Endgame (The Red Gambit Series Book 7)

by Colin Gee

  “They’ve cleaned house… or it’s a power struggle that has ended badly for Gehlen.”

  “Or not, Sir… the second report may shed some light on matters… but I now understand that it raises more questions… worrying questions.”

  Nazarbayeva opened the file and took in every word of the Abwehr internal memorandum.

  ‘Jochen Strauch assigned as bodyguard… reports meeting between Gehlen and De Walle… overheard the name ‘Diels’… and De Walle promise to investigate matters in Germany…’

  She placed the paperwork carefully on the desk and drained the refilled glass.

  “That’s it. They are tied together. It’s not a house cleaning operation… Gehlen and Walle suspected something was going on in Germany… and they were silenced because of it.”

  Orlov tilted his glass in acknowledgement of her words and drained it in one.

  “The German bastards are up to something!”

  In minutes, Orlov and Rufin were on their way through the headquarters, redirecting staff from one set of files to another, trying to focus on what was happening in Germany that was so secret and important that two senior intelligence officers had been murdered to protect it.

  Nazarbayeva completed her notes and sought an urgent connection to Moscow.

  The connection was denied to her, although the clerk informed her that the General Secretary would call her back as soon as possible.

  Taking what she could get, Nazarbayeva made another connection.

  It was swiftly done.

  “Comrade Leytenant General Kaganovich, Nazarbayeva here… yes well, thank you… but I need to quickly inform you of something. I think it’s vital that the General Secretary knows as quickly as possible.”

  At the other end of the line, the deputy head of the NKVD made his own notes, pausing occasionally to ask a question, or confirm a point.

  “Thank you, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”

  The connection was broken.

  ‘Blyad!’

  1312 hrs, Sunday, 26th January 1947, the Black Sea, 82 kilometres southwest of Sochi, USSR.

  The Neva had once known as the ‘SS-Essequibo’, a ship on which thousands of Spanish had fled their homeland in search of sanctuary in the communist heartland.

  The rocket arrived unseen, its speed defeating the eye.

  Its arrival meant destruction for the old ship, which simply disintegrated as the missile struck her amidships.

  The submarine missile system was now fully operational.

  Man is the only animal that deals in that atrocity of atrocities; War. He’s the only one that gathers his brethren about him and goes forth in cold blood and calm pulse to exterminate his kind. He’s the only animal that, for sordid wages, will march out and help to slaughter strangers of his own species who have done him no harm, and with whom he has no quarrel. And in the intervals between campaigns he washes the blood off his hands and works for ‘the universal brotherhood of man’… with his mouth.

  Mark Twain

  CHAPTER 186 - THE DRUMS

  February 1947

  Whilst the temperatures remained appallingly low, the forecasters reassured worried political and military minds that the winter would not be a repeat of the previous disastrous year.

  Some projected that a relative normality would return by mid-March; some said sooner, some later.

  Whilst the winter remained, agreements were reached on suspending the realignment of the front lines, again inspiring the Austrians to great protest as their capital remained in Soviet hands.

  The cold weather did not prevent the two factions in Czechoslovakia from killing each other, and the situation continued to cause concern to both sides of the European No Man’s Land, despite the slow but steady progress around the negotiating table in Camp Vár.

  There were flare-ups in Ukraine and in the Baltic States, and even a clash between the pugnacious Australians and Soviet forces on the southern border, one that resulted in six Soviet dead and a standoff that lasted for nearly forty-eight hours.

  That the standoff clearly took place in Allied territory was denied by the Soviets, even after a member of the Swedish military delegation visited the area and confirmed that the Red Army unit was over five hundred metres inside the Allied zone.

  The most serious losses were sustained by the US Navy in the Northern Pacific, although not as a result of any Soviet interference.

  USS Lake Champlain CV-39, an Essex class aircraft carrier, fell victim to a series of happenings that eventually required she be torpedoed by her escorts.

  A returning Grumman Bearcat started events rolling by crashing onto the deck and cartwheeling into the tower.

  The fire spread quickly, aided by the fuel load of the aircraft that had only just taken off and aborted its mission due to engine issues.

  Secondary explosions apparently hindered the damage control teams, and subsequently negated much of their efforts when some of the fire-fighting mains were lost.

  Internal explosions continued to ravage the carrier, preventing any close-in efforts to assist in firefighting from the supporting vessels.

  An attempt by the light cruiser USS Tucson CL-98 to get water onto the burning Champlain ended when seventeen of her firefighting team were killed as the carrier side opened up in a huge explosion.

  Tucson laid off to recover and the decision was made to abandon ship.

  Six hundred and seven departed souls remained on board the stricken vessel as torpedoes from USS Rupertus DD-851 opened the hull to the ocean, and Lake Champlain slipped beneath the surface.

  1651 hrs, Saturday, 1st February 1947, Dankerode, Germany.

  The 11th Panzer Division performance was more than Guderian could have hoped for, given the events just over a week before hand.

  None of the new turbine Panthers broke down, thanks to field modifications by the divisional werkstatt units, modifications which were even now being factory fitted and rolled out through other similarly equipped units.

  II Deutsches Mechanisierte Korps [Legion] was the main unit on display, having the assault role, but the 11th had been assigned a wide sweeping advance, which Guderian observed from the BV-141 reconnaissance aircraft lazily flying over the mock battlefield.

  The Poles performed magnificently but were outmanoeuvred, initially by a superbly unexpected oblique shift in the legion line of advance that cut between two of the Polish prime defensive units as they tried to relocate.

  Secondly, the cooperation between the grenadiers and panzer elements was absolutely top notch, and Guderian could only watch in unfeigned horror as the Poles suddenly found themselves being rolled up from the middle out.

  The final nail in the coffin was the speedy and accurate move by the 11th, who arrived in the rear of the Polish defences as they were attempting to reform for a third time.

  Guderian had absolutely no doubt that the defending Polish formations would have been utterly destroyed has the exercise been the real thing.

  He decided to be extremely gentle with the Polish contingent, whose sole error of note had been to not coordinate the withdrawal of two units.

  Umpires on the field had decided that the day belonged to the German Republic, but that the victory would still have been bloodily achieved.

  After debriefing and congratulating the senior officers involved, including a buoyant Bittrich, Guderian returned to his temporary headquarters and made a phone call.

  “Good evening, Feldmarschal.”

  “And to you, Herr Kanzler.”

  “Do you have good news for me this evening?”

  “Yes indeed, Herr Kanzler. I have managed to locate a copy signed by Remarque himself. I thought you’d want to know, in case you were still looking.”

  Speer could not conceal his glee and tried hard to remember the precise words he should use.

  “That’s marvellous. Danke, danke, danke, Feldmarschal. When do you think I could have it by?”

  “Well, it’s not yet in my possession, Herr Kan
zler, but I should think I’ll be able to get my hands on it and pass it to you by Monday week… the tenth I think.”

  “So soon! Excellent. That’s really excellent news. Thank you. I bid you good night, Feldmarschal.”

  “And to you, Herr Kanzler.”

  Speer replaced the handset with studied care, his smile broad and unforced.

  “So… you’ll gather that was Guderian.”

  “I did, Herr Kanzler. Good news I assume?”

  “Absolutely, Rudolf. The teething problems with the new engines have definitely been sorted and the final units are now combat-ready. He states that our forces will be able to respond to our requirements by 10th February.”

  Diels have suspected it to be so, but the confirmation drove him to shout.

  “Great news!”

  “Yes. Now we must look to ensuring our planning is perfect, and that we gather as much useful information as possible.”

  “Of course, Herr Kanzler, of course.”

  Speer allowed himself a moment of pause to calm his inner thoughts, during which he poured two cognacs for himself and Diels.

  “And our Allies still suspect nothing?”

  Diels raised his glass.

  “What is there to suspect, Herr Kanzler? Our forces are just ensuring they’re operationally ready and prepared for any eventuality. We’re simply being the efficient and organised military that our Allies know us to be. To our forces.”

  Speer considered the toast and decided to up the ante.

  “No, I think we’ll drink to something greater. To our resurgent fatherland… to Deutschland!”

  “Deutschland!”

  1801 hrs, Monday, 3rd February 1947, Office of the Deputy Commander of Armoured Forces Training, Moscow Military District. Moscow, USSR.

  “Please sit, old friend.”

  Yarishlov ushered Ramsey towards a seat by the roaring fire and moved towards the sideboard, where he poured two good measures of Dalwhinnie single malt, a case of which had been appropriated and passed on by the very man who was about to consume some.

  “Na Zdorovie!”

  They sampled the delights of the superb whisky in a silence broken only by the crack and spit of logs on the fire.

  Yarishlov spoke first.

  “So, your time here has been coming to a end, John.”

  “Yes. We’re scaling down now that the main work is done. I must say I won’t miss the bloody weather here.”

  “Me too.”

  “Oh? So you have some news eh?”

  “Yes, I have. I have been transferred… somewhere being warmer in summer.”

  “Is this good or bad, Arkady?”

  “Good for sure. I hating all this politics shit. I’ve new job training qualified tankers in battle practices. No more ‘this is how you being in a tank, this is how you firing the gun’… perfect for me, John.”

  “Dare I ask where?”

  “It’s not secret facility but you will be understand if I, with regret, say nothing, except perhaps that it is near the Volga.”

  “I regret my knowledge of your country lets me down at this point. The Volga’s quite long, but I’m assuming down south if it’s warmer?”

  “Another?”

  Ramsey held up his glass for a freshener.

  “Yes, down south. No more or I’ll have the NKVD arrest you for a spy. Let us be happy but I will get to be proper soldier again.”

  The glass returned and they clinked them together.

  “To your new post, Arkady. I hope it’ll bring you joy.”

  “To your return home to your wife and family, John.”

  They drained the scotch easily.

  “Now, we must leave for the goodbye reception. We’ll talk more in my car.”

  The two friends had long since agreed that their conversations would not be the subject of reports to superiors, as were the official expectations for all such encounters between the different military groups.

  That both actually did was suspected, and both men understood that the other was a patriot first, a friend second.

  In the car, Yarishlov explained that he expected that the new assignment to the tank training unit would be a backwater, and that his career would stagnate, but he balanced that against the joy of being with proper soldiers again, as well as being able to pass on the lessons learned in more desperate times.

  His wounds meant he would never lead men again in the field, so the new post was a golden opportunity, despite the modest nature of the facility.

  That was something that Ramsey could wholly understand.

  Although both his new jobs offered stimulation, there was nothing like the challenge of commanding men in the field.

  The reception was a jolly affair, its highlight being Horrocks’ rendition of Stanley Holloway’s ‘Battle of Hastings’ monologue in Russian, complete with a more than reasonable attempt at Holloway’s accent and style, which both confused and amused his audience.

  Their hosts completed the evening with a drunken ‘Kalinka’ that extended well beyond the normal time and reduced in volume as more and more performers fell by the way side, succumbing to the excesses of the evening.

  At 0800 the following morning, the new delegation took its place at the table, and the old group were in the air, nursing headaches and pleasant memories.

  With the exception of Ramsey, who could think only of his friend.

  Partly emotionally, as a man who has bonded with a fellow warrior and is then parted can be; parted probably forever, by circumstances beyond their control.

  Partly professionally, as a man who sensed rather than knew that something was not as it seemed, and that a Major-General of Tanks with Yarishlov’s pedigree simply did not get side-lined in such a fashion, and that his friend had to be destined for something more important than command of a training camp.

  He would have been surprised to learn that he was wrong on all counts, although the fortunes of war would later conspire to make him right in the most extreme and bloody way.

  1329 hrs, Wednesday, 5th February 1947, Raudonė, Lithuania.

  ‘The Shield of St. Michael’ had relocated after the births of four healthy baby girls.

  Karen Greim had borne her daughter first, almost nine months to the day that she was incarcerated.

  Next had been one of the Shield’s fighters, who brought twin girls into an uncertain world.

  The move had been delayed even as the group had prepared to move off, as Renata Luistikaite completed the cycle with another girl.

  Now, the newborns were crèched with some of the older women and, Renata aside, their mothers were back in the fighting line.

  ‘The Shield’ had returned to a previous haunt, one from their time opposing the Soviet advance into their country in 1944, a spot that had remained undiscovered and offered them the advantages of fresh water and dense cover, combined with existing structures that needed little attention to make them warm and habitable.

  The dense forest surrounding Raudonė, Route 141, and the Neman River offered them sanctuary, peace, and a chance to warm their bones.

  Pyragius had returned to full health and Mikenas had resumed her position as his second.

  Their conversation with Bottomley, through Cookson, was rudely interrupted by the appearance of Audra Karelis.

  Beckoning Pyragius to one side, she softly passed on her information, accompanying it with gestures to add weight to her words.

  The leader simply nodded and returned to the main discussion.

  “We may have an opportunity. One of our scouts spotted some communists working on the riverbank at Pupkaimis. It would appear they are renewing a small jetty and creating moorings.”

  Cookson finished translating.

  “Boats?”

  Pyragius grinned, understanding that the Englishman had grasped the situation.

  “Barges.”

  He fingered the map, indicating a place on the river that was not too far from where they presently stood.


  “Two kilometres… no more, Sah.”

  “Ask our friend why the Russians would use barges.”

  Janina Mikenas answered the question.

  Cookson smiled his way through the translation.

  “A little less noticeable possibly? Easier to shift larger and heavier loads, plus, as she says, it’s more difficult for the Shield to mine a river.”

  Bottomley smiled at the woman.

  “So, the scouts think they’re planning to sit into the bank at Pupkaimis.”

  Antanas Pyragius nodded, which reply Bottomley understood perfectly.

  He also understood that Pyragius was a cautious man, and the fact that he had just moved his group to the area for recuperation and rest would probably mean that the Russian river convoy would probably go on its way unmolested.

  The balance of that was the need for food and medical supplies, both of which had been reduced over recent weeks.

  It took little time to decide that the convoy offered an opportunity that could not be ignored, but that caution dictated that they would steal their needs, rather than attack and destroy it.

  Pyragius stressed his decision meant that no risks would be taken that could reveal their presence nearby, and any hint of confrontation then the raiding group would simply melt into the snowy night as if they were never there.

  The plan would have to be constructed at the moorings, but the principles were established.

  Previous convoys had consisted of barges towed by a lead boat, with another tethered to the rearmost barge to enable control.

  When moored, they tended to be separated and tied up individually, which would assist in their chosen target ‘accidentally’ floating off downstream.

  They would not be greedy and there were orders to make sure that, before sinking the barge, sufficient supplies were left to create the illusion that it was an accident and nothing was missing.