Get Lenin

by Robert Craven

  Once the unit was on board, the plane turned tightly on the cleared snow, accelerating. Taking off at full-throttle, the Junkers climbed steeply up into the low cloud cover, banking westward to meet the train. As in the half-track, no conversation occurred. Regan checked his equipment, all bulky solid 8mm film cameras sealed in waterproof cases. To his relief, nothing had been damaged during the trip. An hour passed and the plane began its decent, banking steeply down, almost pitching into a dive. Looking out of the window Brandt could see only dense forests and snow below. Gradually a huge pre-fabricated building appeared as if sprouted from the ground.

  A temporary airstrip had been cleared and a perimeter of anti-aircraft guns towed on trailers surrounded it. Various vehicles moved around and a half-track acted as a temporary radio tower. The unit gave surprised gasps at the size of the building when they stepped out of the aircraft. It was white, the height of the surrounding forest, made of strong canvas fixed on rigid stanchions. It was held firm by ropes attached to piles driven into the ground. At the far end, the fourth wall was missing and inside, sitting low to the ground, was a fully constructed airship.

  ‘Jesus,’ gasped Regan.

  They all stood looking at it for a moment in awe. Crews were moving along gantries and fuel trucks were filling the four engines either side. Like the tent, the airship was white, mottled in places for camouflage, and was no longer than a hundred feet bow to aft.

  ‘Are we still in Russia?’ asked Kant.

  ‘About twenty miles from the Siberian border, Gentlemen and Lady,’ said a voice.

  They turned to see an Air Force Captain approaching, wrapped in a heavy flight jacket. He was tall, perma-tanned and in another life wouldn’t have looked out of place along the Cote d’Azur. To Schenker’s ire he gave a casual military salute. ‘Welcome. I’m Captain Willhem Rathenow, special flight operations. Beautiful, isn’t she, Captain Brandt?’ He turned back to look at the airship.

  The moorings were pulled taut, keeping the entire ship a few feet above ground. There were no markings to indicate she was German, much to Regan’s annoyance. ‘How will the audience know it’s a Kraut airship?’ he moaned aloud. Several engineers heard the outburst and stared at him. Regan was oblivious to the glares.

  ‘Any problems with partisans?’ inquired Brandt. Like him, Kant and the unit were looking all around the wall of green, trying to penetrate the shadows.

  ‘No, we’ve only been here a day and a half. Wolves, yes, and unfortunately we lost a sentry last night to a bear. No sign of the poor fellow, but partisans, no. This country is so vast, Captain,’

  They trudged into the tent. It was surprisingly warm. As if it were a tour, Captain Rathenow acted as a guide. ‘She took just over 24 hours to assemble. We shipped her in on the Junkers transports outside. The interior is like a beehive, the airframe is treated with fire retardant. The hydrogen mix is contained in small individual cells and stacked into the airframe. Then the whole assembly is bolted together section-by-section. She’s an engineering feat.’

  Brandt studied it in wonder. ‘Does she have a name?’

  Rathenow smiled. ‘Her name is The Isolde.’

  Below the airship, just behind the bridge, was an elaborate rig of chains, pulleys and rigging. The tour ended here.

  Rathenow knew the next question before it was asked. ‘She was able to lift a training ‘canoe’ U-Boat out of dry dock last week. We carried it twelve miles without any problems. The item we’re going to lift won’t be as heavy.’

  ‘Yes, but then you didn’t have every sailor and dock worker shooting at you either,’ said Brandt.

  The airship’s outer skin looked flimsy. Sustained gunfire was bound to damage it. He knew the troops protecting the carriage would put up a serious fight. The only guarantee so far in this war was that the Russians would fight to the last man.

  Rathenow’s confidence was unwavering. ‘We tested the prototype with small arms fire and machine guns. Nothing short of a field gun will bring it down. The bridge is bulletproof, along with the engine housings and supports. Because of the honeycomb cells, she can fly on as little as fifteen-per-cent effectiveness.’

  ‘How about fighter planes?’ inquired Schenker, marvelling at the ship’s perfect symmetry.

  ‘There won’t be any,’ said a voice behind them.

  Brandt and Schenker turned to look at a tall white-haired man, resplendent in a fur-lined winter coat. With him, dressed in sable, was possibly the most beautiful woman Brandt had ever seen. He was speaking English with an American accent, the woman translating into German as he spoke.

  ‘We have learned that a decoy train left Moscow the same time with a staggered fighter escort. It’s like one big flag saying Lenin’s going this way! They even have idiots standing along the line cheering it on.’

  Beneath her black sable hat, a few strands of auburn hair had strayed. Her eyes were steel grey and wide-set beneath tidy brows. Her mouth was a bee-stung pout, but not sulky, and her chin inclined toward stubborn. Brandt guessed Nordic or Dutch and observed her eyes taking everything in

  Quiet and very intelligent, Brandt sighed inwardly — rich old men and beautiful women, nothing changes. Looking at her he almost forgot the war, imminent death, the cold and hunger. A professional soldier all his life, he had never married and, oddly at this moment, felt older than his thirty-three years. Looking at her and her steady gaze, he felt unsure of what to do next.

  Eva found herself directing her translation to the German Army Captain with the steel-grey eyes.

  ‘Fighter planes would present a problem,’ said Rathenow, ‘but I’ve every faith in your unit, Captain Brandt — ‘

  ‘- Captain Schenker.’ Schenker was again in superiority mode, no doubt for the benefit of the woman. His helmet had been replaced by a jauntily tilted officer’s hat. ‘This operation is under the Waffen SS jurisdiction. I can assure you, Captain Rathenow, that my unit will perform well in eliminating the security on the train. The Reds will not have time to call for assistance,’

  Kant’s reaction was subtle. He stiffened slightly, his eyes burning with hatred at Schenker below his helmet's rim. Olga sensed it too and moved alongside him. Brandt was quietly thankful he wasn’t in their sights. And knowing Kant, this was going to be Schenker’s last trip before an honourable burial in Berlin. The woman in sable’s reaction was interesting. Her attitude had shifted up a gear from cool composure to unease at the sight of the SS insignia. Maybe she’s not Nordic, possibly Eastern European or British?

  ‘Please, be my guests,’ said Rathenow as he encouraged them towards a small outbuilding alongside the hangar. ‘The airship will be ready to launch in two hours, so let us eat, talk and prepare our plan. We rendezvous with the train at 19:00 hours.’

  The airship's crew offloaded the unit’s equipment from the Junkers and carried it onto the airship, with Regan trotting alongside yelling instructions.

  They had showered for the first time in weeks in the officers' quarters. Shaving equipment was laid out along with fresh towels, uniforms and underwear. Schenker had gone first, citing seniority, and showered alone. Brandt, Hauptmann, Bader, Schultz, Koheller, Voight and Kramer looked thin as they dried themselves off.

  Kant had a scar running across his chest from shrapnel received in France. In the mirrors, their eyes stared out from the hollows of their eye sockets. Without their beards, their faces lost some bulk and appeared more lined and haggard.

  ‘Only the Luftwaffe could get away with this, an almighty airship in the middle of Russia,’ quipped Hauptmann, slicking his thinning, wet black hair back with a comb. Turning his head he decided he didn’t like it.

  Kant was shaving with a cigarette in his mouth, his tongue moving it from left to right as he worked the blade around his face. ‘The flyboys always like to think they’re gods just because their arses never touch the ground.’ The cigarette bobbed.

  ‘Except when they’re shot down,’ laughed Hauptmann. Hauptmann had now shaved his
head, his pate gleaming and red with razor burn. He turned his head left and right in approval at the new look.

  ‘Showers, razors, food, booze — feels more like the last day before the firing squad, Sergeant,’ followed Schultz. His big arms patted his freshly-shaven jaw delicately. He was known by the team as ‘Der Anker’, ‘The Anchor’. Capable of lifting a man over his head, he had won several strong man competitions around Munich and caused the Quarter-Master General untold problems in finding a uniform that would fit him. He was the nearest thing Brandt had to a pack mule. Sometimes, looking back over his shoulder on a mountain ascent, all that he could see were equipment and supply cases and a pair of arms sticking out from them.

  ‘It will be in a few hours,’ interrupted Bader. ‘Let’s hope there’s more equipment for us other than that idiot’s cameras.’

  Koheller and Voight remained quiet throughout, occasionally smiling at the banter.

  ‘Let’s hope our last meal has generous portions,’ remarked Kramer, towelling his craggy features. Kramer, the veteran of the unit, was the last to shave. He had fought Franco’s forces in the Spanish Civil War and had been put into Mauthausen concentration camp for it. Prison tattoos covered his chest and arms, and a prison serial number had been branded into his forearm. Brandt had saved him from the gallows, needing an experienced climber for an operation in the Pyrenees. The harder the terrain, the higher the altitude, the better Kramer performed. His entire frame was sinew and bone. Scars and weals embellished it where years of hard mountaineering had taken its toll. He seldom spoke and usually moved around like a ghost.

  There was a discreet knock at the door and Olga stepped in. Amid the leers and winks, she disrobed and showered in the furthest cubicle, her knife wedged firmly between her teeth. Never once taking her eyes off the men, she worked the soap through the cable that was her hair.

  ‘Sergeant, your girlfriend’s a barbarian….’ said Kramer.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Kant with a grin to the mirror.

  The table was laid out with exquisite silver service and crystal glasses on a tablecloth of delicate lace. Two large candelabras stood in the middle with candles lit. The company was being attended by Rathenow’s personal staff, with Rathenow himself behaving like the captain of a Mediterranean cruise ship, discussing his wines with Schenker. Regan, to his amazement, got a whiskey-sour.

  Brandt and his soldiers declined alcohol, requesting strong coffee instead. They glowered at Schenker quaffing down champagne and shouting over the conversation. The food was delicious, prepared by Rathenow’s personal chef, Raul, accompanied by French wine from Rathenow’s ‘cellar’.

  Olga and the translator sat side-by-side in warm army woollens and yet appearing feminine. Both had used belts to turn the bulky material into a dress of sorts.

  The American, whose name was Kincaid, sat with Regan drinking whiskey and laughing. The coffee was fresh and served from silver pots. Rathenow, aware of his company, kept it coming in large mugs. Brandt and Rathenow pored over the maps once the meal was finished. The map was Russian, the train’s journey marked in red pen. There was a dried bloodstain framing a bullet hole in the top fold.

  The woman, introduced as Eva, translated the map into German and answered any question that was asked. Out of her sable overcoat, she had a good figure, long legs, and a narrow waist, and couldn’t have been more than 25 years old. Brandt was aware of her long fingers tracing the route, elegant like those of a concert pianist. Kant stood back, taking it all in and watching Schenker who was too busy looking at Eva. Kincaid never seemed to be a foot from her at any stage, hovering over them, shouting questions that Eva had already answered.

  Brandt called his unit over and the plan was agreed. A sequence of charges would be laid along the track at a point a mile away from their location. Small detonations leading into one large one would force the locomotive to leave the rails without over-turning. The unit would disable the troop carriages and eliminate the security detail.

  Regan then discussed his camera angles and wanted to know in what available light he’d be filming in. He was ignored.

  Brandt watched the staff clearing the table and looked up at Rathenow.

  ‘Captain Rathenow, I have a request. As a professional courtesy, I’d like you to put the remaining food onto the transport we arrived in and deliver it to General Fretter-Pico’s forces along with any spare medical supplies you have,’

  Rathenow looked at Brandt for a long time before he spoke. ‘Isn’t the German Army able to survive in any habitat, anywhere in the world?’

  Brandt didn’t break the stare. ‘Yes, but we have exceeded our expectations in our advance and have stretched the supply line. The glorious advance to Moscow would be accelerated further with Luftwaffe support.’

  Brandt let the sarcasm hang before moving on; the bastard wasn’t going to help them. Anywhere else and Brandt would have hit him, and hard.

  Eva watched the exchange and was drawn to Brandt’s voice and his cold-grey eyes. Not conventionally handsome, he was attractive with a quiet charisma; a natural leader. She glanced quickly up and down almost as a reflex. He was lean, not muscular but strong, with wide calloused hands and no wedding ring.

  Unlike the SS officer, he was without conceit yet looked like he was capable of fighting his corner. She had to remind herself he was the enemy who, along with his friends, had half of Europe under the jackboot. As soon as this was over, and if she survived, she planned to discuss the future with Peter. In the presence of this officer she found herself forcing herself to think of him.

  Peter was in Helsinki waiting for her, with a berth booked on a ship to New York. She knew the relationship was coming to a crossroads. The choice for Peter was whether to divorce Martha and start anew with her. She was going to use the voyage to discuss it. He was worried about her situation with Kincaid. She was very close to some very powerful and dangerous men. Chainbridge warned her that she could get killed if Kincaid suspected she was a spy. Women had a habit of coming to harm around him. She had been offered a cyanide tablet to use in case of being discovered, but declined, accepting instead a brooch filled with a liquid agent for inducing strokes, just in case Kincaid got rough.

  The airship slipped its moorings, rising gracefully into the weak twilight, ascending to just above tree-height. Keeping this altitude, Rathenow gunned the engines, banking it smoothly away from the pre-fabricated hangar. Within minutes it was in position half a mile from its launch, lying like a shark in the shallows.

  Rathenow’s crew watched for enemy aircraft from machine gun pods stuck out from the bridge area. The bridge was warm and roomy, with comfortable seats that allowed for some rest. Brandt was amazed how much a meal, a shave and a shower could change a man. Their uniforms were new also, though a little large for their bodies.

  ‘If you’re gonna be shown all over the world,’ said Kincaid, ‘you gotta look your best!’ He had remained behind with the stunning girl in black.

  Despite his efforts at concentrating on the mission, Brandt’s thoughts kept drifting back to her. He told himself to snap out of it.

  Kramer had confirmed all the equipment was sound, the ropes, harnesses and hardware new. Nothing had been left to chance. Schultz, Koheller and Kant were in position below, out beyond the forest’s edge. The explosives were placed along the rail, the timers of Swiss manufacture, water resistant and shock-proof.

  Regan was leaning out through one of the doors filming, harnessed to the frame almost horizontal to the terrain below. Another camera was mounted on the bow, taking still photographs for the Propaganda Ministry in Berlin.

  The half-track acting as a radio tower linked the airship to Berlin with weather details, especially wind direction. It also acted as an interceptor for any Russian communications in the area. On a secure radio band it kept constant communication to the bridge. After the airship had cleared, the hangar was broken down and loaded onto the transport planes. Within hours, apart from the half-track and
the two anti-aircraft batteries hidden in the trees, it was as if the hangar had never been there.

  Ten minutes had passed when Schultz’s voice crackled over the radio operator’s headset. The bridge went silent. ‘The Train’s coming.’

  Brandt opened the bridge door and slid down the rope to the ground below. The hiss of bodies on ropes beside him, and the thump of equipment landing ahead of them, gave him a rush. From the airship's bridge, he had studied the distant Ural Mountains and agreed with Kramer there would be rewarding climbs there. Maybe sometime in the future the Russians would sue for peace and allow Brandt’s Alpine Korps to climb for the sheer joy of it. Maybe this mission might be the first step to ending the war.

  But first they had to get Lenin.

  Chapter 10

  Commander Marko Kravchenko knew something was amis when the lights went out. The train lurched once, twice, a third time, and then swung to the right and seemed to grind to a halt. The soldiers in the confined compartment began loading and priming their weapons. Curses and oaths were hissed in the faint light, the smell of sweat and cigarettes mixing with machine oil.

  The narrow windows, no wider than eight inches high, cracked under sniper fire. Four men fell at once, blood and brain matter spraying their comrades. The remaining windows shattered and more bodies slumped. Panic spread through the compartment as the doors refused to budge.

  Kravchenko roared above the melee. ‘Stay calm, Comrades, remember your training! Start shooting back. Locate and eliminate those snipers!’ He grabbed a radio operator, instructing him to send a mayday.

  Sweat poured down the crouching operator's face as he twisted the band dial to no avail. ‘No signal,’ he whispered. ‘The signal’s jammed.’

  More bodies were crumpling, filling the compartment, restricting any movement. Kravchenko moved back down the carriage stooping below the window height. Above the din of weapons fire he roared instructions to the N.C.O.s. The priority was to get out under covering fire.