Impasse (The Red Gambit Series) (7 page)

Nothing.

His eyes blurred as temperature, stress, blood loss and tiredness fought for control.

He jumped as his mind sought to fight back and remain alert.

He watched and listened.

Nothing.

“
Oh Lordy, it’s cold.”

Private First Class Frederick Lincoln Leander, only survivor of his platoon, slipped into the bottom of his little hole and passed out.

The GRU briefing ended and Poboshkin waited expectantly.

He had not been asked one single question throughout, everything he said
apparently accepted without dispute.

“
Thank you, Comrade PodPolkovnik. That will be all.”

Poboshkin swept up the documentation and stowed it quickly in his case before saluting and turning towards the heavy door.

Beria’s voice followed him.

“
Oh, and please inform General Nazarbayeva of our concern for her well-being, and that we look forward to the time she’ll be able to travel and brief us herself, particularly on her report regarding Pekunin’s treachery.”

Poboshkin
nodded by way of response and left.

Stalin looked quizzically a
t the bespectacled NKVD Marshal and, with unusual humour, commented on the exchange.

“
Very touching, Lavrentiy.”

“
I meant no more than that, Comrade General Secretary. She’s competent and loyal to the Rodina, certainly more competent and loyal than that shit Pekunin.”

Stalin grimaced and then pursed his lips, not wishing to be reminded that treachery had dwelt so close at hand but, now that it had happened, turning his mind to the matter.

“How goes the NKVD investigation into the traitor?”

Beria went straight for the glasses and handkerchief routine, betraying his
desire to exercise care in answering.

“
We have established some unusual activity in the last two months, activity that’s now being interpreted in a different manner, given the circumstances. It will take time, as I’ve ordered my men to be thorough, but I think his betrayal started only recently. He’s no family that we can interrogate, Comrade. They died some time ago,” Beria studied the gleaming spectacles as he finished his verbal assessment, “And his Deputy also fell by our Nazarbayeva’s hand. Extremely efficient... and extremely convenient.”

Beria had spoken at
length for a number of reasons.

He already knew that Stalin knew much of what he had spoken of, but he knew that Stalin did not know of the circumstances behind the
demise of Pekunin’s son and family, and he hoped above hope that he never would. The official suggestion had been an overzealous approach by the investigating team. Those responsible had succumbed during their debriefing, as directed by the head of the NKVD, keen to tidy any loose ends.

Beria
’s attempt to throw some suspicion on Nazarbayeva was his own maskirovka, moving the Dictator on from awkward questions about the demise...
‘executions’
... of Fyodor Romanevich Pekunin, his wife, and their three children.

It worked.

“Convenient, Comrade? Are you suggesting that the woman had some hand in this treachery?”

Beria took his time in answering
, forcing himself to return the glasses to their proper position.

He looked th
rough them, feigning reluctance both with his eyes and with his tone.

“
I’ve no evidence to that effect, Comrade General Secretary, but I do know she was very close to Pekunin. There’s talk of a relationship between them that went beyond professional limits.”

That was true, in as much as
Beria had started the talk.

“
Is this some criticism of my decision, Comrade?”

Beria knew he was on dangerous ground.

“Not at all, Comrade General Secretary. You promoted on competence... and we’ve all seen how efficient and competent the woman can seem. This is new information to which you could not have been privy and, in truth, it may yet prove to be nothing of concern for the State. We’ll know soon. Her report should give us indication of any issues, particularly if she omits anything that we already know.”

Stalin nodded but once, signalling an end to the discussion and the opening of another.

“So?”

The word was not directed at Beria but at the other occupant of the room.

Konev had been stood at attention, patiently waiting whilst the GRU lackey had delivered his reports, with nothing new presented; certainly nothing to change his mind from the course of action he had proposed that morning.

“
Comrade General Secretary, I see no reason to change my proposal. Given the weather conditions, the location of the Yugoslavian stocks, and the military situation I’ve inherited, it makes perfect sense and should yield good rewards for us, both militarily and politically.”

That was no less true
than it had been this morning.

GRU
’s briefing had confirmed the Italian position and some excellent successes against Allied supply and infrastructure by communist sabotage groups, particularly the volatile Italian groups who had been stirred up by rhetoric and promises delivered by recently arrived NKVD agents.

“
Very well, Comrade Marshal. You may commence Italian operations and the limited attacks as outlined in your Plan Red Two.”

And with that simple statement, the pre-war planning was consigned to the bin and Konev
’s new assault plan was set in motion.

As Konev left, a dishevelled civilian stood and accepted the
invitation of the still open door; a man the Marshal recognised but could not presently name.

Two further men followed, one clad in the uniform of the NKVD, the other clearly a Red Navy Admiral, bearing all the hallmarks of an experienced submariner.

The door closed on the trio and another audience commenced.

It was not until he seated himself in his staff car, already well warmed for the journey to the airbase, that he recalled the name and, more importantly, the man
’s purpose in life.

“
Ah, Comrade Kurchatov!”

“
Sorry, Comrade Marshal?”

Konev had unwittingly spoken aloud.

“Nothing, Comrade Driver, nothing at all. Shall we see what this fine Mercedes is capable of?”

The woman needed no further inducements and the powerful beast surged ahead.

‘Comrade Kurchatov... Comrade Director Kurchatov of the Atomic weapons programme.’

His eyes narrowed.

‘Atomic scientists, the NKVD and the Navy... all together... with no Army or Air Force presence.’

His eyes closed.

‘What’s being hatched behind our backs, I wonde...’

No sooner had the tho
ught taken shape than it was expelled as sleep overtook him. The darkness did not relinquish its grip until he was shaken awake at Vnukovo.

In the absence of orders, go find something and kill it.

FeldMarschall Erwin Rommel.

The Sunderland Mk V was a big aircraft, the four American Wasp engines giving her the power previously lacking in the Mk III.

She was
called the Flying Porcupine for very good reason, her hull bristled with defensive machine-guns, fourteen in total, manned by her eleven man crew. Such armament was required for a lumbering leviathan like the Short Sunderland, whose maximum speed, even with the Wasps, was a little over two hundred miles an hour.

In the German War, e
ncounters with enemy fighters had been mercifully rare and, in the main, enemy contacts were solely with the Sunderland’s standard fare; submarines.

This Mk V also carried depth charges and radar pods, making her a deadly adversary in the
never-ending game of hide and seek between aircraft and submersibles.

NS-X was out on a mission, having flown off from the Castle Archdale base of the RAF
’s 201 Squadron. The men had once been in 246 Squadron but, when that squadron was disbanded, the men of NS-X, all SAAF volunteers, had been one of two complete crews to be transferred to 201 Squadron.

During World War Two, there had been a secret protocol between the British and
Éire governments, which permitted flights over Irish territory though a narrow corridor. It ran westwards from Castle Archdale, Northern Ireland, across Irish sovereign territory and into the Atlantic, extending the operating range of Coastal Command considerably, and bringing more area under the protection of their Liberators, Catalinas, and Sunderlands.

The agreement was still in force.

NS-X had followed this route out into the ocean, turning and rounding the Irish mainland, before heading north, past Aran Island and onto its search area around St Kilda.

Fig#73 – Éire, Great Britain, and the Atlantic 1945.

A Soviet submarine had been attacked and damaged the previous day, somewhere roughly fifty miles west of Lewis
, and the Admiralty were rightly jittery, given the importance of the convoy heading into the area in the next ten hours.

There was little good news.

The RCN corvette that had found and attacked the submarine was no longer answering; it was now feared lost with all hands. Other flying boats and craft were assigned to the dual mission, all hoping to rescue or recover, depending on how fate had dealt with the Canadian sailors, as well as attack and sink the enemy vessel.

Flight Lieutenant Cox, an extremely experienced pilot, hummed loudly, as was his normal habit when concentrating.

Having just had a course check and finding themselves a small distance off their search pattern, he eased the huge aircraft a few points to starboard, before settling back down to the extended boredom of searching for a scale model needle in a choice of haystacks.

The Sunderland carried many comforts, including bunks, a toilet
, and a galley, the latter of which yielded up fresh steaming coffee and a bacon sandwich, brought up from below by Flight Sergeant Crozier.

“
There you go, Skipper, get your laughing gear around that, man. I’ll take over for a moment.”

South Africa
n Crozier wasn’t qualified to pilot the aircraft, but that didn’t trouble the old hands of NS-X. He flopped into the second seat and took a grip, permitting Cox to relinquish the column to the gunner.

He let Cox start into the snack before airing his concerns.

“Skipper, I think Dusty’s an ill man. He’s wracked up on a bunk, looking very green.”

Dusty Miller was the second pilot
, and he had disappeared off to sort out a stomach cramp, about an hour beforehand.

“
Too much flippin Jamesons last night, that’s what that is, Arsey”, the words came out despite having to work their way around large lumps of bread and bacon.

Rafer Crozier didn
’t much care for being called Arsey, but it didn’t pay to point that out, for obvious reasons.

“
Don’t think so, Skip. Dusty was the only one to have the goose, wasn’t he?”

The local procurer of all things, Niall Flaherty, had slipped such a beast to the camp cooks for a small consideration. In contravention of standing orders on
aircrew’s meals, Miller had wangled a portion of the well-hung goose, prior to flight ops.