Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (38 page)

NKVD Colonel General Ivan Aleksandrovich Serov was a man on a mission, empowered by those at the very summit of the state apparatus, and therefore not a man easily brushed aside.

Objections and objectors had come and gone, his authority supreme in the face of all-comers.

No matter what, his mission had priority, and it was the inventory of special items that were carefully and secretly loaded on nondescript vehicles, ready for the long journey back to the Motherland, regardless of the other plans for use of the transport network.

Having considerable experience with such things, especially with his overseeing of the removal of the German uranium ore from Oranienberg, he knew not to rush matters, but applied calm urgency.

The heavy metal caskets containing the radioactive material came in for extra special handling.

Serov’s authority had also brought forth numerous Red Air Force night fighters, circling four distinct separate areas, three as a maskirovka.

In the dark skies above Austria, aircrew from many nations stalked and killed each other, unaware of what was happening under the hills beneath them.

At great cost, the Red Air Force kept the Allied efforts away from Sankt Georgen an der Gusen and by morning, Serov was gone, and the continuing recovery effort was left to junior ranks.

Such victories for the Soviet pilots were hard won, and rarely won a second time.

On a rugged outcrop above the site, a small group of silent soldiers had spent the previous day observing the goings-on, and they had reported back all they knew to their Allied commanders.

Their report ensured that the following day and night brought forth the power of the Allied air forces, as waves of bombers struck numerous targets in the hills around the Gusen River, many specifically guided in by the SAS team operating behind the lines, men who had first come to understand that something important was happening in the valleys.

Much of the recently discovered German equipment was destroyed, either on transport vehicles, or as they lay waiting to be removed to safety.

Live V2 warheads added to the damage with their secondary explosions.

Marshal Chuikov, with overall responsibility for removing the treasures from the huge network of caves, sought a different way to rescue the remaining assets, especially the high-octane fuels that were stored in large quantities.

The removal work ceased temporarily.

“Thank you, General von Vietinghoff.”

Having passed on everything of the previous day’s meeting, von Vietinghoff saluted and left the room.

Speer exchanged glances with Guderian.

“They are showing weakness, when all that is needed is strength.”

Guderian nodded sagely, but held his tongue, allowing the new Chancellor his head.

“We must accelerate our plans, bring matters forward, in case their weakness drops to unimaginable levels, Feldmarschal.”

“We are doing everything quickly, Herr Kanzler, but it takes time to assemble an army, especially when our former enemies are the ones supplying much of the resources.”

“Yes, I do know that, Feldmarschal. Our output of tanks and guns is rising steadily, now that we’re receiving the minerals of war, and the French are contributing decent numbers too… albeit unwittingly… but I do understand that you’ll not have all that you need quite yet.”

Speer went to the window and observed the everyday life of Aacheners in the square outside his window.

“We must be careful not to alarm our friends.”

“They’ll need us to be strong, Herr Kanzler.”

“Yes they will, and we’ll be strong, not for them, but for us.”

Speer moved swiftly back to his desk.

“I want you to implement this plan immediately.”

Guderian knew which file Speer held out to him.

“We don’t have enough tanks and guns for the men we have, Herr Kanzler, so why bring these men into our thinking right now?”

Speer laughed.

“Well, for one thing, they are good at what they do.”

Guderian could only concede that point.

“Secondly, why on earth would we let the useless French have them?”

The second point was conceded in turn.

“Herr Kanzler, you are sure you want to name them in this way?”

“Feldmarschal, I’m told by a number of your generals that these men are not Heer, but other forces, so we’ll grant them the distinction of being a force that has its own identity, and is not Heer, eh? In fact, much like it was before.”

Guderian accepted the file and slid it into his briefcase.

“Good day, Herr Kanzler.”

The Field Marshal clicked to attention, and left the modest office, with orders to harvest as many ex-Waffen SS soldiers as possible, and bring them together under the control of the newly-formed ‘German Legion’.

He knew exactly where he would start.

The Red Cross inspection was in full swing, and the chief inspector left no stone unturned.

“Colonel Skryabin, it is against the convention to have military facilities within the environs of a prisoner of war camp.”

The NKVD officer choked back his contemptuous reply and opted for one more studied and placatory, just as his orders dictated.

“Inspector Deviani, this facility is not for military production of any kind, but for humanitarian purposes. We intend to install equipment to produce bandages and dressings, nothing more. Prisoners must not be idle, but we understand your requirements, even though we are not signatories.”

The status of the USSR with the Geneva and Hague conventions had been a matter of contention since Germany marched her troops into the Motherland at the start of Operation Barbarossa.

None the less, the Soviet Union had suddenly permitted widespread access to its prisoner of war camps and hospitals, where Red Cross officials uniformly reported barely adequate nutritional provision but generally adequate accommodation in the former, and excellent standards of care in the latter.

Inspector Deviani had chosen his team with care, and no little direction from his own GRU masters, ensuring that two of his group had affiliations with Allied intelligence groups, and would report back on exactly what they saw at the vast new camp on the Volga, that being exactly what the Soviets wanted them to see.

As the Red Cross team walked the huge camp, they found no clues as to what would go on in any of the buildings they saw, or indeed, what was presently going on underneath their feet.

“Who’s he?”

Dryden took the briefest moment to check out the civilian observer, quickly returning to concentrate on the open wound in front of him.

“Damned if I know, Hany. Hold that steady now…”

A concrete fence post had fallen from a cart and smashed a German POW in the leg, messily dragging the soldier’s calf muscle off the bone.

It looked a lot worse than it was, and the new equipment that graced the medical facility helped greatly, not that Hamouda and Dryden had abandoned their old tried and trusted collection of pieces.

The civilian moved forward, until a growl from Dryden stopped him in his tracks.

“I don’t care who you are, but not one bloody step closer.”

“Apologies, Doctor, but my time is limited. I am Benito Deviani of the Red Cross, here to inspect this camp’s facilities and ensure you are being well treated.”

Dryden looked at his Egyptian friend and silently invited him to take over cleaning the gaping wound.

He stood back as Hamouda got to work.

“Well, Mr. Deviani, it’s fair to say this place is a palace compared to where we’ve been before.”

He noticed Skryabin’s eyebrows raise and understood the warning they represented.

“Are you well treated, Doctor…err…”

“Apologies… Leftenant Commander Miles Dryden, Royal Navy. My friend here is 2nd Leftenant Hany Hamouda, late of the Egyptian Army. Yes, Mr. Deviani, we’re well treated, certainly better than we have been previously.”

He looked Skryabin in the eyes, falling just short of deliberate and overt defiance.

“Need a hand.”

Hamouda muttered a religious invocation as he searched for the source of the sudden bleeding.

‘Rahmatic ya Rab.’

Dryden was back on the job in seconds, forgetting the audience.

The Red Cross team moved on, leaving the medical team to their trade.

Deviani continued his tour, finding himself steered towards the camp’s new showpiece medical facility.

When the intelligence agencies received their reports, Camp 1001 lost any importance in the overall scheme of things, and the documents were archived.

There was no hint of the importance of the facility on the Volga.

The San, Etuna Kozonguizi, was an old man, so old even he had forgotten how many seasons he had suffered. The wiry bushman had seen all that Africa, and in particular, the ‘Land that God made in anger’ had to offer.

His dwelling was mainly made up of parts of the ill-fated ship, the Eduard Bohlen, plus pieces from numerous other vessels that had floundered on the unforgiving coastline.

It was covered with skins from the seals he had killed over the months, as much to retain the early morning dew as a source of water as to provide shelter from the interminable sun.

Kozonguizi lived a simple life…

… that was until 1306, when his normal daily routine was disturbed by the arrival of a man-made leviathan.

Armed with his spear, the old bushman sat on his receiving stool, awaiting the arrival of the ‘visitors’, who were now splashing in the surf as they struggled with their dinghies.

The metal whale had disappeared as soon as the four boats had taken to the water.

Instinctively, Kozonguizi’s eyes strayed to the rock promontory on the mouth of the river, where he had discovered many precious items, some of which he had taken for himself, and some he had bartered for some of the luxuries of life. Many other things still remained there.

He instinctively knew that these ‘visitors’ had returned for their treasures.

Gripping his spear more firmly, the old bushman straightened his spine and examined the leading man battling his way up the sand with studied disinterest… the clothing… the hat… the sword…

‘Strange man…’

The leader shouted in a strange tongue unknown to him… not Khoisin, the click language of the desert people… nor Afrikaans, with which he was reasonably familiar… nor English…

Waving his sword in the direction of the rocks, the nearest man encouraged the others with him to greater efforts, all the time keeping his eyes fixed upon the old native, assessing the threat and planning his approach.

It was something in the voice, the imperatives of the unknown language, which carried warning to Kozonguizi’s ears.

That and the body language of the approaching man, a body clearly preparing for action.

Despite his sixty-two years, the San was still fit, his roving days curtailed only by the foot injury he had suffered on sharp rocks, his reactions and strength still present in abundance.

The sword swept through the air, slicing only the space he had previously occupied, whilst the spear drove home into the man’s chest, stealing his life in an instant.

Drawing the shaft clear, Etuna Kozonguizi waited stoically for his death, his spear dripping with the blood of a
Kaigun daii
; a Lieutenant of the Imperial Japanese Navy.

The old man died well.

[‘The Land that God made in anger’ is modern day Namibia.]