Opening Moves (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  The Moselle was returned in favour of a dusty Liebfraumilch.

  “Commandant, I experienced the pleasures of the Gestapo and their agents crawling around here for nearly five years during the occupation. I know the type intimately. The man with the infantry officer was Deuxieme Bureau.”

  The Liebfraumilch was returned and the Moselle reselected.

  “Maybe some General has a party planned then eh? In any case, I have to get moving. May I have this one monsieur?”

  The Major passed the bottle and its label drew the admiration of the proprietor.

  “An excellent choice Commandant. If you give me a moment.”

  Etienne Bossong turned around to the rear bench, where he wrapped the wine in embossed tissue paper and included his card.

  As his back was turned, the Major leant forward and scanned the signed purchase documents.

  The details went swiftly into his mind and his stance was apparently unchanged when the bottle was passed to him.

  “On my account Monsieur?”

  “It shall be so Commandant. Good night sir.”

  “Bon nuit, Monsieur Bossong.”

  Hiding his disappointment, the owner withdrew his ledger and entered a further sum on the growing account of Major S.Kowalski.

  Outside Stanislaw Kowalski mentally processed his day so far as he made a few swift notes in a small pocket book.

  Having taken leave, he had signed for a jeep and spent the day driving around Northern Alsace sightseeing, paying particular attention to large buildings like castles and Château’s. After eight hours of the Alsatian countyside, he decided that he had done enough for one day, and he had gone to get a bottle of fine wine, prior to taking his woman rowing on the River L’ill.

  Now, by the strangest coincidence, his evening plans would change. That which he sought all day appeared to have dropped into his lap by chance, although the following day Kœnigsbourg would have been his first enquiry. He smiled to himself and mused that if you wrote it in a story it wouldn’t be believable. Anyway, for whatever reason, Madame Fortune had smiled.

  Obviously, Irma now had to wait as he would take a drive over to Orschwiller and see if he could definitely confirm this ‘Biarritz’ at the nearby Château before passing the information on to his contact. Sergey Andreevich Kovelskin was the name he was given at birth and he was an Officer of the GRU, born and bred on the banks of the Volga.

  Little did we guess that what has been called the century of the common man would witness as its outstanding feature more common men killing each other with greater facilities than any other five centuries together in the history of the world.

  Sir Winston Spencer Churchill

  Chapter 28 – THE DATE

  1410 hrs Wednesday, 1st August 1945, The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.

  Despite his seniority, Pekunin had little doubt as to his fate if neither his nor Beria’s assets came up with the information on the French Symposium.

  Soon he would have to return to his GRU section within Zhukov’s Headquarters but, for now, he hung on in the hope that the information would come through.

  Having signed and sealed the paperwork to promote Nazarbayeva to Major, he was taking a constitutional early afternoon walk around the Kremlin complex when he saw the commotion caused by a running man. His immediate reaction was to brace himself and go out with dignity, until he realised the uniform was GRU and that the running figure was his Communications Starshiy Leytenant.

  He knew what information was in the man’s hand before the breathless report tumbled out.

  Now he could give Makarenko his three days and maybe, just maybe, grow old with his grandchildren.

  The entire GKO and the now fully involved STAVKA were assembled, and had spent a long afternoon and evening reviewing the military plans, hearing the refinements, the enforced changes and the myriad of problems that accompany mobilising two large military forces in as secret a way as possible. Marshall Zhukov was also present, Vasilevsky being absent because of the distances and time scale involved.

  Three new reports had just taken everyone’s attention, but were now resolved. The first information, namely the location of the French symposium, was welcomed but not everyone saw it as essential in the way that Stalin did. None the less, no one was foolish enough to question the General Secretary’s pet project.

  The second was a portfolio of photograph’s and a short movie reel depicting American and British armoured vehicles attacking Russian troops in Berlin, set against a backdrop of recognisable landmarks. To be used as part of the international justification if required, no one would be able to tell that the vehicles were in fact lend-lease and Soviet manned, or indeed that the photographs were already a week old.

  Thirdly, and of greater concern, was the shooting down of another British Mosquito reconnaissance aircraft over Soviet territory.

  The diplomatic channels would soon be buzzing and Molotov was already on his way to his office to prepare soothing and placatory messages, promising to investigate and punish the offenders. Of course, there would be an advisory to keep away from Soviet airspace included. The Mosquito had been deliberately shot down, as it was about to wander over a sensitive assembly area in Northern Germany. Whilst these areas were cunningly concealed there were no chances taken. The two-man crew would be returned to the British once the remains had been recovered.

  The meeting had been going for some five hours and there now seemed to be nothing of note left to discuss or decide upon.

  Except for one small matter.

  Stalin stood and tapped his pipe upon his table to call order, sending a few sparks across the paperwork and maps near his right hand.

  “Comrades, we have laboured long and hard to ensure that our plans are the best they can be, and to ensure success in this great venture.”

  The stem of his pipe swept the room in an expansive gesture.

  “We can all be proud of the service we have done for the party and Motherland.”

  He locked eyes with Zhukov.

  “So now we must decide whether we draw back from the path we have planned or if we proceed with all our might.”

  To the casual onlooker it could have seemed that Stalin was indeed undecided but no one there believed other than he was committed to the attack and was merely trying to detect weakness around him.

  “Zilant-4 preparation will take three days,” He held Makarenko to his word on that, “And nothing else we have discussed here today will take more than a few hours of staff work to resolve.”

  “Our timescale is on track. The secret forces for Diaspora and Kingdom39 are either in place or en route. Our new allies are also prepared and committed.”

  His voice started to grow in volume and power of delivery.

  “There will be no better time; no period when we are stronger and none where they are weaker.”

  He acknowledged Beria with an uncharacteristic hand on the shoulder.

  “Comrade Marshall Beria’s agents have removed the immediate threat of the American atomic research project.”

  Stalin moved slowly around the room as he spoke, making eye contact with each and every man in turn.

  “The capitalists are soft and war-weary. They do not have the stomach for further losses.” Behind him, Zhukov paled unnoticed.

  “They are burdened with refugees and prisoners. The German state is on its knees and will never be more easily destroyed for ever than it can be now.”

  Returning to his position at the head of the table, he turned and relit his pipe.

  “So I say we must not let this opportunity pass, or we will be judged poorly by history. We must not be judged to have been found wanting.”

  Puffing gently on his pipe, the General Secretary sat down and waited, observing the strange spectacle of a group of powerful men exchanging looks in total silence. His observations of their collective behaviour in those few seconds confirmed his views on who had and who did not have the stomach for what was to come.


  Beria, as was usual, was the next to speak.

  “The reasoning is as sound now as it was when we first started this enterprise.” His face turned to Stalin as he drew himself almost to a position of attention. “I, for one, will not be found wanting by history Comrades. I say go.”

  Bulganin was next.

  “Comrades, our planning is perfect, our maskirova excellent. Their weakness at its height. The Rodina would never forgive us if we held back now.”

  And then a steady procession of positive words until only Zhukov had not spoken.

  Stalin looked up at the proud Marshall, silently inviting him to speak.

  “Comrade General Secretary. Comrades. I am a military man and know little of politics. In those matters, I am guided by those who have the ability and expertise to judge. To my uneducated eye, the political considerations for this mission are proven.”

  He took the plunge.

  “As a soldier I have fought for the Motherland these last four years, and years before them too, years which have seen death and destruction on a scale none of us could ever have imagined.”

  “Our planning gives us the opportunity to fight on the soil of our enemies and not on our own sacred land, and so we will not see the deaths to our own people that were wrought by the Germanski invaders.”

  He took out a document.

  “As part of the necessity of military planning I have had to project losses amongst ours and allied forces, on a best, middle, and worst case scenario. It is right that I share these figures with you. You must have this information because you know best how we may replace these losses and remain combat effective.”

  This was very dangerous ground for Zhukov and everyone in the room knew it. More than one sideways glance was made at the impassive Stalin, whose sole response was to tug gently on his pipe and stare.

  “In our best case, casualties amongst military personnel would be between two and four hundred thousand up to June 1946, allowing for Pacification of occupied territories and without the Iberian option. That is solely within Europe. Their casualties should at all times mirror ours. I make no reference to any civilian casualties in the affected countries.”

  “Middle case indicates five hundred to eight hundred and fifty thousand, with plans being protracted beyond the expected completion dates, again without Iberia and including Pacification.”

  “Worst case scenario extends our completion dates further and will probably entail 1.2 million plus casualties.”

  Almost as an after-thought came a statement, which many thought would probably save his neck.

  “If our casualties are high, theirs will be similar in proportion. They do not have the political will to sustain extreme loss, certainly not as we do.”

  That the last comment was not necessarily glowing praise for the present assembly was missed by everyone.

  Stalin stood abruptly.

  “Comrade Marshall, lives lost in the protection of the Motherland are lives well spent. That has always been the case.”

  More than just Zhukov felt fear at the tone.

  “The key question is not how many will die but will they die in vain.”

  His hand smashed down on to the table with a sound not unlike a gunshot.

  “We have given you the outline and you have given us the plan. Yours is the responsibility. To bring victory and deliverance from capitalism to the Rodina is the task of the Red Army,” His arm shot out and a thick finger pointed straight at Zhukov, emphasising the middle word, “Under YOUR leadership!”

  That message was loud and clear. Responsibility equalled firing squad if things went wrong.

  “So Comrade Marshall Zhukov, are you capable of delivering victory?”

  Zhukov snapped to attention.

  “I can and will defeat the Western Allies militarily. Kingdom39 will succeed Comrade General Secretary.”

  Stalin gently nodded but without taking his hardened eyes from Zhukov, assessing him and reading his resolve and commitment.

  “Very good Comrade Marshall.”

  His eyes flicked away and the danger was gone. Others now met his gaze but Stalin’s eyes had softened from the extreme of the last few moments.

  “So, we are all agreed. We will initiate the operation as discussed?”

  The unusual genuine quizzical tone caught a few by surprise and their nods were deeper and more rapid.

  Turning around to focus on Zhukov once more, Stalin gave the order.

  “Operation Kingdom39 is fully approved and will commence at 0530 on 6th August.”

  Thus ended the pause.

  It had been Beria’s idea to use the BBC to spread the information throughout Western Europe and so the radio station’s evening broadcast carried the unexpected but extremely important news that Soviet Ministers Bulganin and Molotov were to visit London and Paris in the week ahead, starting with a fight to London arriving on the morning of 6th August.

  From the Atlantic coast of France to the Baltic Sea, a number of resolute young men noted the date stated and consulted their orders, confirming with a mixture of trepidation and excitement that the inclusion of Bulganin’s name indicated dawn minus fifteen minutes on the stated date.

  Better to fight for something than live for nothing.

  George S. Patton

  Chapter 29 – THE CAMP

  2154 hrs Friday, 3rd August 1945, Soviet POW Camp, Ex- OFLAG XVIIa, Edelbach, Soviet Occupied Lower Austria.

  Like many things in war, or peace for that matter, what happened that Friday evening was neither planned nor anticipated. An event invited them to act and act they did.

  For six days now, most of the prisoners had been marched out of the camp as dawn gathered itself, in order to dig huge anti-tank ditches all round the site for Soviet military exercises, returning only when the light was failing and overseeing was becoming difficult for the guards. Everyone was weary, including the Bulgarians, and sleep became the favourite and most welcomed activity for every inmate. Seven men had succumbed on the fourth day and were buried in a shallow grave outside the compound. Even the frequent firing of the Soviet military exercises that rent the still nights the last few days did not overly disturb the prisoners slumber. Tonight any gunfire would have to compete with a Central European thunderstorm of biblical proportions.

  Rolf Uhlmann became aware during his day that many of the guards intended to visit Allensteig that very evening. Skryabin had called for a celebration as it was a popular officer’s birthday. A stash of German brandy had been uncovered so the Bulgarians had decided to get drunk and visit the fraternisation centre for a little bit of female company.

  That the guards were going to be low on numbers was talked about over the evening meal but little more was said, as there was no escape kit worth a damn to hand. The recent previous effort had denuded their limited resources, and it would take some time to gather more items suitable for purpose. Escapes required planning to be successful, and as far as they were aware, unsuccessful escapees did not get a second chance with the NKVD. That all were exhausted obviously also played its part.

  More of note at the time was the fact that the inexperienced Bulgarians were quite happy to troop off two kilometres away and leave a few men guarding their charges, and thoughts turned to the future if such an event should happen again.

  Still, some of Rolf’s fellows amused themselves with the thought that the driving rain and high winds would at least curb the guard’s enjoyment of their night out.

  Life and death are balanced on the edge of a razor.

  Homer

  Chapter 30 – THE AIRCRAFT

  2155 hrs Friday, 3rd August 1945, Airborne approx 400 ft above Soviet Occupied Lower Austria.

  Junior Lieutenant Marina Budanova was lost and frightened. Her present mission with 586th Fighter Aviation Regiment had gone very wrong and was getting worse with every passing second. Where her comrades had got to, she had no idea. All she knew was one moment they were there and the next she was flying alone
in the vastness above Northern Austria in the failing light of a very stormy European evening.

  There had been no prediction of the extent of the foul weather that was presently buffeting her Yakolev-9 fighter aircraft, and certainly no prior indication that her compass and radio would both pack up. Her knowledge of the area was limited as she had only arrived at the airbase in Znojmo last week, and so she desperately unfolded her map in the hope that she could pick out some recognisable landmark on the ground.

  She was unpopular with her comrades, more for her apparent inefficiency than for her mixed Polish-Russian parentage and gruff, unapproachable manner. Already reprimanded by the Regimental Commander, Budanova could not afford another black mark so soon and was rapidly becoming hysterical in her search for guidance home.

  The storm was becoming more intense and it was increasingly difficult to see the ground, so Budanova, like the inexperienced young pilot she was, dropped lower and lower until vision was restored.

  A flash of lightning alerted her to the presence of a body of water on her port side, so she frantically searched the map.

  The body of water in question was the modest Stadtsee, not that it made the slightest difference for Budanova.

  Desperately she swept the sheet for nearby airfields on which she could land swiftly before the failing light died completely.

  In any case, her panic had already condemned her because her altitude had almost completely gone by the time she ripped her eyes away from the map and realised that her death was approaching as quickly as the ground that filled her vision.

  A superhuman effort on the stick and an increase in engine revs could only buy her a few extra seconds of life. Both were instrumental in saving the lives of scores of others.

  Budanova was vaguely aware of buildings ahead as she desperately sought height but her aircraft snagged overhead wires and she was dropped into the ground at speed, landing exactly flat to the earth and skimming at well over two hundred mph despite the destruction of the propeller.