Endgame (The Red Gambit Series Book 7)
Page 16
He came to the mark and assumed a position of attention.
The NKVD colonel’s voice rose over the hubbub.
“Mayor General of Tank Troops Arkady Arkadyevich Yarishlov to receive his second award of Hero of the Soviet Union…”
The rest of the words were lost on Ramsey as he looked closely for some indication that the figure to his left was indeed the man he had met twice before, although he only remembered the once.
Yarishlov’s eyes remained focused straight ahead as he listened to the story of his service and the reasons behind his new award.
The words hardly scratched the surface of what he and his men had achieved in Pomerania all those months previously.
On cue, he walked forward as Stalin took the Hero Award from a red cushion.
The medal was set in place but Stalin, briefed on the likely effect on the burned officer beforehand, did not hug and kiss the apparition in front of him, for which Yarishlov was grateful for more than one reason.
Instead, Stalin offered his hand and whispered words of congratulations in the tank officer’s ear, his own sensibilities unusually outraged by the hideous injuries inflicted on a son of Russia.
The curled lips, lack of facial hair, reduced nose, and absence of anything that could really be called ears, all set on a skull covered with tightly stretched pink and white skin, created an impression of horror and pain in unimaginable quantities.
Stalin stepped back and clapped his hands in genuine admiration.
The applause outshone all previous efforts, ringing around inside the building, the sympathy in their hearts lending strength to their hands.
Yarishlov saluted and turned right to march towards the exit but checked himself… in spite of himself…
One of the visiting Allied delegation stepped forward and turned, came to full attention and offered an immaculate salute.
Yarishlov recognized the British colonel immediately and his joy doubled in an instant.
He returned the salute, ignoring the pain in his arm.
Stalin beckoned an aide over but the man was unable to answer his question so he tackled the new recipient of the Hero Award.
“Mayor General Yarishlov. Do you know this man?”
“I most certainly do, Comrade General Secretary. He and I once shared friendly words, and later fought each other in a terrible battle. He’s a real soldier… and a friend.”
The British officer moved forward, indifferent to the hands that tightened on weapons as the guards sensed a threat to their leader.
Yarishlov was aware of the sudden risks to his friend, and moved forward as quickly as he could, extending his gloved hand to a man he had last seen in pieces and near death on a bloody mound at Barnstorf.
“Colonel Yarishlov. Fate has brought us together again in the most unexpected of places.”
“Major Ramsey. Indeed it has.”
With studied care, the two men gently, and for Ramsey unexpectedly, embraced, momentarily indifferent to the surroundings and the wide-mouthed dignitaries that wondered about the story behind the friendly reunion.
The ceremony closed and the two men were summoned to a meeting with the Premier of the Soviet Union.
Over tea and cigarettes, at Stalin’s direction, Yarishlov and Ramsey related the story of their meeting and the battle in and around Barnstorf.
Ramsey also contributed the story of the receipt of Yarishlov’s note, and the Victoria Cross that resulted.
As a result of the meeting, Ramsey found himself in a privileged position, with special dispensation authorised by Stalin himself that allowed him to move around the Moscow area, albeit with plenty of ‘official’ company, including opportunities to spend time with Yarishlov, both in and out of his official duties.
It was an incredible opportunity for an old soldier who was, unknown to Horrocks, more than that stated on his official attribution.
Ramsey had long since found useful employment as a clandestine member of MI6, reporting to others in London at the behest of his mentor, Sir Stuart Menzies.
0901 hrs, Wednesday, 20th November 1946, twelve nautical miles due south of Sumba Point, Suðuroy, Faroe Islands.
They had closed up to actions station in record time.
“Sparks, make to Admiralty, in contact with confirmed submarine target. Give our position. Will engage if no satisfactory response. ROE of 18th last will be applied. End.”
The captain swivelled to his second in command.
“Check again, Number One, and be bloody quick about it.”
Whilst the man was away confirming Admiralty communications with the chart room and wireless department, Commander Hamilton Ffoulkes RN ran the present rules of engagement through his brain.
“Sonar, report.”
“Skipper, target is at five hundred. Speed… six knots… zero degrees, changing depth but not deviating. Think he’s coming shallower.”
“Roger, Sonar. All ahead slow.”
The telegraph clanged, sending the order for speed reduction to the engineers below.
Number One returned.
“Skipper, this is a weapons-free zone. Officially, Danish Navy, but their subs are Baltic based. There’re no subs reported in this area from any of our Allies.”
Ffoulkes grunted.
“Our orders are crystal clear then. Latest ROE will apply. Do you agree, Jimmy?”
“Absolutely, Skipper.”
The Captain turned to the Gunnery Officer.
“Have ‘A’ and ‘B’ turrets prepare. Fire one round each, two hundred yards either side of the target. On my command. Standby depth charge. Standby Spike. Standby sonar.”
As the two offensive groups readied themselves to attack and the sonar crews removed their headsets, the Gunnery Officer chivvied his crews through the speaker set and was quickly able to report ‘guns ready’
“Shoot.”
Both forward 4.5” guns fired simultaneously, and the sea erupted four hundred yards apart.
Such explosions often wrecked the chances of redetection for some time, such was the effect on the hunter’s apparatus, so Ffoulkes waited patiently.
His patience ran out after two minutes.
“Sonar?”
“Nothing yet, Skipper. Wait one…”
Petty Officer Coots was an efficient man, and Ffoulkes knew he was working the problem as best he could.
The roiled water was still doing its obstructive work, but Ffoulkes was anxious to detect some sort of reaction, preferably the reaction of a friendly submarine that realised its error rather than that of an angry enemy.
“No change detected, Skipper. Still got the after-effects’ troubling us, but my bet is he hasn’t deviated one little bit.”
“Depth?”
“Wait one… looks like he’s steadied out at one hundred feet, Skipper. That’s a guess at the moment.”
Standing orders for an Allied submarine were to surface in such circumstances. The submariners would recognise that their would-be assailant was a friendly, rise to the surface and communicate with whoever it was that had found them out, with no more than rapped knuckles and red faces to show for the encounter.
“Not rising? Definitely not rising?”
“Steady at depth one hundred, Skipper.”
“Roger, Sonar.”
Ffoulkes dropped into his command position and the Number One drew close, anxious to understand how HMS Charity would now prosecute the contact, if at all.
“Skipper?”
“Jimmy, ROE is simple… we attack. They haven’t responded as they should. Has to be an enemy. Agreed?”
“Absolutely, Skipper.”
“Quartermaster, increase speed to two-thirds, steer hard a-port.”
The quartermaster repeated the order back but Ffoulkes had already moved onto other matters.
“Jimmy, make sure the depth charge crews are ready, but I intend to fire Spike when we’ve lined back up on the blighter. If no luck, we’ll put a pattern down on him wh
en we come back. Clear?”
“Roger, Skipper.”
“I’ll get her lined up on the blighter for a stern run.”
With the ship at action stations, there would be no delay to any order Ffoulkes issued, but giving his crew a heads up would not go amiss.
“Ship’s tannoy.”
The bosun’s whistle died away to be replaced with Ffoulkes’ clipped tones.
“Do you hear there? Do you hear there? Submarine contact has not responded to our warning. We’ll be attacking an underwater target considered a hostile submarine with our hedgehog and depth charges. All gun crews stand ready for surface action if whatever it is comes up. End.”
He handed the tannoy back to the bosun and moved to the front of the bridge.
HMS Charity was gently swinging back onto the same course as the submarine, which the Number One had just confirmed with the Sonar division.
“Sparks, make to Admiralty, am engaging confirmed submarine target. Give our position. End.”
“All lined up, Skipper. Range to target twelve hundred yards, dead ahead. Steering course 220.”
“Roger, Number One. All ahead, one third, steer 220.”
HMS Charity bled off speed slowly, all the time gaining on her target.
“Sonar?”
“Skipper, constant bearing on 220. Range eight hundred. Depth one hundred, speed six knots.”
“Number One.”
He beckoned the Lieutenant over for a whispered conversation.
“Any doubts, Jimmy?”
“Skipper, we’ve gone by the book. There are no friendlies in the area. He hasn’t responded as he should. Seems to me it’s not one of ours, but he’s trying to play it very steady. I reckon he feels that by doing nothing, we’ll think he’s one of ours.”
“My thoughts exactly, Jimmy.”
Ffoulkes shot a quick look at the sea.
“Sonar?”
“Skipper, constant bearing on 220. Range six hundred. Depth one hundred, speed six and a half knots.”
“Roger, Sonar. Constant reports.”
He dropped his head close to his Number One for a final time.
“We attack.”
“Aye aye, Skipper.”
The two men moved to different areas of the bridge.
Coots’ voice provided a monotone commentary on the sea ahead, counting down the yards.
The Hedgehog’s range was two hundred and fifty yards, and the gap was rapidly closing.
“Standby on Spike.”
And then the moment was on him.
“Standby on Spike…Shoot! Standby, Sonar!”
The hedgehog mount started to spit its deadly little charges into the air, twenty-four deadly Torpex bombs dispatched in just under twelve seconds, held on target by the recently updated gyro-stabilised mount. The new mounting ensured that they all landed as aimed, creating a deadly circle of splashes ahead of HMS Charity.
The bombs sank at about twenty feet a second, and Ffoulkes, along with everyone else on the bridge, started counting off.
‘One…’
‘Two…’
‘Three…’
‘Fou…’
KABOOM!
“Fuck a rat!”
“Silence on the bridge!”
The chastised rating’s face was split from ear to ear, despite the fact that he would be on report later.
A total of four explosions had split the water, the last three almost simultaneous but decidedly separate from the first.
“I make that four solid hits, Skipper.”
No binoculars were needed to see the large bubbles of air disturbing the surface, added to by the sweet smell of diesel that now accompanied other detritus to the surface.
There were two bodies, both naked as the day their mothers brought them into the world.
There were the standard artefacts that escape from a smashed submarine hull; clothing, bottles, paper, wood…
“Jimmy, get a boat away smartish and pick up what you can. I shall stand off and make another sweep, just in case.”
“Aye aye, Skipper.”
The Number One disappeared to organise a boat party.
“Sparks, make to Admiralty, as per ROE 18th last, underwater target engaged and sunk, repeat confirmed sunk. Give time and our position. Wreckage and body recovery underway. End.”
The knock on his cabin door was more than insistent.
It was urgent beyond measure and full of portent.
“Enter.”
“Skipper.”
“Number one? Christ but you look like you’ve spent a night with a Pompey whore and plenty of money in your skyrocket!”
“Skipper…”
The man’s face was ashen and he was clearly disturbed.
“Go on, man. Spit it out!”
“Nothing recognisable at all. No tattoos on the bodies to help. Both are with the surgeon being examined.”
“Dammit! Nothing in the paperwork at all?”
“Nothing that would make you think it was a Soviet submarine we just sent to the bottom, Skipper.”
There was something there that made Ffoulkes pose his question very carefully.
“Anything to make us think it was something else entirely, Jimmy?”
“Yes, Skipper.”
An icy hand gripped Ffoulkes’ vitals, and he understood what it was that had his Number One so agitated.
“What?”
The Lieutenant placed a sodden English five-pound note in front of his Captain.
“Souvenir. Means nothing.
“Ordinarily I’d agree with you, Skipper.”
“Ordinarily you’d agr… go on.”
The Jimmy emptied a duffel bag onto the floor, wet five pound notes creating a growing pile until he could shake no more free.
“Fucking hell… oh fucking hell…”
“Skipper, there’s more.”
“What?”
“We recovered three sealed boxes from the wreckage, Skipper. I’ve the Master-at Arms guarding them now. By my estimate they each contain five hundred.”
“Five hundred?”
“Five hundred thousand, Skipper, We’ve over one and a half million pounds of currency recovered from that boat.”
“Fucking hell!”
“Maybe it wasn’t a Russki after all. Skipper.”
“Fucking hell!”
The voice tube erupted next to Ffoulkes ear.
“Captain.”
He listened intently.
“I’ll be on the bridge immediately, Nav. Thank you.”
He replaced the pipe.
“That was the Nav. Apparently another five crates have surfaced on the port bow.”
“Fucking hell, Skipper!”
“Language, Number One.”
The two senior men made their way to the bridge, with Ffoulkes already composing an ‘Admiralty: Most Secret’ message in his mind.
By the time he and the Jimmy arrived on the bridge, the Nav reported a total of eleven crates bobbing on the surface of an increasingly agitated sea.
1102 hrs, Friday, 22nd November 1946, Downing Street, England.
Winston Churchill listened impassively as Dalziel started into the briefing on recent events in Eire and the Atlantic.
Given the sensitive nature of the content, there were only two other pairs of ears present to absorb the incredible story.
The CIGS and the First Sea Lord, respectively Lord Alanbrooke and Sir Andrew Cunningham, Baron Cunningham of Hyndhope, were simple spectators as the story of huge quantities of counterfeit cash, the IRA, and Soviet submarines played out before them.
Dalziel’s delivery was impeccable and full, so there were no interruptions until it came to the maths, when Churchill, still incredulous, sought a check on his calculations.
“So, Sir Roger, you seem to be saying that the efforts of our intelligence agencies have prevented the Communists from dumping about two hundred and sixty million pounds of counterfeit currency into our system?”
“At least, Prime Minister. We think more… much more.”
“Because you think they took half in the first run?”
“Possibly, Prime Minister. Submarine officers I have chatted to could see no reason to overload their vessel if they intended to make two runs… which we know they did from what the first visiting officer said to Éire’s G2 agent.”
“Go on.”
“Considered opinion was that, if the Soviet sub and naval commanders had anything to do with it, the load would have been split half for each trip, Prime Minister.”
“Yes, yes. That would make sense. I can see that.”
Churchill turned to Somerville and received a nod in agreement.
“There is more, Prime Minister.”
The cigar glowed as Churchill drew deeply on it, sending out a virtual smoke screen between him and his briefing officer.
“In the monitoring of discussions between senior German prisoners of war in Austria, parts of a whispered conversation were recorded. One of those speaking was Ernst Kaltenbrunner. The recording was of poor quality, but some of the words were identifiable.
He consulted the document to refresh his mind.
“…Sachsenhausen… the concentration camp near Berlin.”
“…the British money…”
“… Bernard… “
Dalziel looked up.
“Which we now know should be Bernhard, Operation Bernhard, Prime Minister.”
Churchill nodded his understanding but said nothing, so Dalziel continued.
“…safely hidden…”
“…lake…”
The naval officer finished lifting the words from the transcript of the recording.
“Subsequent rumours pointed us all towards lakes in the Alpine Redoubt.”
“Even though Kaltenbrunner mentioned Sachsenhausen, we had no idea what went on at the camp, over and above the normal horrors, until August, when we were fed information by a former member of the Polish 2nd Infantry Division. He even showed us some British five pound notes he had liberated at the time.”
“One inmate of Sachsenhausen… an Adolf Burger, made a report to the Czech Central Bank… he’s a Czech national and a Jew, so he considered that appropriate. He spoke of millions of pounds worth of counterfeit currency, not just our own, a lot of American dollars too, Sir. All produced by inmates of the Sachsenhausen Camp. He also supplied us with the name ‘Bernhard’ and linked it directly to the counterfeit money. ”