A deal was struck on April 29, 1930 and the contract signed when Reilly received his first taste of true Soviet life. The voluble Khalipsky had suddenly become silent, speaking only when spoken to and after glancing at his two countrymen who had joined him in New York. One of these men was Joseph Michael, an American lawyer employed by Amtorg, who presented the terms and conditions of the purchase.
While Michael complained about the contract’s duration, Reilly studied the three Russians. He knew only one of the names of Khalipsky’s companions. Amtorg vice president A.V. Petrov appeared to be in his forties, deep ridges in his cheeks and forehead revealed a tenuous hold on a hard life. The third member of the Soviet entourage was certainly not an attorney. Lacking a name or any interest in being introduced, he remained in the shadows. The thick necked brute wore a wide brimmed hat and dark coat that fit high on his wrists, revealing what Reilly recognized as acid burns on the back of his left hand. When he flexed that hand, the taut clear skin strained, seemingly on the verge of tearing. Acid Man stared at whoever was speaking, coal black eyes reached deep into them. Reilly wondered about his role, but then decided it was best he did not know.
As the meeting drew to a close, Christie announced Reilly would “temporarily” relocate to the Soviet Union to provide the sought technical expertise. Reilly was unsurprised by the announcement, having begged Christie for the position before the meeting. He was unmarried and sought adventure. The Soviet Union was not his first choice, but there would be many exotic waypoints on his journey.
Khalipsky interrupted Petrov as he explained Reilly’s role supporting the T-3 in the Soviet Union. “Comrade Petrov,” the general said. “Reilly is not familiar with the Soviet -.” The general stopped when Acid Man cleared his throat, eyes locked, penetrating and intimidating a man who faced death several times. At that moment Reilly realized Acid Man was part of the Soviet internal security force, the NKVD, the most feared entity in the country.
Once the contracts were signed the next obstacle was delivering the prototypes to the Soviet Union. The American government banned shipping munitions to the outlaw state, requiring some creative redesigning of the T-3. For several months, engineers who had constructed the tank became its destroyer and removed parts that could be deemed military in use. The T-3 prototypes were stripped of their turrets, firing mechanisms and gun barrels, and transformed into “agricultural tractors” a term so vague as to be meaningless. When the customs officials inspected the monstrosities prepared for shipment they could not stop laughing at the stupidity of the Russians who were buying a pig in a poke. They were amused by the American firm and its ability to take money from the unsophisticated Communists.
The two prototypes were shipped on Christmas Day 1930, a meaningless date for the atheist Bolsheviks. Included with the pair of “tractors” was the expert who could teach the Soviets how to operate and maintain the tanks. Reilly would spend much of the 1930s in the most brutal and bloody society in the world.
Boredom bred despondency for Reilly during his years in the Soviet Union. In 1936 he leapt at the opportunity to accompany 50 of the BT-5’s to Spain for use by the Communists in their struggle with Franco. The tanks were known officially as the BT series, but as the Betka or Beetle to their crews. Unfortunately, problems arose during battle as the Nationalists’ anti-tank guns pierced the BT-5’s armor rather easily. There were recriminations all the way back to Moscow.
By 1937 Stalin was locked in a paranoid fugue, imagining conspirators in every shadow. Reilly had watched as accidents in the plants, the result of poor training or incompetence, were denounced as sabotage. Those making the mistakes were arrested, the engineers and workers, so full of desire to construct the world’s best battle tank, disappeared only to be replaced by others who would later meet the same fate. The Red Army suffered the same; the men who saw the BT-5 as the spearhead for an aggressive offensive strategy vanished in the maw that was the Soviet “legal” system. Among those was Reilly’s closest contact, Khalipsky, who was denounced and shot. Amidst it Reilly continued working, his engineering expertise and his American citizenship protecting him even as he worried for the safety of the Russian engineers.
Reilly faced other problems; foremost of which was Christie’s failure to pay him. Embroiled in legal disputes with the U.S. government, Christie had little time to consider his engineer a continent away in the Soviet Union. Increasingly isolated and uncertain about his financial future Reilly decided to act.
In 1938 he returned to the United States on a mission to set the record straight with Christie only to be fired and never paid. Returning to Philadelphia in search of a job, he received the most unusual of offers. It came from an old Lehigh fraternity buddy, Frank Austin, who worked for the State Department. A brief phone conversation between Austin and his old pal Nines about old times began a new career for Reilly.
They met at a small bar in Philadelphia where years before the two college students had tested their drinking abilities. The “Philly” was known for its cheap drinks and cheaper women but it was not the beer that drew Austin. He pushed “Nines” to break his old college drinking record, matching him drink for drink. After two hours, neither man feeling pain, Austin eased the conversation toward the Worker’s Paradise.
“Tell me about the Bolsheviks.” He leaned forward. “Are the Russians as backwards as we hear over at State?”
Reilly, beer loosening his tongue, painted a drab picture. “It is much worse than you can imagine, especially in the areas outside of Leningrad and Moscow. Kharkov makes Bethlehem, Pennsylvania look like New York City. It resembles the Stone Age. Nothing works and even worse the people are treated like cattle.”
“The ladies?” quizzed Austin.
Reilly’s face scrunched, nose wriggling with his memories. “Mostly illiterate, fat and smelly farmers.” He brightened. “There is one I know who helped me get around in Kharkov. I’m sure she is assigned by the Party to monitor my every move.” He raised his head, smiling. “Natasha is stunning”
“Are you and Natasha, shall we say, friendly?”
“I wish,” replied Reilly. “I think she would be beheaded, shot or banished to Siberia if she became “friendly” with a capitalist.”
The ice broken, Austin skirted around the task he had for Reilly. “Nines, the State Department needs information on the Soviets and are looking for Americans who have traveled over there.” He paused, gauging his friend’s reaction but Reilly offered only a boozy bob of his head. “A colleague of mine at State works at the Division for Eastern European Affairs. He wants to talk to anybody who has been outside Leningrad and Moscow.” Another pause but Reilly’s eyes remained half closed. “Would you mind visiting with him?”
Not as drunk as he looked, his vodka intake the past few years having raised his tolerance, Reilly understood the real reason behind the night of drinking. Austin wasn’t catching up with his fraternity buddy “Nines,” but engaging James Reilly, the mechanical engineer who knew Soviet tank capabilities. Austin was on the clock and Reilly was another contact. Nines probed his old friend. “What does he want to know?”
Austin pushed closer, elbow planted on the table. “Everything about the countryside and the cities outside the main cities.”
“Nothing very exciting,” Reilly burbled.
“Anything.” Austin put on the hard sell. “Anything would help.”
“Set it up.”
Events moved rapidly after the night of drinking “for old times’ sake.” He met with Joseph E. Edwards, who referenced some vague position at the State Department. The conversation, which was labeled a “debriefing” but felt very much like an interrogation, lasted over a week, focusing on details of Soviet tank production. Reilly was neither surprised nor offended by the ordeal, realizing few in the West knew much about the Red Army’s tank corps.
The “debriefing” eventually ended and Reilly expected to be released. Instead Edwards had an offer, which sounded like a request but felt lik
e a command. “We would like you to offer your services on a continuous basis to the Soviets. We understand your return might excite suspicions but offer your services and see what happens.”
“Not possible,” Reilly said. “The Russians trust no one and if they knew I worked for the State Department they would kill me without thinking.”
Edwards backed away, “We do not want you to be a “spy.” Just come back as often as reasonable and report on their progress.”
“Come back? The only thing the Soviets like less than people entering the country are people leaving it.”
Edwards brushed aside his concern while offering encouragement. “Just try. We think they are becoming alarmed by the Nazis and they may require your expertise. Desperation trumps paranoia.”
Reilly understood he had little choice and even fewer options. After nearly a decade spent in the Soviet Union he felt more at home there than the United States, where his engineering skill seemed less respected and much less compensated than what he would receive overseas. He had agreed and within a few months Reilly was sitting on the edge of a bed in a hotel in Kharkov. He now “advised” the Soviets on tank production, focused mainly on modifications to the Betka.
Kneading his forehead, Reilly experienced a rush of memories from the previous night. While Reilly had talked quietly to Natasha, the others at dinner were obsessed with the German threat to Poland. The question raced around the table. What will happen to the Poles? The Poles had a significant army but lacked modern armor and aircraft. No one believed that they could withstand an onslaught by the Nazis. It was agreed that unless the French attacked the Reich’s “back door” at the same time, Poland was doomed.
One of the hosts, Reilly thought his name was Yermolayev, revealed the existence of a new program for a much heavier and more powerful Soviet tank. Yermolayev was excited about the plan to eliminate the multiple turret concept of previous Soviet heavy tanks. They wanted Reilly’s input. Yermolayev wondered if it was possible for Reilly to travel with him to the Kirov People’s Factory in Leningrad the next day. The prototype for the new tank was complete and was named after the Soviet General of the People’s Commissar for Defense, Klimenti Voroshilov. It would be designated the KV-1. War was coming, there was no time to waste.
Natasha had leaned towards Reilly and whispered in her accented English, “I am told Comrade Stalin is very interested in this new tank. You must go. I will see if is possible for me to go as well.” Reilly gazed at Natasha’s impossibly beautiful brown eyes and smelled her scent, wondering where one could get perfume in Kharkov. He would go to the Kirov People’s Factory in Leningrad.
II
August 30, 1939
Stabfeldwebel (Staff Sergeant) Rudolf Kleime basked in the sun while he sat atop his panzer’s turret, legs dangling to the left side. His Panzerkampfwagen (PzKpfw) III sat at the edge of the Tatra Mountains in Slovakia, on the southeastern Polish border. Known as “Rudi,” he fit easily into the machine he commanded. He was blonde, blue eyed and strong just like the recruiting posters that adorned public buildings in the Third Reich. He was monitoring the antics of a three-legged dog thirty meters behind the tank. “What he’s up to?” thought Rudi, taking a long drag on a cigarette. The dog pawed at something in the weeds and pulled at it with his teeth. Whatever it was, it was too big for him to drag.
Rudi thought about investigating, but was more concerned about the sole responsibility in his young life: the twenty tons of German steel that was the grey PzKpfw III beneath him. Well maybe nineteen tons Rudi smiled and wondered why men felt the need to exaggerate size. He was proud that he had been entrusted with one of the only three PzKpfw IIIs in the entire 3rd Panzer Regiment of the Second Panzer Division.
Rudi finished his cigarette and flicked its butt at the dog but fell well short of his target. His thoughts drifted to his younger brother Juergen who had joined the Kreigsmarine only a year before. Rudi tried to talk him out of it, and reminded Juergen that the European continent was made of land not water. Juergen could not be dissuaded and was assigned to a U-Boat after completion of training. The last time they were together, Juergen raved about Gunther Prien, the captain of his new posting, U-47. Rudi believed U-47 had sailed from Kiel earlier in the month but he was far from certain. He shuddered at the thought of Juergen encased in a metal tube under the dark ocean. “Be safe, Juergen, wherever you are today,” Rudi muttered.
He patted the panzer’s 37mm main cannon. Considered too small in caliber by many in the panzer army, it was certainly more powerful than the 20mm peashooters of the PzKpfw II and machine guns of the PzKpfw I. Rudi grinned. The Fatherland had paid for this panzer but it was Rudi’s. Unfortunately, not all was well as an idling problem had developed with its 300 horsepower 12 cylinder Maybach engine. Rudi heard a metal on metal clang of a wrench drop on its rear deck and jumped from his perch.
Rudi hustled over to the rear of the panzer to its driver. Corporal Adolf Brauch took much ribbing from the others about his name: a German corporal named Adolf. While he was an easy target, the joking was always cautious. No one wanted trouble with the Gestapo.
He looked up at the early afternoon sun. The temperature was on the cooler side, but Brauch was stripped down to his undershirt and sweating profusely. “Corporal Brauch, what is the status?”
“Think we are ready,” replied Brauch, shivering.
“You warm enough?”
“I’d be plenty warm if I was back in Munich with my wife,” laughed Brauch. “Or even better, with her sister.”
Rudi snickered but did not join in the banter. He turned his attention to the panzer parked in the trees 25 meters further up the road, believing he had seen movement.
“That will do it,” said Brauch, closing the engine hatch.
Rudi saluted him in the Party manner, “Seig Heil!” Rudi figured a little teasing would not hurt anything. The men of the 3rd Panzer Regiment were in high spirits, ready to implement the armored warfare theories of their former commander, General Heinz Guderian. There was a festival like atmosphere among the troops positioned on the Polish border.
Rudi grabbed a stick from the dirt and threw it at the dog, hitting it in its flank. The dog yelped and retreated to a safer distance. His battle with the ragged mutt was interrupted by the approach of Lieutenant Schmidt. Rudi hoped he had not seen his disrespectful Nazi salute to Corporal Brauch, as he did not want to be put on report. For two years, Rudi had been an attentive pupil at Schmidt’s regular training sessions. The lessons focused not only on the details of tactics but also the overall concept of the revolutionary Blitzkreig style of warfare. Schmidt was the most intelligent, well-spoken man Rudi had ever known. “That’s why he is in charge,” Rudi thought.
When Lieutenant Schmidt’s classes drifted from military subjects to politics, Rudi was not offended. Instead, he lapped up Schmidt’s observations, often adopting the lieutenant’s analysis of the “big picture” as his own. Rudi did not understand the details of politics, but he did know that the Nazis had restored Germany as a powerful and unified nation while the neighboring Poles seemed dirty and inferior. Rudi did not know any Jews growing up in Nuremburg, but if the Fuhrer and Herr Goebbels said they were bad, they must be. The Nazis had been right about everything else so far.
“Is your panzer combat ready, Staff Sergeant?” Schmidt inquired with his customary zeal.
“Absolutely, Herr Lieutenant,” replied Rudi, saluting in the military style. “Is the time here?”
“I think it’s going to happen tomorrow Rudi,” Schmidt warned Schmidt as he drew near to Kleime, voice low. “Are your men ready?”
“Jawohl, Herr Lieutenant!” responded Rudi with a grin.
“What do the teachings of General Guderian demand, Sergeant Kleime?”
“Advance, advance and then advance some more,” answered Rudi. “As Herr Lieutenant suggested, I have finished General Guderian’s book, Achtung! Panzer!”
“Excellent, Staff Sergeant…let’s take a look
at Helga,” nodded Schmidt as he strolled around Rudi’s tank.
Rudi’s crew had taken to referring to their panzer as “Helga.” He was not amused; Rudi refused to defile the fine piece of German manufacturing prowess with a nickname, and there was nothing remotely feminine about it.
Helga was accumulating scars from weeks of vigorous training, though nothing impacting her operational status. The cosmetic damage was noticeable to the casual observer and made her far from ready for formal inspection. The right fender was partially gone and all sorts of equipment and supplies were affixed to the top of her hull. Rudi was embarrassed by Helga’s appearance.
Sensing Rudi’s discomfort, Schmidt patted his arm, “Don’t worry Sergeant Kleime, we are not going on parade.”
3
August 31, 1939
War was coming. From Gibraltar to the Arctic Circle, the Bosporus to the Irish Sea everyone was speaking of war, while worrying about the future as the sole civilized continent on the planet plunged toward a conflagration.
Amidst all of the conversation, Etienne Descoteaux sat in his office in the Quai d’Orsai overlooking the Seine. Unlike most he was sanguine about the future, confident in the policies of the French government and its foreign ministry. War was coming to Europe but not to the French nation. His mood was also lightened by it being the celebrated day of his birth.
Even with war clouds building Etienne had taken the time to read his horoscope for the year. Fortunately for him if he did not like the August 31 prediction he could read the one for the next day and year. A Virgo on August 31, 1939 would have learned momentous events were in his near future with opportunities of greatness beckoning; not that Etienne, first deputy French foreign minister, believed such things. He was a traditional man and one tradition was peeking at predictions of his next year on his birth date. His father, Berlique, had dismissed such mysticism. As a rationalist, one born of war and suffering, he refused to look outside his senses for reality.
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 3