Breakthrough (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  However, the XXI refused to die, and its crew rushed to their damage control duties, intent of keeping the sea at bay.

  The young Starshina Mutin was saved from his courts martial, his neck broken when he was dashed against a watertight door.

  Elsewhere in the boat, two others had been crushed to death when a torpedo was shaken loose during the reloading; others were injured in the desperate fight to stabilise the weapon.

  A fire in the engine room had been quickly extinguished, partially by the prompt action of the 2nd Engineering officer, and partially by the inrush of seawater, which leak was serious and already being attacked by the engine room staff. Willing hands removed the badly burnt and screaming Starshina to the sick bay where he died, even as his engine room crew triumphed over the leaks.

  The sole serious casualty in the Control room was Rybin. The unconscious commander was on the deck, flopping about with the movement of his craft, a very visible crescent of blood on his forehead where he had impacted a control valve at speed, the shape precisely mirrored in the wound, down to the serrated finger grips on the outer edge.

  Grimacing from the pain of a broken finger, Senior Lieutenant Chriakin took command and dived, also turning back 180°. Unknown to him, the manoeuvre also dragged the fender below sea level, removing the marker that the now toothless Sunderland was using to call down the vengeful destroyers.

  B-29 would live to fight another day.

  Kalinin, as per his usual practice, manoeuvred away rather than inspected, and only raised the periscope when he felt secure.

  A swift rotation of the scope yielded the unforgettable image of dying leviathans, the Aquitania ablaze and attended by smaller vessels, seemingly intent on saving life. The USS Ranger was low in the water, so low that her flight deck seemed almost a continuation of the water that was about to claim her.

  Intent on leaving the area as safely as possible, Kalinin ordered a course to northwest, removing ShCh 307 from the scene at best speed.

  Who hit what would actually not become clear until the end of hostilities, but Kalinin felt sure he had a piece of both vessels, in which he was absolutely correct, none of his torpedoes having been fired in vain.

  His first two had struck the Aquitania on her port side, one amidships, the second fifty feet before her stern. Either might have been fatal to the venerable liner, but in tandem, they ensured her end, the resultant fires inhibiting the evacuation of her crew and passengers.

  His last two torpedoes had struck the USS Ranger forty feet short of her bow and amidships, the former being right on a bulkhead division, causing the loss of the bow section to flooding. Damage to the next bulkhead meant that the vessel then hastened her own end as momentum drove her forward, causing weight of water to rupture the damaged bulkhead, flooding a further compartment and giving the aircraft carrier a pronounced nose-down aspect.

  The latter strike failed to explode, but still penetrated the skin of the warship, permitting the sea to make more steady inroads.

  B-29’s torpedoes had condemned the carrier to the depths, flooding her engine spaces and denying the power to drive the fire fighting mains. When Kalinin had looked, he saw little smoke coming from her, but had not realised that below decks the blazes were running out of control.

  B-29’s third torpedo, the first one to detonate, had struck a RCN Corvette fussing round its charges, which corvette had vanished beneath the waves in less than a minute, taking every soul on board with her.

  As both submarines now moved away, the sonar operators became the only point of contact with the battle they left behind them.

  Sounds of a large vessel sinking beneath the surface were interpreted as the carrier, and both crews claimed her as their own.

  It was USS Ranger that succumbed first, the Captain abandoning ship reluctantly, the delay in abandoning ship costing more men their lives as she rolled over and nosedived to the bottom, three hundred and fifty-six of her crew still entombed in the hull. The sinking vessel took an important cargo down with her; one hundred and twenty-one replacement aircraft for the European War.

  Around Aquitania, the efforts of fire fighting and rescue went on for many hours. The big liner resisted, and all the time more lives were being saved as she remained stubbornly afloat. Her passengers consisted mainly of US and Canadian air force personnel returning to the ETO from their mother countries, and many had been lost in the explosions and fires. But thanks to the Herculean efforts of the escorts, and the reluctance of the old ship to die, many were saved to fight another day.

  Her killer was too far away to hear when the SS Aquitania slipped grudgingly beneath the water at 0914 hrs.

  At least five hundred and thirty air force personnel perished in the tragedy, along with one hundred and ninety-seven crewmembers. Over the next few hours, the escort vessels put the survivors ashore in Northern Ireland, one thousand five hundred and fifty-one trained personnel having been saved from death by their excellent efforts; one thousand five hundred and fifty-one aircrew and ground staff who now possessed a very clear hatred of submarines, and all things Russian.

  0322 hrs, Tuesday 14th August 1945, Glenlara, Eire.

  The following day both B-29 and ShCh 307 made their landfall at Glenlara, B-29 beating Kalinin’s boat in by two hours precisely. Standard procedure required the submarines to stay on the bottom during daylight hours, and surface at night when prying eyes could not see them. Kalinin dropped ‘307’ to the bottom and ordered ‘minimum crews’ on watch so his men could rest as best they could. ‘39’ ignored instructions and surfaced close to shore, the Senior Lieutenant deciding that the risk was worth getting proper medical attention for his wounded comrades, amongst whom was a gravely ill Rybin, whose depressed skull fracture needed urgent care.

  Carried out under the watchful eye of the Soviet Marine commander, Senior Lieutenant Masharin, the medical transfer was swift and well drilled, and the three submariners were quickly in the small hospital facility onshore.

  B-29 then sank to the bottom, where her crew also rested under the protective gaze of their IRA allies.

  1059 hrs, Tuesday 14th August 1945, Hotel Regina, Madrid, Spain.

  The Commander had been to Madrid once before, so he expected the heat. None the less, he still recoiled on leaving the protective coolness of the lobby, discretely shadowed by Vassily Horn, one of the two members of the team who had joined the group in Madrid.

  Both new men were German-born communists, official residents of the Spanish capital, and long time NKVD agents.

  Strolling out of the Hotel Regina, the expected contact was immediately apparent, struggling as she was with her two large suitcases. Taking a second to study the shapely form, he approved of the simple but classy red dress with crocodile leather shoes and a patent white leather bag. Her ensemble was completed by a classically Spanish white silk bow at the back of her head, bringing her long jet black hair into a solid line down her back.

  She turned round and the Russian was slightly disappointed.

  However, although not beautiful by any estimation, her make-up was well applied and achieved much, and the middle-aged woman still presented some charm to the eye.

  Horn was settled into a raffia chair adjacent to the main entrance, and seemed engrossed in the latest edition of ‘ABC’. Appearing the gentleman, Mayakov offered his assistance, exchanging code words satisfactorily, and took charge of both cases, following the woman through the hotel foyer and into the lift. Nothing further was said until both were safely behind the door of his attic suite.

  Pleasantries complete, he confirmed that his contact was one Maria Paloma. He already knew that and more besides. The woman was an NKVD sleeper agent, born of good communist stock, and activated solely for this mission. She knew better than to ask whom he was.

  Professional in her approach, she confirmed that all requirements had been met, even down to hand drawn extras that should be of great assistance.

  “If only you could give me some idea
of your mission, Comrade, I am sure I could do more.”

  Nodding in acceptance of her efforts, he examined her map work as he listened and, seemingly at random, Mayakov selected the relevant one and relaxed back in his chair as she continued.

  “My job gives me access to most of what you required. The hardest items to obtain were the boots, Comrade, but they are all there, and all the correct sizes. Do you want to check?”

  He smiled and shook his head gently.

  “I am sure you have performed your duties, Comrade Paloma.” Indicating the plan in his hand, he praised her extra work.

  “Just quickly, Comrade, this market area here,” he indicated a patch of land immediately adjacent to the road junction.

  She looked briefly just to confirm where he meant.

  “Yes, that’s the El Pardo market, held every Tuesday and Friday. Very well attended. I go regularly myself, which is how I know this area.”

  “Thank you, Comrade, I need keep you no longer.”

  Holding out an arm to steer her away from the table, he rapped the knuckles of his other hand on the wall three times.

  “Comrade, if that place is of interest to you, perhaps you should know that it is not far from the Presidential Palace, and that the Caudillo travels that very road to Madrid nearly every day.”

  The NKVD Major looked at the woman with feigned surprise.

  “General Franco? Really? Then we must be extra careful with our planning.”

  The room door rattled to four firm knocks and another man was admitted.

  “This is Vassily. He will take you where you need to go, and thank you once again for your service to the Motherland, Comrade Paloma.”

  Switching his attention to the raffishly handsome young officer, who normally went by the name of Oleg, he cautioned him as a father to a son.

  “Don’t do anything to attract attention, and make sure you are back here by three o’clock at the latest, Leytenant.”

  “Yes, Comrade Major. Shall we go, Comrade?”

  More pleasantries were exchanged.

  Opening the door, he stepped back to allow the woman through first, his eyes catching those of his commander, confirming understanding of his instructions.

  2312 hrs, Tuesday 14th August 1945, Parque del Buen Retiro, Madrid, Spain.

  Just after eleven o’clock in the evening, two Guardia Civil troopers were walking down the narrow path leading away from the Estanque Del Retiro, a circular pond within Madrid’s most popular park. The elder of the two checked around quickly and made his excuses to his younger comrade, as he disappeared into the bushes to answer his call of nature.

  The younger but senior man taunted his comrade for his weak bladder, but took advantage of the situation and slipped a cigarette between his lips.

  He drew in the smoke, welcoming its rich flavour and, content with his lot, casually examined his surroundings.

  His eyes looked but did not see, and it was not until the third time of looking that his brain registered what was drawing his attention.

  Hanging from a bush on the other side of the path was a white bow. Or at least most of it was white, as the moonlight betrayed the random presence of a darker, more sinister colour.

  He drew a torch from his belt, flicking the switch and illuminating the ground, immediately revealing signs of disturbance.

  His comrade returned, silent and alert, focussed on the revelations in the torchlight.

  Both guardsmen gasped as one when the beam swept over a dainty foot. They moved forward in an instant, but the woman was well past help.

  Face down in the dirt and devoid of any clothing, she was long dead, although the signs of rape and sodomy were still clear for anyone to see, as were the scratches and cuts from her vain resistance. Less apparent was the bruising to her neck where she had been strangled prior to the other indignities that had been heaped upon her, in the name of providing ‘motive’ and providing the young Leytenant perverse satisfaction.

  Had NKVD Major Mayakov used his real name and stated any other time but three o’clock, then Maria Victoria Paloma would still be alive, and Oleg Nazarbayev’s sadistic sexual urges would have remained unsatisfied.

  Never give in.....never, never, never, never, in nothing great or small, large or petty, never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.

  Winston Churchill

  Chapter 57 – THE FRONT

  1140 hrs, Monday 13th August 1945. YQ-B, Airborne over Northern Germany.

  The RAF’s 616 Squadron had spent its last few months like nomads, moving from base to base with the German withdrawal and now, falling back with the Soviet advance. Having received attention from ground attack aircraft on the 6th August, they had left their field at Lubeck and fallen back to Quackenbrück, southwest of Bremen, a former base that they knew was adequate for their needs.

  Reorganising the ravaged squadron took time, especially as they could not call upon other fighter units to scrounge spares and compatible equipment, for 616 flew the Gloster Meteor, Britain’s first operational jet fighter aircraft.

  This morning, 616 Squadron was tasked with flying top cover to a large air raid tasked with striking the rail yards in Winsen, and also knocking down a number of bridges spanning the Luhe River, from Winsen south through Roydorf and Luhdorf down to Bahlberg.

  The mission had been thrown together quickly in response to the huge Soviet attack, and it had all the hallmarks of Fred Karno’s circus, as different squadrons jostled to secure their places in the grand scheme.

  RAF Bomber squadrons, who normally flew at night, were accompanied by NF30 Mosquitoes whose normal working day also started when the sun went down.

  The ground attack squadrons flew ahead, savaging static and mobile anti-aircraft positions, beating up anything that might stop the bombers.

  An attempt to keep some sort of formation had been given up as a bad job and so the six heavy bomber squadrons flew more as gaggles than an organised stream, each aircraft seeking out its objective individually, although pathfinder Mosquitoes were tasked to mark the main targets.

  616 Squadron had nine airworthy Gloster Meteors that morning, and every one of them was committed to this maximum effort call.

  Ahead of the bomber force, the ground attack boys were having a field day, and at higher levels, the RAF Spitfires and Mustangs were having good success against the Soviet aircraft trying to respond to the incursions.

  Flight-Lieutenant Pieter De Villiers was a South-African who had shipped to England when the mother country called. He had served with distinction throughout the conflict, accruing four kills and thousands of flying hours in his five years of war, all but the last ten months flown in various marks of Spitfire. Now he rode the sky in a Meteor F3 jet fighter, the best that Britain could provide, flying shotgun on a squadron of Lancaster’s due to visit hell upon Bahlberg.

  Scanning the sky left and right, high and low, he spotted the dots to the southeast. Focussing in, he counted at least twenty and confirmed they were inbound, all in a matter of two seconds.

  “Gamekeeper, Gamekeeper, twenty-plus bandits inbound, two o’clock, level. Type unknown.”

  The Squadron commander rattled off his instructions, and the nine Meteors accelerated and manoeuvred to attack. Immediately one aircraft fell out of formation spewing smoke as its portside Rolls-Royce Derwent engine objected to the stresses of full-power and broke down.

  The other eight prescribed a steady upward curve, gaining height before charging down upon their enemy, ‘matter of factly’ identified as La-5’s by the Squadron ‘know-it-all’, Baines.

  The Soviet pilots turned and rose to meet the aggressor’s, climbing at an impressive rate as their big radial engines poured out the power, some firing their 20mm cannon in short bursts to distract their enemy.

  In turn, the Squadron Commander employed his own Hispano cannon and was rewarded with an immediate kill, as shel
ls tore through a La5’s wing and sent the aircraft spinning away.

  Having disrupted the initial attempt to get at the bombers, 616 Squadron concentrated on ensuring none broke through.

  By comparison to the Lavochkin, the Meteor enjoyed advantages in nearly every department. True to their teachings, and on this occasion, the attack plan, the Russian pilots tried to draw their enemy downwards where low altitude was normally an equaliser for them. Not so against the Meteor, and four Soviet pilots were already under silk as their abandoned aircraft crashed beneath them. A fifth La-5 carried its pilot into the ground.

  The Soviet pilots did not lack courage, but the La-5 was a short-legged aircraft at the best of times, and combat manoeuvres were always heavy on fuel. They broke off the attack and dived for the ground as they fled eastwards. Ordering Blue flight to pursue, the Squadron Commander took the remaining five aircraft back to their position above the bomber force, just in time to spot the approach of a large force of fighters from the northeast, which Baines believed to be the latest Yakolev’s.

  By design, the Soviet air commander had used the La-5’s to draw off the escorts and delayed sending in his high-altitude Yak-9U’s to give them a clear run at the bombers.

  It nearly worked, but for the Meteor’s excellent climb rate and higher speed.

  Despite that, one Lancaster fell victim to a speculative burst at range, the Yak’s 20mm ShVAK cannon striking home and reducing the nose and cockpit to a charnel house. The huge bomber fell away as the living attempted to escape, leaving dead men holding shattered controls. Only four white mushrooms marked successful bail outs.