by Nick Cook
Kruze pulled the undercarriage up again and increased power gently on his good engine, keeping the aircraft lined up on the entrance to the valley. He prayed he could slip the crippled Arado unseen through the Russian defences as far as Branodz, now less than five minutes’ flight time away.
CHAPTER NINE
Malenkoy swung his kit into the back of the jeep, jumped into the driver’s seat and set off at top speed down the forest track, away from Chrudim, the maskirovka and Archangel. He couldn’t wait to get onto the train at Ostrava. Only then, away from the horror of the past few days, not to mention Shlemov’s NKVD, did he feel he could sleep.
Shlemov had been quite specific. When the NKVD had found him in his tent at Chrudim following his discharge from the hospital, his message was quite clear. He, Malenkoy, was a hero, but an embarrassing one. He was therefore being transferred, with immediate effect, from the front back to Moscow and the Academy. And if he wanted to talk about his wartime experiences too openly once he was safely ensconced in the heart of the Motherland, there was always the safety of his family to consider . . .
The early morning sun poured through the trees, the rays glinting on the Order of Lenin that bounced on his chest every time the jeep hit another pot-hole. Malenkoy sucked in the cool mountain air and the fragrance of the pines. This was how he wanted to remember Czechoslovakia.
* * * * * * * *
Fleming patrolled the skies high above the vast forest that lay directly beneath the path that Kruze would have to take on his run-in to Branodz, his eyes scanning the horizon for a sign of the 234 and any inquisitive Yaks. Kruze was already overdue. Although he wanted to see the Rhodesian safe from the Russians’ guns, he realized that if the Arado was still airworthy, his Meteor was the last line of defence.
Flying high above the new Russian offensive, Fleming recognized that he owed his safe passage to the fact that Frontal Aviation was running too many missions in support of the Red Army to worry about a lone Meteor crossing into Soviet-designated airspace.
But the assault. . . was it Konev’s or Shaposhnikov’s?
He double-checked his position. Satisfied that he was maintaining a combat air patrol over the valley that led to Shaposhnikov’s HQ, he went back to searching the ground for a sign of Kruze.
He felt desperately alone. He questioned what he was doing there. He could not shoot Kruze down in cold blood. There had to be another way.
It was nothing more than a slight movement, caught out of the corner of his eye, that made him narrow his search to the quadrant on his forward starboard beam. At first he thought it was a Russian aircraft, limping home from a bombing sortie against German positions at the front. But then he noticed the stark black crosses on the upper surface of the wings as it drew closer, sticking close to the contours of the land, and he knew it was the Arado heading straight for Branodz. Although it was still some way off, he could see it was heavily battle-scarred, the great gash in the tail so big that daylight was visible through the hole.
The Arado was flying one wing down, the starboard wing tip was almost brushing the tops of the trees. It was slow, much too slow, he thought; and then he realized why. A thin trail of smoke snaked from the right-hand engine. Kruze had gone for an in-flight shut-down of a Jumo. Either that or it had been knocked out by gunfire.
He increased speed and dived the Meteor towards his quarry.
In the cockpit of the Arado, Kruze was too busy checking the instruments governing his good engine and keeping the damaged plane on a straight and level course to notice the descent of the Meteor. He had left the Lotfe sight switched on, the height and speed of the aircraft fed into the BZA1 bombing computer. Unless he released the two thousand-pounders soon, his aircraft would bury itself into the inhospitable hillside.
He had swept over Russian patrols and vehicles, knew that they would be trying to radio his progress to Branodz. But he also knew that there was more than an even chance that their transmissions would be blocked by the contours of the terrain through which he now manoeuvred his crippled aircraft. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his arm. Nothing would stop him from putting his two bombs through Shaposhnikov’s HQ now.
The Meteor tore across the front of the 234, missing it by a few feet. Kruze had only the most fleeting impression of a camouflaged blur shooting past his eyes before the shock waves from Fleming’s high speed pass hit him and he wrestled with the stick to keep the Arado under control.
He increased power to his good engine in a bid to put as much distance between himself and the Soviet fighter with which he thought he had just had the near miss. Kruze could not afford to put his damaged plane into aerial combat. By the time the fighter found him again, if its pilot could at all, he would be those few vital kilometres nearer the HQ.
Just over a minute to target.
Fleming looked back and saw the Arado staying resolutely on course. Kruze was like an automaton, totally locked into the world of his cockpit. His warning had gone unheeded and there had only been time for one. The Rhodesian was almost at Branodz. Fleming pulled the Meteor round for one final pass.
* * * * * * * *
Malenkoy almost swerved the jeep off the road when he caught sight of the aircraft coming in low across the valley towards him. He slewed to a stop, fumbled for his field glasses, and brought them up to his face, his hands shaking. He couldn’t see any markings, but it had to be a German.
The Russians had no aircraft like the propellerless one he had just seen and he doubted whether they had pressed any captured ones into service.
Although it was some way off, he could see from the way the aircraft yawed from side to side that the pilot was in some difficulty; he also saw the massive bombs slung under the pylons on the engine pods and knew immediately that he was heading for Branodz, little more than five kilometres from his position.
Branodz, home to Konev’s HQ, adjacent to the corral that held the missing Berezniki consignment.
Malenkoy pulled the flare pistol but from under the dashboard and pointed it over the tops of the trees. His finger was poised over the trigger, when he saw the other aircraft hurtle over the top of the valley just behind the German. He looked through the binoculars and saw the markings. It was British! He never asked himself what the RAF was doing in that sector. It offered salvation and that was enough. He threw the flare pistol to the floor, thankful that he wasn’t reduced to such a desperate warning. He saw the British pilot drawing up behind the fascist, the whine of their engines growing in his ears. Pinpoints of light flickered in the nose of the British fighter, then the rumble of the cannons rolled across the valley floor. But the tracer missed, the four thin lines of phosphor-tipped shells whistling past the cockpit of the German. The Arado pushed down lower, followed by the Meteor until both aircraft seemed to brush the flat ground. The fighter fired again and Malenkoy watched, horrified, as the burst rippled past the other side of the aircraft. It was as if the British pilot did not want to strike the bomber, as if he was trying to issue a warning . . .
As the two aircraft shot past his position, Malenkoy saw the bomber jink to avoid the tracer. Then the German’s rudder seemed to flutter momentarily like a rag in the wind before it broke away completely from the tail. The Arado dropped away behind a cluster of trees and the Meteor pulled up and away from the ground.
The Russian threw the jeep into gear and set off at top speed for the crash site, one eye on the place where he had seen the Arado go in.
* * * * * * * *
Kruze fought the Arado with every fibre of his being to prevent it from hitting the trees. With the last of his strength, he pulled back on the stick and felt the tops of the pines scrape the aircraft, then his eyes scouted for some flat, open ground for the belly-landing.
He hit the release buttons for the two remaining bombs and they tumbled away to bury themselves deep in the ground, exploding three seconds later in an incandescent orange fireball. The shock waves radiated outwards, catching the Arado as he brou
ght it down to earth, the red-hot shrapnel cutting through the cockpit, puncturing his thigh, his side.
He cried out with the pain as the Perspex shattered in front of him and the hard, frozen earth tore through the cockpit, hitting his body and cutting his face. He threw his hands up for the final conflagration that would blow him to pieces as the fuel tanks went up and then all was still.
* * * * * * * *
Fleming circled the smoking wreckage at two hundred feet. He had watched in horror, first as Kruze’s rudder had broken away from the tail, then in awe as the Rhodesian wrestled with the controls to bring the jet into a belly-landing. The huge explosions seemed to end it all, but it wasn’t the Arado that had gone up, merely the bombs that had dropped from their racks just before the plane went in.
Well-aimed bursts had narrowly missed the Arado, but Kruze had taken no notice of his warning shots. The Rhodesian had tried to outmanoeuvre his attempts to shepherd him away from his bomb-run into Branodz, but it was the Arado’s frail airframe that was finally overcome.
As the dust settled over the scrubland of the Arado’s last resting place, his eyes followed the trail of broken metal and engine components until they fastened on the fuselage, which by some miracle was still in one piece. And there had been no fire, only thick, acrid smoke swirling up into the still air.
He pulled the Meteor down for a low pass over the cockpit, afraid of what he would see inside.
The hatch fell off the top of the cabin and the smoke billowed out. In its midst, he saw Kruze pull himself on to the top of the fuselage. He seemed to be clutching his side. Fleming couldn’t stop himself from crying out when he saw the Rhodesian inch himself to the ground and stagger away from the wreckage.
Through the dust and the smoke, Kruze heard the sound overhead. He looked up and saw the Meteor, its red, white and blue roundels clearly visible, despite the swirling clouds that belched from the Arado’s cockpit. He thought he was dreaming, but the roar of the jets as the plane swept low across the ground confirmed that he wasn’t.
The knowledge that it was the RAF that had finally prevented him from reaching his target cut through the pain. The Meteor was coming round again. The engines were throttled right back, the hood was open and he could see the pilot, waving, no, pointing to the trees.
The pilot was Fleming.
Kruze saw him clearly. There was no mistake. At first he tried to fight it, then he saw it all. Fleming hadn’t been trying to shoot him down. He had been warning him off, trying to steer him away from Branodz. And then he no longer cared why it was Robert who had brought him down, or that he had failed to get to Archangel. Fleming was up there and it all seemed to fit. Their lives had come together and the bond had continued, unbroken, in spite of his attempts to cast himself loose from him, from Penny. He had played with fire, basked in its glow for those few short days, and then tried to put it out. Now the fire raged in him, burning him right down to his soul.
He fell to the ground, the pain too much to let him stand. Fleming was circling overhead, his arm hanging from the open cockpit, buffeted by the slipstream, still indicating the way to the nearest belt of trees. Kruze knew that he was showing him the path to escape, away from the Russian patrols that would be there within a few minutes. But he couldn’t move any more. He didn’t want to. Come on, Robert, finish me off.
Fleming shouted out as Kruze seemed to fall back on the ground. There were tears of frustration in his eyes.
Through the haze he saw the movement off to his left. The Russian, his olive-brown uniform barely distinguishable against the ground, had broken through the trees.
* * * * * * * *
Flames had started to lick the twisted fuselage of the Arado by the time Malenkoy reached the crash site. He spotted the pilot, slumped on the ground a few metres from the shattered cockpit, and ran over to him. His grey Luftwaffe shirt was badly torn, there were cuts on his face, and he was moaning softly. The flames were beginning to take a hold on the forward fuselage, creeping towards the large fuel tank just behind the pilot’s seat. He had to get him away from there before it all went up.
He grabbed Kruze under the arms and pulled him to safety, away from the heat and the choking smoke. Kruze cried out with the pain as his side bumped over the rough, frozen earth and Malenkoy saw the blood that soaked not just his shirt, but his trousers too. Deep red drops spilled from the wound, staining the ground.
Away to his right he saw the British aircraft executing a tight turn at the far end of the valley.
Malenkoy did not allow himself to be distracted by the fighter. He pulled off his coat and tunic, ripped the sleeves off his shirt and packed them tightly against the largest of the pilot’s wounds. The German was staring at him wide-eyed, his lips mouthing something that he could not hear because of the noise of the approaching British jet.
Kruze summoned the last of his strength and pulled Malenkoy down to him so that the Russian’s ear was almost touching his mouth.
“Archangel. . .”
Malenkoy felt the ghosts of the forest return to haunt him.
The Rhodesian slipped in and out of consciousness. He felt drugged, weary, desperate only to know one thing. The offensive. Archangel. He thought that the man who held him was Fleming, but he could not work out why the hell he was wearing Russian uniform.
He laughed and looked into the eyes of the Russian, no longer aware of where he was or what he was doing in that strange place.
Malenkoy held the man a little closer. “Archangel. . . kaput,” he said, drawing his forefinger across his throat.
The pilot stopped his laughing and nodded, once.
Comprehension.
Malenkoy’s eyes turned to the sky at the precise moment that Fleming’s thumb punched the gun-button.
The earth seemed to open up as cannon shells exploded all around Kruze and Malenkoy, and when the dust settled, they were both dead.
Fleming bowed his head and pointed the Meteor in the direction of Stabitz. He felt he should be crying, but he couldn’t; there were no more tears left in him.
Five minutes later, the Russian patrol arrived on the scene of the crash. They found the body of the Soviet major lying on top of the German pilot.
The sun rose a little higher over the mountains at the far end of the valley, its rays catching the metallic object that lay on the ground close to the Russian’s outstretched hand. The patrol leader picked up the Order of Lenin and let it glitter in the bright mountain light. He looked back down at Malenkoy and issued the command for the burial party to begin its work.
The Order of Lenin. Whoever he was, the major must have been quite a hero.
CHAPTER TEN
* * * * * * * *
“You’ll have my resignation, of course,” Staverton said, putting down the decoded transcription Deering had brought with him from the Prime Minister’s war cabinet.
“I think it would be best, Algy,” Deering said. “I’m afraid the Admiral’s on the war-path this time. He’s in with Churchill at the moment.”
“And?”
“We were damned lucky with Guardian Angel, damned lucky. I don’t need to tell you that.” He paused. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that a good man died for nothing, and that he died because you hid the 163C crash and activated a totally unauthorized operation. You lied, Algy. You lied.”
Staverton said nothing. He thought back to Fleming’s call twelve hours ago, telling him of Kruze’s death. And now this.
He stared at the message from the Military Attaché in Moscow again.
7659843ZHN374/TOP SECRET/PM CABINET ADVISERS
EYES ONLY/BERIA REPORTED STAVKA YESTERDAY
RED ARMY COUP AVERTED EASTERN FRONT/CGS
SHAPOSHNIKOV RINGLEADERS EXECUTED/OTHER
RESISTANCE SQUASHED/JOE SAFE/DETAILS
UNKNOWN/WILL FILE LATER/VEREKER
“Comrade Marshal Shaposhnikov’s body will be brought back to Moscow immediately. He will be buried with full military honours.”<
br />
Beria fought to remain impassive. Until Stalin had spoken, he had been sure that he had been summoned to receive his congratulations. The NKVD, his NKVD, had thwarted a major coup and laid the corpse of Archangel at Stalin’s feet.
“Why did you not tell me from the start about your investigations into Archangel?” Stalin continued.
General Semyon Sabak stood at Stalin’s shoulder, trying not to show the pleasure he took at Beria’s discomfort.
“Comrade Stalin, we were operating on little more than guesswork at first. As soon as we discovered Shaposhnikov’s intentions it was necessary to act quickly. I believe we were only just in time.”
“Perhaps I could have helped,” Stalin said.
Beria hesitated. “With respect, Comrade Stalin, what could you have done? I had to be absolutely sure before you were informed. These men were plotting against you. If they had had any idea of my suspicions ...”
“I thought the objective of Archangel was the military defeat of the British and the Americans.”
“That is true,” Beria said. “But without your endorsement of their plan they would have had to . . . move against you. The NKVD ensured that you were never in any danger ...”
Stalin held Beria’s gaze.
“The NKVD had nothing to do with it. Shaposhnikov was working for me.”
Beria blinked. He tried to control his voice. “For you?” The question came too quickly, the tone too high.
Sabak allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
Beria felt his gut twist. “But he was going to launch Archangel against our allies. He was consumed with hate . . . right to the end. He was acting beyond the control of the state. He had to die -”
Stalin cut him off. “Enough,” he said, pushing his chair back and moving to the window. Then he turned. “You are looking at the true architect of Archangel. Here, now,” he said. “As soon as we began our counterattack I knew we would beat Hitler. But Russia could not win on her own. We needed Churchill and Roosevelt; we had to have the second front.” He paused. “But that created a new problem for us.