The Berkut

To
my
friends Charlie Mangel and Bob LaRue

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Library of Congress Catloging-in-Publication Data Heywood, Joseph.

The Berkut.

I. Title.

PS3558.E92B4 I987 8I3'·J4 86-29736

ISBN 0-394-56088-4

Manufactured in the United States of America
24
⁶⁸
9753

Designed by Anita Karl and Jim Kemp

(Scanned and Edited by Brega10)

The most exotic sort of wolf hunting involves the use of eagles. It has been seen only occasionally in Europe; its real home is Kirghizia, in south-central Russia. The specially bred birds a subspecies of golden eagles called a Berkut-are flown by nomadic tribesmen. The birds weigh only ten or twelve pounds but can slam into a wolf's back and bind its nose with such force that the wolf is almost paralyzed. Often the bird binds the spine with one foot and, as the wolf turns its head to bite, binds its nose with the other foot, suffocating the animal or holding it down until the hunter kills it. The birds are deceptively strong; there is almost a ton of binding force in each foot and the blow of a thirty-six-inch wing can break a man's arm .... Kirghizian tribesmen still hunt wolves in Russia with eagles, on horseback, with the aid of dogs.

-BARRY HOLSTUN LOPEZ
Of Wolves and Men

THE
ESCAPE

1
-
APRIL
28, 1945,
6:30
P.M.

Colonel Gu
ü
nter Brumm strained to slide himself down into the tight cockpit of the toy glider. He was a tall man with a thick body and a large, muscular frame, just the kind of physique that had made him a first-rate officer candidate years before. His fine blond hair, once full and luxurious, was filthy now, and his hairline was beginning to recede, an unacceptable development at thirty-five years of age. His hands were huge, his fingers long, thick tubes that one of his comrades had once dubbed "broomsticks." Most of his height was in his torso, not in his legs, so while the cockpit offered ample leg room, the rest of his body would be wedged in tightly, leaving little room to maneuver.

Finally settling onto the hard seat, Brumm felt around gently with his feet to locate the craft's tiny rudder pedals. When he found them, he wondered if he would be able to feel them in flight through his thick boots. He had piloted a glider only a few times before, and never one this small. It would be a challenge, and the thought excited him.

Satisfied that he was all the way down in the seat, he jammed his kit bag and rucksack onto the floor in front of him. He checked to be sure that the tether from his parachute harness was attached to the gear. His machine pistol, a custom model of the standard weapon used by German troops, was in a special chamois holster tied to his chest that also contained six extra clips.

Checking the control column, Brumm found that his gear jammed the stick so that it could not be pulled all the way back. Like an animal working diligently in its den, he kept moving equipment around until the cockpit was in order. Long ago the colonel had learned that details made the difference in survival; he had become an expert at planning, checking and double-checking every element that pertained to the mission at hand. Finally settled, he exhaled and leaned back against his parachute pack. If this doesn't work, I'm dead, he told himself.
To a professional soldier, facts were facts. He did not fear death; thinking about it did not fill him with dread. It was simply his way of ensuring that his subconscious fully appreciated the situation, and that when he needed it the necessary mental alacrity would be there.

As a special commando, Brumm was one of the few survivors of an elite group that took its orders directly from Adolf Hitler. Among his credentials was a letter from the Fuhrer that provided him with absolute power over any and all Germans, civilian or military. It was a license that enabled him to acquire what he needed when he needed it without the normal red tape. During his time in the special commando unit the colonel had been called upon to perform an endless number of dangerous assignments. But while his physical constitution made him an impressive specimen, it had been his psychological profile that had most impressed the Fuhrer, who demanded final approval of all candidates of the special cadre.

Brumm's body carried numerous scars, which attested not only to the rigors of his profession but also to his durability. Over the years, through France, Czechoslovakia, Russia and countless other locations, he had been wounded so many times that he had lost count. The son of a Prussian officer and grandson of an apothecary, he had grown up with death and corpses. No manner of death bothered him; you were breathing or you were not. It was this comfort with death that made him an efficient soldier.

Brumm checked his watch. If the towplane was on time, the pickup should occur in seven minutes. He hoped that what remained of the short takeoff area would not deteriorate further in the remaining time. The Russians were all around. They had pushed the German armies back from the Oder River in February, then stopped and rested while they resupplied for nearly two months before their final push toward Berlin. On April 16 they had attacked in force, and three days later had pushed parts of the front line twenty-five kilometers west of the Oder River, leaving Brumm's unit behind enemy lines and cut off. Now the Russians were doubling back to clean out isolated pockets of resistance. Although battle maps and reliable intelligence about enemy movements were scant, it was clear to anybody with experience what the Russians intended: Berlin would be razed.

With their tanks having intersected, then opened gaps in the German lines, Soviet infantry had moved up to hit the Germans head-on. A huge artillery duel had developed, and overhead hundreds of tracers now crisscrossed one another in hissing arcs as the two sides sought to annihilate each other. Both sides had stopped aiming; they were simply loading and firing as fast as possible. Eventually one side would be unable to fire back.

That what remained of the German army was pinned down and trapped did not surprise Brumm; the will to fight was gone. What had occurred at Stalingrad told him that the end was only a matter of time. He had been there, had parachuted into the snow to execute a key Russian general, which he had done without the loss of a man, and had gotten out. Hitler had figured that the death of this general would turn the tide, but it had made no difference; the Russians continued to push the Germans back across the thousands of miles they had gained, extracting a horrible toll in the process, both on their enemy and on themselves. The Fuhrer had often expounded on the subhuman nature of Slavs. It was now apparent that it was this primitive nature that made the Russian foot soldier an awesome opponent. Like savages, they were awash in blood and slaughter. He had seen them crawling forward on legless stumps, still firing their weapons. Once he had seen a Russian douse himself with petrol, ignite himself and run into a concentration of German troops. Brumm admired such ferocity.

Every soldier's job was a simple one. Engage the enemy, then kill him. Since Stalingrad, the Russians had taken the objective to heart and had sacrificed millions to accomplish their ends. It was equally clear that they would expend millions more to continue until Germany was razed. At that point they would take everything they could carry and walk back to the Motherland. There would be nothing neat and tidy about the ending of the Third Reich; it would endure an unending blow that killed everything killable.

Sitting in the glider, with the partial canopy open, Brumm felt removed from the battle raging around him. Protected only by a wooden frame and a lacquered canvas hull, he felt aloof, removed from the line of fire. In the flickering artificial light created by fires and exploding rounds, he studied the landscape. It was like most battlefields, only more devastated: craters pocked the earth; trees were shredded into a ground-covering slash; burned-out vehicles on their sides and roofs and abandoned pieces of equipment were scattered around; bodies lay everywhere, mostly frozen in death, but some of the partly living still crawled along searching for help. From time to time he could see soldiers still trying to fight, working their way among the dead, collecting weapons and ammunition. German soldiers, he reminded himself
,
kept doing what German soldiers were supposed to do.

All this was a collective fact of war. His job was done here; now there was another mission to perform~ and upon his ability lay the future of the Third Reich. If anything touched his soul
,
it was knowing that he had been chosen as the historical instrument. He was eager to begin.

2 -
APRIL 28, 1945,
6:35 P.M.

It was rolling forested country interspersed with barren, muddy fields, and the heavy fog hanging over the area made it seem hours later than it was. Berlin had been encircled four days earlier, and now Russian supplies were being pushed forward toward the city as Soviet troops gathered for the final push. Here, east of the city, the heavy fighting had stop, but the five shadowy men advancing on horseback through the broken forest could hear the thudding of guns ahead of them.

Reaching the edge of the tree line, the horsemen reined in and paused to study the scene before them. To the south was a line of troops twenty abreast that stretched endlessly and silently into the fog. The fields ahead of them were filled with hundreds of riderless horses walking with their heads down, paralleling the route of the Russian army. Nearby a mud-covered red mare was foaling, her head lifted, nostrils flaring as she strained with the final push of new life. Several cows were scattered among the horses, foraging in the brown mud as the soldiers rattled down the nearby road~ not talking.

One of the five horsemen left the others and galloped along the trees toward the line of troops, but before he had gone a hundred meters, there was a sharp crack and the horse went down, nose first, sending its rider tumbling wildly head over heels.

Three of the others dismounted immediately. Two of them headed into the forest in the direction of the rifle shot; the third man ran forward in a crouch toward his comrade, diving and rolling the final three meters, stopping beside the man, his pistol drawn, facing toward the trees. The man whose horse had been shot from under him was sitting, legs out, shaking his head. "Hit?" his companion asked. There was no emotion in the voice; long ago they had lost track of the number of close calls they'd had with death; it was always with them and they accepted the fact.

"No, but that was a damn fine animal," the man said, glancing at the dead horse.

"Not important. Here's where we connect with the army. We walk the rest of the way."

Another shot interrupted them, and both of them reacted by crawling quickly forward to take cover behind a fallen tree. Seconds later a form vaulted from the tree line and ran wildly through the mud in front of them. Both men stood, took aim and fired simultaneously. The figure fell heavily and they ran forward. Their two companions emerged breathlessly from the forest at the point where the figure had appeared. "Did he come out?"

"Here," one of the two men said as he reached the corpse and rolled it over with his foot.

When the four men were together, the fifth man, still on horseback, came toward them, his animal snorting and twisting its head under the bit. Reaching the group, he barely looked at the body.