Tide Of Fortune (Kirov Series Book 20)

by John Schettler

  The Germans followed those flames, the leading unit now being the men of the 86th Pioneer Battalion. When they reached that canal they were just half a kilometer from the Moskva River, where they found the high concrete span of the Bolshoy Moskvoretsky Bridge still standing, and now completely unguarded. It was the second bridge to bear that name, for the first one had been built with wood in 1829, destroyed by another fire in 1871. The steel arches of this new bridge had been built right on the original abutments, one of the biggest and strongest bridges over the river, and the only one in reinforced concrete built in the previous decade. Its pink granite arches were now stained with char from the heavy smoke, but it stood inviolate, though unguarded, eight lanes wide. It was the last bridge, over the last river, in the long violent campaign Germany had waged to reach this place.

  The weary men of the 86th Pioneers reached the southern ramps leading up to the double concrete span, and looked across the river to see the golden onion domes of the Kremlin spires. There the great tops of the Savior and Saint Nicholas towers stood watch over the Lenin Mausoleum, the marble and polished granite now marred and chipped with the violence of a recent gun battle. To their surprise, the men could hear the sound of machinegun fire coming from the other side of the river, and soon wondered if some of their comrades had also broken through further north.

  The only comrades involved in that fighting were now the men of Beria’s NKVD and the three battalions of the Kremlin Guard. The head of the Moscow garrison was already dead, killed by a mortar round as his car sped along a narrow street leading to Red Square. The guard he had posted on Lenin’s Tomb, known always as the “Number One Sentry” of the Socialist Republic, was no longer there. The body of Lenin had left the city the previous week, an early part of the Black Snow operation that had been triggered the instant German troops came within 50 kilometers. Lenin was still sleeping peacefully, his body on a train headed for Siberia, yet his unseen soul in turmoil to witness what was happening.

  Now the fires of treachery and war were at the very heart of the city, threatening to destroy the priceless state regalia, the treasures long hoarded by the Tsars, and all the religious and cultural icons dating back centuries. But Red Square existed for a very special reason. It was part of a plan laid down by Ivan III, to eliminate any wooden building in that sector of the city in case of fire. The broad bend of the Moskva River, and the fact that the flames now found nothing but brick and concrete in their path, slowly checked the advance of the fire. Now it was only the fire in men’s hearts that posed the threat, and in the arms and guns of the 86th Pioneer Battalion.

  Tired, low on ammunition, their numbers barely enough to make a reinforced company now, the pioneers gathered in small groups, with Sergeants and Lieutenants shouting orders as assault teams quickly formed for a classic cross-bridge attack. The first team was up, the men falling prone with their light machineguns braced on twin metal legs. Then two of the three SdKfz 6/2 AA guns led the way, the assault squads right behind them. Operation Typhoon, the agonizing effort of hundreds of thousands of men and machines, was now reduced to this one point, the Schwerpunkt of the 11th Panzer Division, as the 86th Pioneers fought their way over that bridge into Red Square.

  Inside the magnificent site of Saint Basil’s Church, the sound of their machinegun fire resounded from the high arched ceiling, echoing from every gilded cornice and nave, and from the ceiling dome covered with paintings of the saints, and the fiery red winged angels that guarded heaven above. At the top of one tower, the soft artistry of a Madonna and Christ child listened, as the leading edge of that tide of war grew ever closer, the Blessed Virgin seeming to weep. That church had been built on the orders of Ivan the Terrible in 1555, as a kind of memorial to all soldiers and civilians that had ever perished in the defense of Russia, and her many battles to liberate the sacred soil of the homeland from the insult of foreign invaders.

  The cathedral itself was shaped to resemble the rising flames of a bonfire dancing up into the sky, with seven ornate towers clustered together at varying heights. Now it was mimicked by the blazing city to the south and west, as temples of destruction formed in the high flowing spirals of flame. Inside that styled fairy castle, some of the most elegant and intricate architecture of the city, the faces on the statues and icons waited beneath the tall reach of the Bell Tower of Ivan the Great. Soon that bell began to ring, its heavy sonorous warning seeming a last cry of alarm as the violence of war pierced the heart of Moscow.

  Just outside, 7.62mm bullets were ricocheting off the green stain on the old bronze statue to Kuzma Minin and Prince Dmitry Pozharsky, the men who had rallied the volunteer armies of Mother Russia in what was known as the ‘Time of Troubles.’

  Soon the intrepid pioneers of the 86th Battalion would be over that bridge, their boots on the grey and tan bricks of the fabled Red Square. They would stand in the imposing shadow of cathedrals and the old neoclassical architecture of the Russian Senate buildings, and the Arsenal built in 1702, their long quest finally over.

  The Time of Troubles had come again, an understatement to all that was now happening, as one of the world’s most strategic and important cities burned in the hard steel gauntlet on the barbarous hand of war.

  Chapter 2

  The underground bunker might have been the final redoubt in the city that day, held by two men, one felled by the bullet of a turncoat traitor, the other his trusted savior and guardian. The physicians reached the bunker through the side tunnel entrance, and men of the Kremlin Guard entered with them. Two men came in with a stretcher, and a ten man squad followed with Lieutenant Ryakin, the same man Berzin had whispered these quiet orders to before he went up to the Red Archives.

  Berzin stood and waited, his hands red with the blood of Sergei Kirov, while the two doctors in attendance examined his fallen friend and leader. The General Secretary lay unconscious, and one of the doctors was quickly rigging a plasma transfer unit to the stretcher.

  “He will live,” said the lead caretaker, Kirov’s personal physician, Doctor Kormalev. “The bullet missed all the major arteries, though he has obviously lost a good deal of blood.

  “We must move him,” said Berzin, “and that quickly.”

  “I might advise against it, but given the circumstances, I think we can keep him stabilized. Give me another five minutes.”

  The doctor administered his patient, while Berzin turned to Lieutenant Ryakin. “What is happening above?” he asked.

  “The situation is unclear. But the NKVD sir! What are they doing?”

  “That’s not regular NKVD,” said Berzin. “Those are Beria’s men. That rat put this bullet into the General Secretary, and it was only God’s will that I was there to stop him from finishing the job. Do you have men on subway line number six as I ordered?

  “Three squads, sir. It was all I could find before the fighting started.”

  “Then with your squad added in, that will have to do. Send two men to make sure the underground passage is still safe. We move to tunnel six directly.”

  That was one of several subterranean passages that led away from the bunker. It would take a path beneath the old Bolshoi Theatre, where there was another hidden access point to the underground network near Kirov’s personal balcony. From there it would angle towards the Post and Telegraph Station, go beneath the Red Gate off Sadovaya Street, and eventually reach St. Petersburg Railway Station. There, on a secure rail spur guarded by reliable GRU men, was a heavily armored train. In spite of Kirov’s order to the contrary, Berzin had quietly seen it loaded with certain personal effects, clothing, uniforms, books from the General Secretary’s private residence. Kirov had all but isolated himself in the Red Archive the last three weeks, and never knew what his Intelligence Chief was planning.

  Now Berzin chided himself for the lapse that had allowed a man like Beria to get so close to Sergei Kirov in this critical hour. That remark the man had made about Ivan Volkov should have rung the last alarm bell, he thought. How c
ould I have overlooked him, or failed to see those NKVD battalions slipping into the city? My God! Beria was Volkov’s man all along. When did he turn? How long ago? How much crucial information did he pass to Volkov before I finally gunned him down—something I should have done years ago. The man was a vile wretch, if ever there was one.

  He realized now that Beria’s assassination plot here could only be the tip of the iceberg. I have killed the spider, thought Berzin, but his web still remains. What else is happening now? Has Beria activated his entire network? How many men turned with him? What might they be up to?

  Think, he told himself. Kirov told me that Volkov knows all this history so well that he could have written every book in the material. That’s gone now, hopefully burned and black, except the one volume I managed to secure. But Volkov isn’t a man from this time. He’s come from another floor in the hotel. That was how Sergei tried to explain it to me once. He’s come to us from the distant future.

  Berzin found that thought chilling, making Volkov the most dangerous foe they might ever face. At least Hitler was a man of this day and age, graspable, understandable, predictable, but not Ivan Volkov. This was clearly a very carefully staged plan, triggered by the German army as it passed some invisible trip wire on the map in its march on Moscow.

  The question now is this, he thought. Who else is working for the other side? What about the generals? Volkov knows what we learned from the material. He knows who succeeds, and who fails, and therefore who to kill, and who he can safely ignore. Might there be other assassination attempts underway at this very moment? And what about the ministers and other government officials? Who is loyal?

  There are some men I know I can count on, others who have always raised suspicions in my mind. I shall have to instigate a little Red Purge all on my own if we can survive this and get safely out of the city. But that is my first priority. I must see the General Secretary to safety, and then activate my network. To hell with Black Snow, now we get Red Rain.

  That was Berzin’s secret plan for dealing with the chaos of this very moment, foreseen by him as a real possibility long ago. It was far grander in scope than the simple evacuation plan for the capital. It would ripple throughout his entire intelligence network, setting hidden cadres in motion to secure vital records, access to key mines and facilities, and also post men around vital statesman, ambassadors, ministers, key generals that he and Sergei Kirov had vetted long ago.

  Yet it was more than that, more than a series of protective defensive measures. Red Rain was also a plan of attack. The GRU had infiltrated virtually every government on earth. They had men in Washington DC, London, Paris, Berlin, Tokyo, and even Orenburg. The code they would receive would set certain events in motion. Men would be moving along dark streets and alleyways this very night. Others would be tapping out coded signals on hidden radio sets behind enemy lines. They would network with Partisan groups, and soon initiate a series of attacks all along the lines of communication Germany’s armies depended on. Others would be training sniper rifles on key enemy targets. Well placed bombs would go off at the stroke of midnight, sounding a crescendo of doom.

  He knew he would not get to Volkov. That man knew enough to isolate himself if he was going to turn a rat like Beria loose tonight in this city. But he would get to many other enemies, returning the bullet Beria had put into Kirov a hundred times over before another week had passed.

  It would be a series of covert operations, small commando units operating against selected targets. The damage they might do would not be immediately visible, but it would amount to a great deal when added up by men who knew the names and nature of the men on Berzin’s hit list. Red Rain was going to fall on the high and mighty along with the hidden and lost. It would target any man marked as a possible enemy agent, and more overtly, it would gun down enemy statesmen, ambassadors, key officers in many other nations, even as Berzin’s men were now already scrambling to protect these same analogs within Russia.

  And what about the Siberians, thought Berzin? What about this Vladimir Karpov? Is he really the loyal patriot he made himself out to be when he dickered for control of that strange ship? Yes… What do I do about Karpov, and what do I do about that hamlet on the Trans Siberian Rail, the place Kirov told me about at Ilanskiy?

  First things first. I do not even know if I can get Kirov safely out of this city. And I must get men ready in Leningrad, and all along the rail route I’ve selected. And we’ll need air cover…

  His muse was interrupted by Lieutenant Ryakin, returning quickly with a warning in his eyes. “Sir,” he called. “The tunnels have been infiltrated. We must move immediately!”

  Berzin looked at Doctor Kormalev, who nodded, and then he had two men lift the stretcher, carefully carrying Kirov out through the narrow door. They disappeared into a darkened tunnel and fled like silent wraiths through the long shadowy grey subway. The overhead lights strung along the roof at intervals, suddenly fluttered, then went out. Complete darkness surrounded them, until the Lieutenant flicked a cigarette lighter, and one of his men produced a small field lantern from his backpack.

  “This route is clear,” said Ryakin. “It will get us as far as the Bolshoi Theatre. After that…”

  Berzin nodded grimly.

  It was a little over half a mile to the place where this subterranean tunnel crept beneath the Bolshoi Theatre, and there was no way out of that line until it reached that point. That was the hardest moment for Berzin. He recalled the look on Beria’s face one day when a messenger had interrupted a performance at the Bolshoi. They had all been with Kirov in his private balcony, and when the General Secretary left suddenly, Beria gave him an odd look. The man excused himself and Berzin later learned that he went outside. There, one of Berzin’s men told him that the NKVD man had searched about for a moment, then asked him if the General Secretary had passed this way, to which the man answered a decided negative.

  Beria was always suspicious about that theater from that day on, and on more than one occasion the GRU had to shoo away supposed workmen trying to access the sewage system through a nearby manhole. One was later followed and found to be NKVD. That was when Berzin realized that Beria was fishing, and from the material, he knew the man was fond of using hidden tunnels and secret rooms. He even had one in the Kremlin where he could secretly listen to Stalin’s conversations, but Berzin made sure that never happened this time around.

  What if Beria discovered that tunnel entrance at the Bolshoi? Would he have men waiting for them there? Lieutenant Ryakin and five men of his squad were leading, with three behind them in case they were followed. Yet Berzin felt they were like mice in a hole with no way out, though he was greatly relieved when they reached the theater junction safely.

  There they found a rail line spur on this special subway route, where a small hand car was waiting. The men got Kirov onto the car, with the two physicians, and the two stretcher bearers mounted with Berzin.

  It was at that moment that the echo of distant footsteps could be heard in the tunnel behind them, and Berzin knew they had been discovered. He was forced to leave two men there at the junction as a rear guard. Then the forward group was off at a run, scouting well ahead as the men operated the see-saw levers on the hand car to get it moving. The pace seemed agonizingly slow, with Berzin looking over his shoulder, and making sure his own body was shielding Kirov where he lay on the stretcher. They had gone a half mile when the sharp report of gunfire, magnified in the enclosed tunnel, came echoing after them.

  The guards ahead moved faster, knowing there was trouble behind. They passed the thick red stripe painted on the wall that told Berzin they were now beneath the Post and Telegraph Office. That was a danger point. If Beria was thinking to make a coup of this little assassination plot, he would certainly have men there to seize that vital communications hub. Had he found the one secret access ladder down to the tunnel?

  As they continued on, he breathed easier. No one had challenged them, for Beria had not fou
nd that line. Instead he had men closely guarding the Polytechnic Museum and General Exchange, two facilities a little northeast of the Kremlin. A rail spur ran along Pokrovka Street to Kursk Rail station, which was south of the big St. Petersburg facility, and much closer to the Kremlin itself. Beria’s NKVD were there at the Kursk Station, and further on up the line at the Red Gate. Yet when a detachment had been sent to the St. Petersburg Station, they found two squads of Berzin’s men there, who ordered them off at gunpoint.

  Beria would have corrected that little flaw in his plan when he got the report. But Beria was dead. That said, those men charged with guarding that main rail hub had simply retreated a few blocks to the Ryazan Station and notified their section Chief for orders. It would be an hour before two trucks would arrive and a Lieutenant with a bright blue cap and thick red stripe appeared, with two more squads of Beria’s men. That was the hour Sergie Kirov was making his secret way right beneath their feet, under the Red Gate triumphal arch first built in 1702, and under Ryazan Station to the main facility, called Leningradskiy Vokzal in modern times.

  By the time Berzin’s men reached the terminal, there was already fighting underway. The GRU were surprised to see their commanding officer, and Berzin issued crisp orders, telling his men to fight and secure their left flank. Machinegun fire ricocheted off the steel rails and stone bricked yard, and the stretcher team made a dash with Ryakin’s squad, seeking the safety of an old rail car. There, the GRU men had set up a heavy machinegun, which was chattering fitfully, laying down good suppressive fire that enabled Ryakin to get his party safely behind the drab red metal boxcar.