Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (36 page)

Bittrich responded with uncharacteristic contempt.

“No, actually
, Lange, I don’t.”

Lavalle encouraged the MP with a wave of his hand, and Lange was taken away.

The four officers sat in uncomfortable silence, Pierce being the most uneasy, as he had come to respect the quality of his former enemy, and had suddenly been reminded that some of them may have a past for which they should be held accountable.

Lavalle tried to break the moment.

“Regrettable, gentlemen, highly regrettable.”

Pierce responded.

“Why, General Lavalle? That he’s been arrested here? Now? Or that the whole damn business happened in the first place?”

Christophe Lavalle went to speak but held himself in check, noticing Knocke turn to the American officer.

“Everything is regrettable, General Pierce. The war, the deaths, the injuries, everything. But if Lange has done this thing, then he must stand accountable for it, for without such cleansing, Germany will not stand tall and proud again.”

Knocke shook his head.

“Is it regrettable that Alma now has to find a new commander? You might say yes, for it could cause us problems. But I would say no, because both this Corps and the new Germany cannot entertain those who have baggage from the past, or we will all be tainted for generations to come.”

Pierce nodded his head in understanding.

Knocke fell into silence.

“So, who is next in line for ‘Alma’?”

Lavalle posed the question, and each of them understood perfectly that it was rhetorical, the issue already settled in the Legion officer’s mind.

Even Pierce, who had no input on the matter, understood
whom Lavalle was thinking about.

There was silent agreement.

Lavalle picked up the phone.

“Ah
, Georges, please contact Colonel St.Clair, and ask him to report to me immediately. Thank you.”

Replacing the ornate receiver in its cradle, Lavalle smiled mischievously.

“I will inform Génèral Molyneux in due course.”

Which everyone understood to mean once it was too late for the commander of the Legion Corps to interfere.

Weiβenburg airfield, home of 19th, 20th and 21st Guards Bomber Air Regiments, suddenly became a hive of activity. It was the sort of activity that an experienced observer might have suspected to be the standard pandemonium associated with panicking officers and NCO’s confronted with the unexpected appearance of a senior commander.

In this instance, the experienced observer would have been totally correct.

Colonel General Aleksandr Repin, Deputy Commander in Chief of the Red Air Force, had arrived unannounced, and he was on a mission. He and his entourage swept in through the main entrance, swiftly carrying him all the way to the Regimental Headquarters before the guard officer had an opportunity to warn the 21st’s commander.

Nikishkin, Colonel of the 21st,
heard the growing kerfuffle that risked interrupting his lunch. Looking up from his plate of bread and ham in indignation, he moved from annoyance to concern for his life in a single heartbeat. The Colonel General, backed up by the commander of 9th Guards Bomber Corps, Major General Georgiev, stood over him in silence, awaiting his report.

Trying not to spray the senior men with his lunch, Nikishkin, now at the attention, delivered the necessary details on the state of his command.

“Comrade Polkovnik Nikishkin, how is it that you are not prepared for my visit? My staff sent you the details yesterday.”

“Sir, I regret that no such notification was received.”

Technically, Nikishkin was telling the truth, although it is possible that such a notification had been received, and that it might have become a victim to the regimental mascot’s playful approach to all things paper.

He recalled the trashing of the communications office the previous day.

Eyes flitted to the basket in the corner, and Nikishkin shot the hound a crushing look, which was returned by one combining complete indifference with disdain for those who had interrupted its slumber.

Repin decided to accept things at face value, do what he needed to do, and get back to his headquarters.

“Oh well. I’m only here briefly, and not to see you either, Comrade. Direct me to where I may find your hero pilot.”

“I will escort you myself, Comrade Polkovnik General.”

Jamming his cap on his head, he made a silent vow to pass the mascot on to the 19th Regiment in the near future, and acquire something less destructive.

The
albino Weimaraner opened an eye as Nikishkin hurried past, unaware that its days were numbered.

The entourage swelled with extra staff and hangers-on, so that a party approaching twenty entered the relaxation room of the 21st Regiment.

The sole occupant was inappropriately dressed for the occasion, boots off, and his uniform jacket spread over him like a small blanket.

As the officer’s orderly fled, he had thrown a cloth at the reclining pilot in an attempt to
wake the man, which cloth was now hanging off his dangling foot like a flag of surrender.

The group strode in and gathered close to the armchair.

The silence was punctuated by an explosion of bodily gases.

“Comrade Kapitan.”

There was no reaction, so Nikishkin raised his voice and leant forward further.

“Comrade Kapitan.”

Georgiev stepped forward and ended the sleeping officer’s dream.

“Comrade Kapitan Istomin, attention-shun!”

Instantly awake, Istomin swung his legs, sending the cloth flying, coming to the attention with his jacket wrapped round his feet.

His eyes took in the gold braid
surrounding him, each extra strand and rank marking he looked at, bringing the expectation of increased trouble.

Georgiev looked
him up and down, ending back looking into Istomin’s wide eyes.

“Put your jacket on
, man!”

Ceding the prime position to Repin, Georgiev stepped to one side.

The Deputy Commander of the Air force moved in front of the now wide-awake pilot, and nodded to a bespectacled Colonel from his staff, who cleared his throat and commenced reading from a small document.

“Comrade Kapitan Sacha Burianevich Istomin, 21st Guards Bomber Air Regiment, 9th Guards Bomber Corps.
The citation reads that, on the 14th September 1945, Starshy Leytenant Istomin took command of his unit, following the death of his commander, and gave orders that saved many lives and aircraft. During the course of the air combat over Birkenfeld and points eastwards, Starshy Leytenant Istomin displayed great personal bravery and heroism, shooting down two enemy fighter aircraft, despite severe damage to his own bomber and personal wounds.

Comrade Istomin subsequently undertook and completed a difficult landing, bringing his aircraft back to a
Soviet airbase.

For his bravery, leadership and heroism, Comrade Kapitan Sacha Burianevich Istomin deserves the conferring of the title ‘Hero of the
Soviet Union’.

Repin, on cue, slid the pin in place, the red ribbon and gold star standing out proudly on Istomin’s
disheveled jacket.

Grabbing the newly appointed
‘Hero’ by the shoulders, Repin planted a kiss on each cheek.

Stepping back, the Colonel General breathed in cleaner air
, and decided that any further talk would be wasted.

“Congratulations
, Comrade,” his words were echoed by most of the others in the room.

Within a minute, Istomin found himself alone once more, gazing down at the shiny star and already planning his excuse
s for his changed afternoon, which now commenced at 1400hrs, in Colonel Nikishkin’s office.

‘Properly dressed’
, as the Colonel had put it with his final shot.

The small report lay on the table between the three men, silent, unobtrusive, but none the less dynamite. In their troubled minds, the very presence of it threatened to collapse the heavy wooden structure, so weighty was its content.

Stalin ate heartily of bread, sausage, and pickles, his attention very obviously on his NKVD chief.

Malenkov was working the finest Beluga onto his bread, his eyes fixed on the report, his ears focused on the NKVD Chief.

Beria sipped daintily at his tea, trying to ignore the scrutiny, working through the questions that Stalin had posed to him.

He recited the message in his mind.

‘[priority code] HHH

[agent] Alkonost

[date code] 230945c

[personal code as an authenticator] FB21162285

[distribution1] route x-eyes only

[distribution1] AalphaA [Comrade Chairman Beria].

[message] Major setback to project. A+ direct contact. Errors in Baratol explosive lens maths, and in initiation. The Baratol 32 ELM is perfect on paper, but is somehow flawed. ELM project restarted from scratch. EBW initiation scraped and restarted. Aim-Eve.

[message ends]

Message authenticates. Codes for non-compromisation valid.

Attent
ion is drawn to spelling error, in last sentence. Check has been done with accepted distress indicators, and this error does NOT indicate distress.

RECEIVED 09:19 21/7/45-B.V.LEMSKY’

“Comrade General Secretary, firstly to explain the terms. ELM is the explosive lens maths, a complicated set of equations that dictate the shape of the thirty two identical charges, ensuring equal focus when they explode.”

Beria had had an extended phonecall with Igor Kurchatov, head of the USSR’s Atomic Research programme,
trying to understand the scientist’s interpretation of the message, and deciphering it all into non-technical language, suitable for Stalin’s consumption.

“EBW is a type of detonator, extremely precise, by all accounts, which is necessary for the exact ignitions required to compress the core material.”

“I understand this, Lavrentiy. Now, Kurchatov’s interpretation?”

“Comrade Kuchatov believes it is definitely possible that our own programme may well be affected. Both EBW and ELM have progressed, not as far as he had hoped, by his own account. Given our limited suitable material, he believes it is advisable to commence our own
review of the maths, prior to conducting tests.”

“What sort of
review?”

“Mirroring those of the Amerikanski, Comrade. The message is quite specific. It is perfect on paper, but flawed. The Capitalists have missed something, and Kurchatov wants us to find it before we test.”

Beria loosened his collar.

“I should also say that Alkonost is a mathematician, and a specialist in Geometry. Undoubtedly, our agent will have worked in this area, although there is no claim to having sabotaged the calculations. My understanding is that all such calculations are doubled-teamed, to ensure consistency and accuracy.”

Stalin grunted and leant back in his chair, filling his pipe, and digesting that instalment of Beria’s report.

Stalin brought Malenkov into the firing line without warning.

“What delay does Comrade Kurchatov anticipate if the check goes ahead?”

Malenkov ha
dn’t thought up a way to sweeten the pill, so he was committed to baring the facts and hoping the tirade wouldn’t come.

“Anything up to eight months, Comrade General Secretary.”

Silence.

Striking a match, Stalin drew the orange flame down into the bowl of his pipe, drawing noisily on it, until rich smoke started to fill his mouth.

He shook the match out, placing its charred remnant carefully in the ashtray.

“Eight months?
Eight months, to do a set of sums? Is he mad?”

The questions lacked much of Stalin’s normal bite, and
both men sensed it was just for show, and that the Soviet Union’s leader was resigned to the delay.

They
stayed silent, just in case, leaving Stalin to continue after a few furious puffs.

“And the detonators? What of them?”

Malenkov deferred to Beria.

“Kurchatov is less clear, but it should be less time than the maths. Even less, if one of our agents is successful in obtaining better information on the EBW. He only has a hand sketch by Alkonost to go on as the basis for our own devices.”

The rapid puffing continued.

“So, Comrade
Marshal, we come to the spelling error. What do you make of that?”

Back on safe ground, Beria could spe
ak more easily.