Angel, Archangel (33 page)

In the brief moments that he was not doing either he glanced up nervously, looking past Ritter and their fanatical gunner, Julend, who was still muttering do-or-die oaths over the intercom, for the Yaks which must surely be coming for them at any moment.
Much to their relief and amazement, the only Russian fighter patrol they had seen either failed to spot them, or for reasons which baffled Menzel - seeing as they were a tactical reconnaissance aircraft much prized by Yak pilots - left them alone in pursuit of bigger fish further to the west.
As for ground fire, Ivan had to be blind, or out of ammunition.
So far, everything had been much too easy for his liking.

He forced himself to concentrate on their primary SIGINT mission.
Although Menzel spoke Russian, there was little use for the skill in the Aufklärungsgruppe since most of the radio traffic was in code.
He merely recorded the signals and left it to others back at HQ to decipher them, a task of almost child-like simplicity, he had been told, since the Oberkommando der Luftwaffe had long since possessed the means of unravelling Ivan’s principal code networks.

“How much fuel have we left?”
he asked Ritter.

The pilot stared at the gauges, then tapped them with his forefinger, a gesture that summed up the Luftwaffe’s confidence in its equipment over the last few months, Menzel thought bitterly.

“Enough for another thirty-minute stooge before returning to base,” Ritter said matter-of-factly.
“Where are all the fighters you told us about, Herr Hauptmann?”

Menzel was on the point of voicing his misgivings about the unnerving lull that existed on the Eastern Front above Chrudim when a transmission of such energy screeched in his headphones that he cried out with pain.
He instinctively grabbed the scratch-pad and held his pencil poised above the paper for the dots and dashes that would begin flitting at lightning speed through his receiver.
He was still joggling the handle that adjusted the DF loop beneath the aircraft for the optimum fix on the signal when the clear tones of the radio operator burst through his headset.
For a moment his pencil hovered above the paper as he recovered from the shock of hearing an open voice channel over his equipment, then he began writing.

When he stopped two minutes later, his whole body numbed by what he had just heard, he turned to Ritter and, in a voice that he tried to control, ordered him to swing the Uhu round to the west and hold the vector for forty kilometres.

Had the FW 189 stooged over Chrudim a few minutes longer, Menzel would have had much more to write down on his scratch-pad than the signal that had flashed from Shlemov to Beria’s headquarters in Moscow.
Within moments of the Uhu banking off towards Branodz, the DF loop which was the ‘ears’ of Menzel’s SIGINT equipment lost all further transmissions because of the temporary masking effects of the mountains over which they now sped as low and fast as the aircraft’s two Argus engines would propel them.

In the darkness of the radio hut in Chrudim Shlemov remained by the radio as Beria had instructed, waiting for the call-back signal.
He had rattled off his findings as quickly as possible, fully aware that the longer he spoke, the greater the risk of his transmission being picked up by an eager sparks operator at Konev’s HQ in Branodz.
Apart from the danger of Nerchenko or Shaposhnikov learning that the plan they called Archangel had been compromised, Shlemov had received explicit orders before leaving Moscow that the NKVD was to take the lead and wrap up the investigation into Shaposhnikov’s conspiracy, if that’s what it was.
It would be a bitter end to all their work if Konev moved to arrest the plotters and received all the kudos - glory that rightfully belonged to the NKVD - from Stalin.

There was a faint crackle over the headset as the connection between Beria’s radio-telephone was re-established between Moscow and Chrudim.
Beria’s voice was instantly recognizable to Shlemov, despite the atmospheric distortions through which the signal had battled for hundreds of kilometres before reaching its final destination.

“Shlemov?”

“Yes, Comrade.”

“Make your arrest, extract a full confession and dispose of them with extreme prejudice.”

“It will be done, Comrade.”
He was about to shut down the equipment, but something told him that Beria was not yet finished.

“I know why he has done it,” Beria said, his voice an eerie mixture of hiss and static.
“Write this down.
It may help you when you deliver the
coup de grâce.”

A moment later, Shlemov had all the evidence he needed to put the Archangel conspirators in a shallow grave somewhere in the woods on the edges of Branodz.

* * * * * * * *

The Uhu roared down the valley, jinking and weaving to avoid sporadic bursts of light arms fire from the forest below.
Menzel was too busy navigating to use his machine-gun in the nose, leaving the job of suppressive fire to Julend, whose MG 81s chattered with an intensity that was matched only by his howls of delight each time an Ivan patrol scattered from a clearing under a hail of his bullets.

“My God!”
Menzel came up from his calculations as the full impact of the radio transmission sank into his soul.
“Those barbarians are going to kill us all with the stuff they’ve got stored down there.”

Ritter glanced at the crazed face of the Hauptmann for a second longer than he should have.
The mountain ridge leapt towards the Focke-Wulf at a sickening speed, leaving Menzel with a sudden vision of trees and grey, jagged rock that filled the Plexiglass dome in front of him from frame to frame.
He felt the force of three times gravity come on as Ritter pulled back on the stick in a desperate bid to haul them over the valley wall.
Then, while his eyes were still bulging in their sockets from the
g
s
,
he heard the
wump
on the belly as the Uhu brushed the tops of the trees and was clear, now plunging down towards the floor of the next valley in whose midst lay the town he was looking for.

“There it is,” Menzel said, “straight ahead and hold her steady.”

Ritter, still shaking from their narrow escape, saw the outline of the buildings and the little alpine cowsheds.

“It looks innocent enough to me,” the pilot said.

Menzel tried to think of words to convince the pilot to stay on their present heading, but rational speech eluded him.

A thin beam of tracer arced its way towards them from the centre of the town.
Menzel ducked as the bullets found their mark, punching holes in the Uhu’s wings.
A ranging shot?
The town and the forest around it answered a second later as a hundred guns opened up on them.

“Jesus,” Ritter yelled, as the aircraft almost bucked the control column out of his hands.

“That’s no ordinary town,” Menzel said.
“Get lower, or they’ll have us.”

Ritter didn’t need to be told twice.
Despite his inexperience, he coaxed the Uhu down to tree level, but the defensive fire followed them.
Just as it seemed the heavy calibre weapons would find their range, a small valley opened up before them.
Ritter darted into it, bringing the aircraft below the tops of the pines.

It was then that Menzel saw the T-34s, camouflaged, but unmistakable.
The single snatched glimpse unleashed the doubts he had harboured about Chrudim in the same instant.

“Chrudim’s a maskirovka, Ivan’s name for a huge military deception to make us look in the wrong place.
This is where they intend to start their final assault on Berlin, here at Branodz, safe in the knowledge that we’re always looking at something else a few valleys away.”

Their cover started to give way as the hills on either side of them levelled out.

“Then let’s get out of here,” Ritter choked into his intercom.
“We’ve done all we can do in this place.”

“No, I need pictures, proof,” Menzel said, fumbling for the switch on the end of the cable that led to the twin Hasselblads under the nose of the aircraft.

“Proof of what?”

“Of the stuff they’ve got stored in this place,” the Hauptmann muttered, too low for the pilot to hear over the exploding shells that had now started to find the range of the Uhu.
“Take me right over the centre of the town,” Menzel added as forcefully as he could.
“We’ll be lucky if we even get one stab at this.”

Ritter lined the nose up on a large alpine villa, a red flag fluttering from its balcony, situated beside an immense clearing in the middle of the town.
The square was suddenly full of vehicles and men, who darted for cover like field mice as the Uhu swept down, emulating the night-bird of prey from which it took its name.

“There!”
Menzel shouted, suddenly spotting his quarry.
“Left a bit, just a fraction.
That farmyard beside the villa.
See it?”
Ritter nodded.
“Head for that - and get lower!”

The Focke-Wulf rocked from a near miss, but Ritter kept it steady.
The corral grew in the Plexiglass until Menzel could make out what was stored in its midst.
Despite the camouflaged netting, he saw the boxes - couldn’t miss them, they were stacked so high.

He pressed the switch and the cameras started clicking.

In the rear of the aircraft, Julend whooped with delight.
“There’s a fat Ivan down there just staring at us from the balcony of that villa.
Looks like a general or something.
Stupid bastard’s going to catch it right up the arsehole when I get these guns on him.”

“For God’s sake don’t shoot,” Menzel yelled.
“Wait until we’re clear of the town before you touch those things again.”

“Why the hell, Herr Hauptmann?”

“Because I’ve given you an order, that’s why.”
Menzel wiped the sweat off his brow.

They swooped over the corral, the Hasselblads continuing to take pictures until the film ran out.
Then they were out over the vastness of the forest, clear of the town and the flak, but not the fighters.
And this time the Yaks would come for them, he knew that.

He also understood what he had to do next, for he had heard the radio signal about the weapons stored in the corral at the centre of Branodz and that had placed a burden on his shoulders far heavier than the responsibility of running his decaying Staffel.
He had translated the words, had written them down even.
As if to reassure himself, he found the scratch-pad and read once more.

Hydrogen cyanide sounded the same in any damned language.

In that instant, he realized that the main reason for his impending action was that he was running scared, hoping to put as much distance as possible between himself and Branodz.

Hauptmann Rudi Menzel had had enough.

“Hug the trees and steer two-two-zero,” he said.

Ritter stared at him in amazement.
“That’s about ninety degrees off-course.”

“We aren’t going back to Altenburg,” Menzel said, calmly.

“Where are we going, Herr Hauptmann?”
Julend piped up from the back.

“We’re making for the nearest Allied airfield,” Menzel replied.
“Ivan has got a hundred tonnes of hydrogen cyanide stored down there and I, for one, don’t want to be on the receiving end when they start using it.”

“That’s cowardice,” Julend said, unstrapping his harness.
“You could be shot for what you’re saying.”

“Who is going to know?”
Menzel looked at the two faces, gauging each for their response.
Ritter stared at him like a frightened child.
At least he knows what hydrogen cyanide does to you, he thought.

Julend’s expression was twisted in hatred.
“You’re going to hand us over to the enemy just because Ivan’s got a bit of mustard-gas down there.”

“We’re not talking about mustard-gas, you idiot,” Menzel shouted angrily.
“That stuff is like pure oxygen in comparison with hydrogen cyanide.”

“Whatever it is,” Julend said, reaching for his holster, “it’s my duty to stop you.
Turn the aircraft back on a heading for Altenburg, Herr Leutnant.’

Ritter shook his head.
“I’m not going back,” he said.
“I’m with you, Herr Hauptmann.”

Julend never managed to put the gun-barrel against Ritter’s temple.
One shot from Menzel’s Walther and he slumped over the breeches of his twin MG 81s, a red stain spreading on the left-hand breast pocket of his uniform.

“The Yaks got him,’ Menzel said to his terrified pilot.
“And they’ll get us, unless you fly this crate like you’ve never flown before towards the Allied lines.
And for the last time, get down amongst the trees.”

“They never taught us low-level at C-Schule,” Ritter mumbled, apologetically.