Endgame (The Red Gambit Series Book 7)

by Colin Gee

  Security firmly in place, those in the dacha turned from food to talk of revolution.

  Nazarbayeva listened and absorbed everything, not as before, to relay to those in authority, but now to understand, all the better to seek a suitable revenge for her and her family, and to rid the Rodina of the vermin who drove her towards destruction.

  When talk turned to the moment when power would be wrung from Stalin’s grasp, attention seemed to focus on her.

  “Comrades, just come out with it. I’m fully committed to this process. Tell me what you want me to do.”

  They told her, at least the barebones of how they imagined her part playing out.

  Silence descended and they held their collective breath.

  Nazarbayeva smiled.

  “For my sons… for the Motherland… I’ll do it.”

  Hearts skipped a beat and then the hugs started as the final piece in their puzzle fell into place.

  In the face of huge pressure by the conspirators, Nazarbayeva allowed herself a small sip of wine to seal the agreement.

  “Comrades, if I may ask please?”

  Khrushchev, clearly the main man in the organisation, gestured for the others to quieten down.

  “When will we act, Comrades?”

  The Governor of the Ukraine rubbed his chin in thought.

  “That has yet to be decided, Comrade, but perhaps we should look to it now?”

  He turned around.

  “When can we be ready?”

  Zhukov was the key to the timetable and confidently gave his opinion.

  “Within the week. I say we utilise our pre-planning and go for it next Saturday, at the earliest.”

  “Pre-planning, Comrade Marshal?”

  Khrushchev spoke up, annoyingly for the army officer, dealing with Nazarbayeva’s question.

  “We make sure that we have ‘meetings’ organised, open, innocent meetings that ensure we are where we need to be at certain key times so that we can act if the circumstances are right.”

  Zhukov interrupted.

  “I have rethought this… in two Saturdays we have a full convergence at three o’clock, do we not?”

  Kaganovich looked around the room, taking in the shrugs and nods from those assembled.

  “Then we are agreed, Comrades? Three o’clock in the afternoon of April 14th, we end this abomination and protect the Motherland.”

  “Yes!”

  So now they all knew the timescale, and how long they had until victory or death at the hands of NKVD butchers.

  Kaganovich, Zhukov, and Khrushchev exchanged more furtive looks, for they knew something else as well.

  Lo, there do I see my Father…

  Lo, there do I see my Mother…

  And my Sisters, and my Brothers…

  Lo, there do I see the line

  Of my people back to the beginning…

  They do bid me to take my place among them

  In the Halls of Valhalla,

  Where the Brave…

  may live…

  forever.

  The 13th Warrior.

  Brothers will fight and kill each other,

  Sisters' children will defile kinship.

  It is harsh in the world,

  Whoredom rife,

  An axe age, a sword age

  Shields are riven,

  A wind age, a wolf age

  Before the world goes headlong.

  No man will have mercy on another.

  Vǫluspǫ́, The Poetic Edda.

  CHAPTER 198 - RAGNARØKKR

  1124 hrs, Sunday, 30th March 1947, NATO Headquarters, Leipzig, Germany.

  “Any more questions, Gentlemen?”

  The final presentation had taken Patton less than fifteen minutes.

  The questions from his senior men, and those seconded from Norway and Persia, had taken just over an hour.

  “Good. We hit them, and we hit them goddamned hard… and we don’t stop hitting them until they raise their hands… and then only maybe.”

  George Patton chuckled at his own humour, in concert with most of the officers present.

  “The bombs’ll be dropped… I can’t tell you where and why… but they will be dropped… but they may not be enough.”

  He turned to the huge map and put his hands on his hips like a dictator examining his empire, the markings of the immense coordinated attack loud and clear for all to see.

  “We’ll hit the bastards everywhere… no respite… no stopping… won’t know what’s hit ‘em.”

  Turning back round, Patton leant on the table.

  “We know we’ll lose men, but I want as much done now as we can. What we don’t do now will fall to the generations to come, cos communism is a resilient enemy.”

  There were mumbles of agreement from pretty much every mouth.

  “When they give up, I want our front line as close to Moscow as it can be… because we, you and I, won’t have another chance like this… and if, sometime in the future, we and the Commies come to blows once more, we won’t have the advantages that we have now.”

  He came erect and set his jaw.

  “So, when we attack… in Norway… in Iran… in Siberia…and in Europe… give the bastards hell and don’t let up… keep attacking… push them back… and back… and back… otherwise it’ll be your grandkids that gotta pay the price of our failure.”

  The Allies intended to end the war, one way or another….

  …commencing at 0500 hrs on the morning of Tuesday, 1st April 1947.

  2351 hrs, Sunday, 30th March 1947, headquarters of 1st GMRD, Polanów, Poland.

  The commanders remained ramrod straight as Colonel General of Armoured Troops Pavel Rybalko delivered the final orders personally.

  Rybalko was a brilliant armoured warfare specialist and his reputation ensured that 3rd Guards Tank Army got the very best men and equipment available.

  That best was well represented by the units dedicated to the task of destroying the hated SS legionnaires, a grouping of quality formations temporarily known as Special Combat Group Rybalko.

  Its contents were the very finest that Mother Russia could now field.

  His own soldiers were from 91st Tank Battalion, soon to be awarded Guards status, and tankers and infantrymen from the 6th Guards Tank Corps, whose trail of honour ran through most important and bloody battles that the Red Army had fought since Kursk.

  Fig # 238 - Soviet forces, Koprzywianka River, Poland.

  His other units were elite in name and in reputation.

  Deniken and his superbly equipped 1st Guards Mechanised Rifle Division.

  Chekov and the experienced and steadfast men and women of the 1st Guards Mechanised Assault Engineer Brigade.

  Artem’yev and his veteran soldiers of the 116th Guards Rifle Division.

  The Hungarian Major Sárközi, whose appearance amongst the elite group had been the subject of unspoken contempt until his soldiers had demonstrated what they could do with their deadly weapons of war.

  The youngest and perhaps least experienced of them all, Major Stelmakh, commander of the newly reformed and re-equipped 6th Guards Independent Breakthrough Tank Regiment, not yet a full-size formation but still packing a terrible punch for its size.

  The leadership of his units sported more decorations than an assembly of Soviet Marshals and politicians, and, Rybalko thought with no little smugness, his commanders wore honours earned upon the field of battle, not at some party seminar.

  Only the Hungarian Sárközi lacked the Hero Award, but he wore his country’s own highest award, the Gold Medal for Bravery.

  ‘If courage alone were enough, these men would take me to the beaches of France by themselves!’

  He spoke with renewed pride.

  “Comrades, the eyes of the Rodina are upon us… upon you! In the years to come, when victories are spoken of in every corner of our lands, it will be this battle… this battle… that is spoken of with greatest reverence. You’re all old soldiers here… you
need no words to drive you on to victory. Just look after yourselves, use the lives of your soldiers wisely, and victory will be ours!”

  “Urrah!”

  The operation would commence with Artem’yev’s attack at 0200 hrs on Tuesday morning.

  2351 hrs, Sunday, 30th March 1947, headquarters, Legion Corps D’Assaut, Grzybów, Poland.

  “Then that’s all we need, gentlemen.”

  Knocke and Lavalle relaxed noticeably, the final results of aerial reconnaissance factored into their planning.

  The Guards Motorised unit was a problem, but it seemed small in size and not located on the planned route of advance.

  Those strange vehicles with the small cylinders on were likely flamethrowers, and would need watching, but were not considered a big problem because of their low numbers.

  However, the new enemy heavy tanks, although relatively few in number, required careful thought, some movement of resources, and additional taskings for their air cover.

  Their presence had previously been unsuspected and they would prove to be a problem unless the air support could neutralize them early in the battle.

  The task given to the Corps D’Assaut had been great, but if the Gods of War played things fair and square then they would achieve their aims and broach the Vistula defences by securing two major crossing points at Tarnobrzeg and Sandomierz, the latter of which still had an operating and decently-sized bridge, contrary to the original intelligence estimate.

  Camerone would take the lead, with Alma relegated to support and flank duties, with the 1er Infanterie tasked to make a diversionary attack south of the main assault, and slightly earlier, in order to try and lure any response forces away from the Vistula opposite Camerone, and other units moving along the Vistula keeping pace with Uhlmann’s lead group.

  Once Sandomierz had fallen then Alma would concentrate upon Tarnobrzeg, with the Legion corps’ reserve troops in support.

  Undoubtedly Lavalle had relied heavily on his senior commanders, from the tried and trusted tankers such as Uhlmann to the mud pounding infantrymen like St.Clair.

  He felt confident that the Corps would do its job, but less confident about the cost.

  “Gentlemen, our work is done. I’ll inform you of any late changes as soon as I can, but failing a second ice age or biblical visitation, we go at 0500 on the 1st. Any further questions?”

  There were none.

  “Good luck to you all. I’ve every confidence in you. Dismissed.”

  Lavalle watched as they filed out, the combination of French/American uniform and German Knight’s Cross and other decorations still difficult to fully grasp, no matter how many times he met his senior commanders.

  By prior arrangement, Knocke and St.Clair remained behind.

  The three relaxed into seats next to the fire, deliberately away from the table that carried the paperwork of their hopes and fears.

  Speaking directly to the flames, Lavalle opened his heart.

  “We’ve all the information we need to make an effective plan… we‘ve made an effective plan… and yet…”

  Knocke snorted in amusement, albeit amusement tinged with the anticipation of battle and the horrors it inevitably held.

  “We’ve done the best we can with what we have, Christophe. Camerone can do the job and if we run into difficulties, then Celestin will come and help us out. The river crossing will be hard, but if the paratroopers do their job properly, Sandomierz will fall. It’s Tarnobrzeg that worries me more, but we’ve put plenty of Alma’s infantry nearby just in case we need to force passage with more weight.”

  He inclined his glass to the commander of Alma, who returned the gesture and sampled a sip of the superb Armagnac.

  “God knows but we have the men and the equipment to do the job,” Lavalle continued, “But I can’t help feeling that we’ve missed something.”

  Ernst-August Knocke drained the last of his glass and stood.

  “Well, we have planned for everything we know about, and anything we suspect. No sense in worrying about the unknown. It’ll either bite us in the collective arse tomorrow or amount to nothing at all. Either way, with your permission, General, I’ll return to my unit. I need to iron out a few small things and get some sleep before we attack.”

  The three shook hands without formal ceremony and went their separate ways.

  Had they but known it, they were about to lead their men into the gates of hell, and one of the three of them would remain forever in the blood-soaked soil of Southeastern Poland.

  0007 hrs, Monday 31st March 1947, Volga River jetty, Camp 1001, Uspenka, USSR.

  “Congratulate your men, Comrade Polkovnik. Very professional display. Clearly you’ve practised this task heavily to achieve such perfection.”

  Skryabin tried to appear modest as Colonel General Serov lavished praise upon the slick operation that had unfolded in front of his eyes.

  Major Durets remained silent, inside fuming that his efforts were being creamed off by his superior. Durets conducted all training for the guard force, from perimeter and rapid response, down to the present task of escort and transfer of inventory items to the Volga River flotilla’s camouflaged barges and boats.

  For Skryabin, the whole idea of training was a waste of his time, time which was better spent in a perfumed salon in Akhtubinsk in pursuit of pleasures of the flesh, or in the company of senior officers, where he could use his skills to display himself like the proud peacock he was.

  Stealing Durets’ kudos was natural to him, and he basked in the praise of the senior NKVD general.

  “Thirsty work, Comrade Polkovnik General. May I offer you a drink in my quarters?”

  “Thank you but no, Comrade Polkovnik. I intend to keep these two beauties close by at all times. I’ll leave with the minesweeper directly.”

  He turned to Durets who stiffened immediately.

  “Comrade Mayor Durets. I’ll make sure your part in this is well known. Excellent work.”

  He saluted and Durets understood, even in the reduced light in the bunker entrance, that the look on the general’s face spoke of his understanding… that Serov was no fool and knew just who had brought the NKVD guard detachment to peak performance.

  “Thank you, Comrade Polkovnik General. We all serve the Rodina as best we can.”

  Serov laughed and, away from Skryabin’s view, winked conspiratorially.

  “I wish it were so, Comrade Mayor.”

  He turned to Skryabin and received a tremendous salute.

  “I’ll also mention your part in my report, Comrade Polkovnik.”

  Skryabin was too pleased with himself to fully grasp the hidden meaning.

  Serov moved away quickly, followed by his small entourage.

  Within minutes, the small minesweeper pulled away with Serov and the scientists on board, leading the way for the barges carrying Obiekts 901 and 902… destination Stakhanovo.

  Three hours later, Kaganovich was woken from his sleep with the news that two of the Soviet Union’s atomic weapons were on their way to war.

  Events started to gather momentum, seemingly developing a life of their own, inexorably bringing together plans and intentions, hopes and fears, risks and actions, on both sides of the divide, all unknowingly started to focus on a point in time some days ahead.

  Saturday the 14th...

  Har Meghiddohn.

  0300 hrs, Tuesday. 1st April 1947, Bukowa, Poland.

  The rain was constant and extremely heavy which probably contributed to the successes of 116th Guards Infantry Division.

  “Alarm! Alarm!”

  The shout was taken up by many throats and weapons came to life instantly,

  Flares shot into the sky above the waiting vehicles of the Camerone’s assault force, highlighting both them and the swarm of Soviet infantry that were already nearly upon them.

  Commandant Durand, newly appointed commander of the 1er/1er RdM, was woken from his catnap by the combination of shouts and shots, and immediately
understood what was happening before his eyes.

  Alongside him the .50cal of the command halftrack burst into life as one of his men started hacking away at the human waves that threatened to wash over them.

  He snatched at the radio and got off a quick report, ignoring the sudden spurt of blood that lashed his face as a running legionnaire took a bullet in the head as he passed the vehicle.

  His radio message spread throughout Camerone and Alma, but not quick enough for some units, who found themselves moving from peace and quiet to close combat in the blink of an eye.

  Artem’yev’s men had achieved complete surprise.

  Lavalle listened to Knocke’s words, the telephone adequately conveying the strain that the sneak enemy attack had placed on both man and plan.

  “And what do you intend, Général Knocke?”

  He listened as he fumbled for a cigarette, understanding the words and trying to fix them to his mental map of the battleground.

  “Yes… yes… I agree… we may have an opportunity here… yes, liaise with him direct, with my authority… of course… no... I’ll inform our German Allies…Jurkowice you say?”

  Now he needed a map, although he was sure he understood.

  “Moment.”

  He moved round the large desk, inadvertently dragging the telephone box off the polished surface.

  It clattered to the floor and Lavalle feared he had lost the connection.

  Fig # 239 - Allied forces, KOPRZYWIANKA River, Poland.

  “Ernst?”

  He breathed a sigh of relief and turned the map the right way round.

  “Thank God. Yes… Włostów… no further…. I agree… I’ll ask them to have a response force positioned there as soon as possible… yes, Route 77… yes, of course, and any artillery support… I don’t know how the rain will affect that. I’ve yet to contact air… let’s hope not, Général.”