Endgame (The Red Gambit Series Book 7)

by Colin Gee

  The trolley came to a halt and the deck clamps were put in place.

  ‘116 seconds.’

  To overcome the increased weight when raising to vertical, the engineers had developed a simple but effective multi-support that extended in the correct ratios, maintaining fourteen separate support points with the missile during the operation to bring the V-2 to the vertical.

  This was electrically driven and offered a smooth ride all the way.

  The huge rocket achieved its final position swiftly, and the deck crew reduced in number, the final group off deck removing the rails to permit the hangar door to be closed.

  “Firing sequence, standby.”

  ‘118 seconds.’

  Kalinin nodded his pleasure at the time, their best estimate having placed the total time needed at four minutes minimum over the steady environment of the sub’s base.

  The final ‘go’ signal came from the missile position itself, given by the senior deck officer once he was happy that the missile was erected properly and all was as it should be.

  The white flag meant Nobukiyo could give the order. He acknowledged the signal and the remaining missile crew dropped down hatches, leaving the erect missile as the deck’s sole occupant.

  “Firing sequence, commence on my order.”

  The two men exchanged satisfied looks before Nobukiyo leant forward and spoke the word that set history in motion.

  “Commence!”

  Kalinin first, followed by the lookouts, then the submarine’s commander, dropped down the conning tower, Nobukiyo having sealed the hatch as he descended.

  Kalinin was immediately glued to the intercom, where Jinyo’s calm voice relayed all he saw through the thick glass inspection hatch that had been installed in the hangar door.

  At sea, the vulnerable glass would be protected by watertight metal pressure covers both inside and out, but for missile launching the viewing port was exposed.

  Nobukiyo busied himself with obtaining radar reports, as the Sen-Toku was now on the surface with no eyes to watch over her, save those of the radar operator and the Red Air force that presently, albeit temporarily, owned the Black Sea’s sky.

  During the non-firing drills, Kalinin had come to understand a few words of Japanese, so he was able to follow the countdown.

  ‘Nana.’

  ‘Rok.’

  “Go.”

  “San.”

  “Ni.”

  “Ichi.”

  The submarine shook tangibly as the rocket engine started forcing the missile off the deck.

  The trim of the submarine altered in an instant, but the crew were ready, earning the diving officer a pat on the shoulder from his captain.

  Jinyo’s voice confirmed that the V-2 had left the deck successfully and Nobukiyo wasted no time in ordering his recovery operation commenced.

  The intention on the mission was to dump the raising frame into the sea, but it had been decided to recover it, repair it, and re-use it, given the complexity of its construction.

  Therefore, Nobukiyo didn’t worry about the additional time taken to clear the deck, other than the normal concerns of a submariner on the surface.

  The frame and plates were recovered once seawater had been applied liberally, the red-hot protective plates having taken the full blast from the V-2’s rocket motor.

  Even then they remained hot to the touch, and the plate handlers welcomed the heat-resistant gloves they had been issued with.

  Including recovering the missile-raising frame, the whole operation took two minutes twenty-three seconds over the best practice time, an overrun that was less acceptable than that experienced during the raising operation.

  None the less, I-401 disappeared beneath the waves less than seven minutes after firing the first missile ever fired from a submarine at sea.

  It was an achievement that the IJN and Soviet Navy did not intend to publicise.

  The V-2 rose from the sea surface, leaving a smoke plume in its wake.

  A Soviet hospital ship, the Lvov, a vessel of the Black Sea Fleet and currently employed outside its intended purpose, used a modified version of the German’s Leitstrahl Beam guidance system to bring the V-2 onto its target, the Neva, an ex-Spanish refugee ship that was another anonymous vessel, although this time one well past its prime and considered expendable.

  The swell made things difficult and it was no surprise that the rocket came down some distance from the target.

  The missile, filled with an equal weight of concrete instead of its normal payload of explosives, arrowed into the sea at such speed that it was invisible.

  It smashed into the water at just under one thousand eight hundred miles an hour.

  A Beriev Be-4 reconnaissance aircraft observing the target area reported that the V-2 splash was observed two and a half kilometres from the expendable old ship, a huge distance when aiming at such a target…

  …but within acceptable bounds when aiming at a city.

  Those wars are unjust that are undertaken without provocation. For only a war waged for revenge or defence can be just.

  Marcus Tullius Cicero

  Chapter 184 - THE PROVOCATION

  1357 hrs, Thursday, 9th January 1947, Justizzentrum, temporary government building #3, Magdeburg, Germany.

  “Thank you, Zimmerman. Coffee in my office please, and see that we’re not disturbed.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The old man wandered off with the remains of the dessert course and ordered up the coffee immediately, which he quickly delivered to the private office of his boss.

  The two men were suddenly alone.

  “So, your report is excellent news. Our problems have been removed.”

  “Yes indeed, and although it didn’t all go to plan, the team on the ground in Poland adapted and achieved the goal… and more to the point did it without arousing suspicion.”

  The senior man flicked to the page in the report that had caught his eye.

  “The tattoo… a master-stroke I must say.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Seems to have thrown the investigation down a one-track road to a dead-end. You were unfortunate not to get the prime target with the bomb, but I agree that your team adapted well in getting to him quickly.”

  He flipped the folder shut and pushed across the desk.

  “So, that’s an end to the matter, yes?”

  The junior man shifted uncomfortably as he replied.

  “Sir, you know I can’t promise that but, as far as we’re concerned, they were the only two who had started to put together the situation. They’re both removed, and there’s no suggestion that anyone else knows. However, we’ll remain vigilant.”

  “I would hope so, Vögel”

  They sipped their coffee in silence.

  “So, I can report to higher authority that the problem has been efficiently removed and there is no threat to our plans?”

  “Within the limitations I’ve stated, yes, Sir.”

  “Excellent.”

  The senior man pushed the file across the table and Vögel swept it up as if it was contraband.

  “This will now be destroyed, Sir. I’ll see to it personally.”

  “No trace?”

  “None at all, Sir.”

  “Excellent. Well done. Now, I’ve a call to place.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  The call was connected and Pflug-Hartnung passed on news of the success, selecting his words to represent the completion of some low-level intelligence mission in Norway, whereas he was in fact reporting the successful assassination of both Gehlen and De Walle.

  Rudolf Diels replaced the receiver with unconcealed joy and made his report.

  “Pflug-Hartnung has done well. Good news, Diels, well done. Now we can progress without having to look over our shoulders all the time.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Kanzler.”

  Oberfeldwebel Martens checked again.

  He checked again.

  He checked a
final time and picked up the telephone.

  ‘Trauenfeld.’

  “Herr Hauptmann, Martens here. There’s a problem with the latest repositioning maps.”

  ‘What sort of problem, Oberfeldwebel.’

  “There’s some border lines that simply don’t work, Sir. I think it’s an issue that could lead to some problems. Can I come up, Sir?”

  ‘I’m with the Maior right now… moment…’

  Clearly Hauptmann Trauenfeld had put his hand over the receiver to speak to his commanding officer.

  The conversation was brief and Trauenfeld was back in seconds.

  ‘Come up now, Oberfeldwebel. The Maior would like to see what you have.’

  The phone clicked before Martens could reply.

  Picking up the two maps and his notes, he moved quickly up the stairs to the second floor office.

  1234 hrs, Saturday, 11th January 1947, over the demarcation line, Maków Mazowiecki, Poland.

  “Yaguar-krasny-odin. I see them. Maintain formation. Let them pass with no interference. Stay with our big cousin. Out.”

  Djorov settled his hands on the control stick, relaxing his grip, as he kept an eye on the approaching enemy aircraft.

  His flight of five MiG-9s had already taken station above and behind the single reconnaissance aircraft that was their charge for this mission.

  It was an unusual beast, one of the first Soviet copies of the incomplete Junkers-287 jet bombers captured in April 1945.

  The strange sweep of the wings never failed to impress the veteran ace despite the EF-131s, as they were designated or Trident as the crews called them, having trained at the special Stakhnovo airbase.

  Colonel Djorov could have sent someone else on the mission, but he had been back at his squadron for four weeks, and the stiffness of a desk needed to be flown out of his legs.

  The approaching enemy were clearly moving at high speed as they started to quickly loom large.

  Six enemy aircraft whooshed past, engines roaring, two over the top of the fighter group and four through the gap between the Trident and its protective force, perilously close to the single reconnaissance aircraft.

  Their jet wakes created difficulties for the Trident’s pilot and he struggled to keep his charge stable in the roiled air.

  “Yaguar-krasny-odin to flight, close on our cousin. We’ll tolerate no repeats of that. Out.”

  The five Soviet jets dropped some height, something that fighter pilots the world over rarely conceded during combat, but in these circumstances, Djorov considered the Trident would appreciate the closer company.

  He was correct, and the three crew on board the Trident breathed easier as the MiGs came closer, leaving no gap through which the DRL fighters could pass.

  The six ME-262s swept round in a tight circle and drove hard across the front of the Soviet formation, cutting aggressively close to the nose of the four-engine bomber.

  “Yaguar-Krasny-Odin to Karusel’, over.”

  “Go ahead, Yaguar-krasny-odin.”

  Djorov sought a positional check from the ground control radar station in their sector, which was satisfactorily within shared airspace.

  Which then meant that the DRL aircraft were also within the shared zone, and perfectly within their rights to demonstrate against aircraft seemingly heading to cross the line from an acceptable presence into an unacceptable intrusion.

  Which was, in essence, part of the mission.

  To poke but not provoke.

  What happened next nearly brought the sides to blows once more, as each blamed the other for the air battle over Maków Mazowiecki.

  ‘191’

  Johannes Steinhoff totted up a kill for the first time since ‘peace’ had descended on Europe, his 30mm Mk 108 cannon flaying one of the Soviet MiGs into strips of scrap.

  Behind him, five more 262s of the 200th ZBV Jagdgeschwader set about the now maneuvering Soviet fighter group.

  Three MiGs were down in under a minute, the aircraft well matched for speed, but with surprise on their side, the DRL aces had little trouble in putting shells on target.

  His pilots broke into two groups, one of four, and a pair that he ordered to take down the strange forward swept winged aircraft, after having taken pictures for his intelligence officer back at base.

  He led the four plane element after the surviving MiGs, who were desperately trying to get back to cover their charge.

  Steinhoff tried a short burst, for no other reason that reminding the enemy pilot he was there and distracting him from the purpose of protection.

  The ruse worked, and the MiG broke right, away from his preferred route, leaving only one Soviet fighter committed to protecting the eccentric aircraft.

  Steinhoff turned back onto course, followed by his wingman, just in time to see one of his aircraft smoke and fall away from its position behind the Trident.

  The swept wing bomber had a modest defensive armament of two 12,7mm machine-guns, but they were enough to wreck the starboard engine of Oberleutnant Schmidt’s Schwalbe.

  The 262 slowed and fell to one side, allowing the Soviet gunner another opportunity.

  More bullets struck home, in both metal and flesh, and the fighter dropped away with an unconscious man at the controls, both coming to a final resting place in the ice-cold water of Lake Narew.

  The other 262 pilot made sure his camera with its evidence was safely secured before gaining on the manoeuvring Trident and steadily feeding a stream of 30mm shells into the delicate airframe.

  The aircraft simply came apart under the hammer blows, permitting time for one man to escape and take to a parachute.

  Screamed warnings alerted the victor to his danger and the ace threw his 262 around the sky in some impressive combat manoeuvrings.

  However, on his tail was an expert who had survived the harshest of tests, and the surviving Soviet fighter fired a burst that simply smashed apart the wing at the base, allowing the damaged structure to fold over the canopy and entangle itself with the engine on the other wing.

  The strange sight, almost like a piece of origami, fell from the sky in an ungainly fashion.

  Djorov spared a seconds look at his victim, whereas the German pilots who left their radios on receive heard him scream all the way to the ground, fully conscious and unwounded but simply unable to escape from his cockpit, enclosed as it was in bent metal.

  Steinhoff cursed his thoughts of relief when the aircraft struck the ground and the pathetic screams stopped.

  The MiG was diving and building up an incredible speed, causing Steinhoff to weigh up the pros and cons of pursuit.

  He decided to return to base and officially report the encounter to NATO headquarters, and unofficially inform the strange intelligence officer that his clandestine mission had been successfully accomplished.

  By 1330 hrs, because the combat had clearly taken place over Allied territory, the entire German Army was given an order to go on full alert.

  The Polish forces received a similar order twelve minutes later.

  Eisenhower begrudgingly gave the same order at 1421 hrs and Europe moved closer to a renewed war.

  The initial reports from Karusel control were reinforced by the swift verbal report of regimental commander Djorov, and the fact that the Allied aggression had clearly taken place over Soviet territory was considered sufficient cause to bring the Red Army to a state of full readiness from the Baltic to the Adriatic.

  By 1430 hrs on 11th January 1947, the world stood on the brink of war once more.

  1501 hrs, Saturday, 11th January 1947, Camp Vár conference facility, Lungsnäs, Sweden.

  “Gentlemen please!”

  The shout was loud enough to cut over and through the angry conversation that had grown to the level of a football crowd’s baying.

  “Gentlemen, please… seat yourselves and let us resolve this matter with no more blood spilt and your countries still at peace. Please… be seated.”

  Östen Undén, on the site by the p
urest of chance, calmed the assembled politicos and soldiery enough to promote discussion.

  “Now, whilst you have been shouting threats at each other, my staff have spotted the problem and it’s not the fault of your air forces. I repeat, no one in the sky over Maków Mazowiecki is at fault. It’s an error in our own processes here that has triggered this unfortunate event.”

  He nodded to his aide who had quickly prepared the basic information to tell the assembled negotiators how a simple cartography error had brought the two sides into conflict once more.

  The short of it was a simple misdrawing of the line on the Soviet version, something that had been missed by the Swedish cartographers as well as both sides, who possessed a copy of each version.

  Given that the ‘two frontline’ process was intended to keep ground forces apart, two versions were needed each time the Soviets conceded ground and the Allies moved forward, thus ensuring the armies did not come into contact and reducing the chance of any unfortunate incidents.

  The ground lines had been accurately drawn, but the overlapping air limits, overlain to permit peaceful monitoring of the territory five miles either side of the front line, had been slightly misdrawn around Maków Mazowiecki, which meant that both sides were correct in believing that the combat took place in air space either belonging to them or permitted for their use, and that the other side were the aggressors… depending which map you read.

  Despite the Swedish assurances, the two sides took a further two hours to agree the facts were as Undén’s aide had presented, and that they would immediately advise a cooling off and scaled reduction in readiness over the next three days, suspending all relocations and stipulating no flights beyond land forces boundaries until all air boundaries had been double-checked by both sides.

  A session that had started with hands on holsters eventually broke up at 1900 prompt, allowing the two sides to experience a calm dinner and evening in their various camps.