thousands of remnants already blanched by the sun all along the Skeleton coast.

  Kisokada’s transmissions had been received in Groblershoop, South Africa, and in Mbour, Senegal, from where communist sympathisers ensured that the important message was forwarded down the line of communications to their political masters in Moscow.

  The arrival of Nobukiyo’s information caused consternation in the Soviet ranks, and Red Army forces in the Caucasus were immediately put on alert.

  Sympathetic observers on the Cape also added their own information, which did everything to confirm the radio reports that originated from God knew where.

  Combined with the reappearance of Montgomery, the presence of a huge troop-carrying fleet suggested exactly that which the Japanese submarine commander had suspected. What had been suspected as a ruse previously now clearly had ‘meat on the bone’, forcing the GKO to make dispositions in response.

  In turn, the loss of some assets changed a few of Vasilevsky’s plans, although he persuaded Stalin and his cronies to enable the movement of some ex-POW units to the new theatre, dispatching the equivalent of one full field army to the southern front within hours of receiving the news.

  No sooner had that decision been made than a high-level report from still friendly Japanese assets indicated a mass sailing of vessels that could suggest a seaborne invasion somewhere on the Pacific coast of the Motherland.

  Combined with the noted increase in air raid frequency in Siberia and all points east, the possibility was difficult to ignore.