Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (46 page)

“Walter, scrub that order about Norway. We
prepare planning for McCreery’s operation as soon as is practicable. This new development, if it is ‘kosher’, presents us with a massive opportunity.””

Bedell-Smith nodded
, and went to turn away.

“Plus,” he
turned back and refocused on his Commander, “Get Sir Roger Dalziel over here, as quickly as possible.”

There was obviously more.

“Also, I need Admiral Somerville here today, straight away.”

The CoS immediately understood where
the energized Eisenhower was coming from, and smiled.

The Allies were going to hit back in a big and unexpected way.

Suddenly Eisenhower found himself alone.

He relaxed into one of the comfortable chairs and savoured his latest cigarette, alternating tobacco and drink, enjoying some of the newly arrived coffee.

The front line in Europe drew his main attention, working his mind to the limit.

However
, there was a part of him, the rarely surfaced gambler and adventurer part, which snuck an occasional look at Denmark and the Baltic Sea to the east, naturally drawing his eye further to the Northern Coast of Germany and, beyond it, Poland.

A thing of orchestrated hell - a terrible symphony of light and flame.

Ed Murrow, radio broadcast about his Lancaster bombing mission over Berlin in 1943.

Konev was a man on a mission.

His orders were clear.

2nd Red Banner Central European Front was to bypass the Ruhr to the south and strike up into Eastern Holland to isolate the enemy forces in a pocket from Dortmund to Dusseldorf, whilst 1st Baltic, similarly reinforced, pushed to the south-west, intending to meet up with 2nd Red Banner somewhere on the Rhine.

However, Konev also sensed that Zhukov was deliberately hamstringing him, keeping him almost confined
, in favour of 3rd Red Banner to the south, and that damned Armenian in 1st Baltic.

Both of those commanders had unlimited powers to advance, whereas he, and only he, was to remain this side of the Rhine and concentrate on the encirclement of the Ruhr.

Well, he would see just how far he could stretch his orders. Success always brought with it understanding for those who had exceeded their instructions, and he simply couldn’t ignore the possibility that the map threw up at him.

His Chief of Staff understood the bald
Marshal, or more importantly, understood the ambition that drove him.

It was no surprise that the
Marshal started to look at things beyond the orders from Zhukov, and the CoS was so unsurprised that he didn’t query the procedure, merely recorded Konev’s instructions for translating into movement orders as soon as possible.

Working with a set of dividers, looking at distances and travel times, logistics and the terrain, Konev
quietly made his plan.

Satisfied with
its feasibility, he threw the dividers down and looked up at Petrov, stood with pad at the ready for his commanders orders.

“Good. Now then, we will proceed with the orders as received. Our forces will focus on this area,” he indicated the ground behind the Ruhr, “But we must also obey our orders, specifically the section about ensuring we have secure flanks.”

He drew his Chief of Staff into the conspiracy with an inviting gesture.

Bending over the map, Petrov continued to make his notes.

“We will send the 5th Guards and 6th Guards Tank Armies this way. I want to secure these bridges on our flanks, just to make sure there is no threat of a counter-attack on our left flank.”

Two of the bridges sat on main routes into Holland, the first at Maasbracht, the second to the south at Stein.

The final bridge was in the middle, a small village called Berg an der Maas, three kilometres behind Sittard, home of the 101st US Airborne Division.

Konev was going for the Maas and intended to cross it in force, regardless of the restraint Zhukov had placed upon him.

The mission had been looked at previously, and set aside for a number of reasons.

The biggest one was the strength of
Soviet air defences, a strength that had been eroded over time, as the demands of the European Front called fighter unit after fighter unit to the German front.

Secondly, the limited strength of the Allied air forces that could carry out the mission.

Thirdly, the situation regarding Soviet supply had not been fully appreciated until recently.

In 1940, the British and French had considered bombing Baku and Grozny
, to strangle the fuel supply to Nazi Germany, such supply being a by-product of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact.

The
groundwork done at that time, Operation Pike, was looked at and used to plan the newest attempt to knock out a major part of the USSR’s oil production.

Three
of the India-based RAF squadron’s were tasked, flown from the sub-continent to a hastily refurbished facility at Shiraz in Iran. From there, 99 Squadron’s Liberator Bombers, supported by 211 Squadron’s Mosquitoes, both covered by the Beaufighter Mk X’s and XI’s of 177 Squadron, were sent northwards to damage the oil production facilities at Baku on the Caspian Sea.

They appeared
high on the eastern horizon and caught the Soviet air defences on the hop.

Nothing was in the air.

No flak, no aircraft, no balloons, just a scoop of Pelicans, and a mated pair of Whooper swans to interrupt the rich blueness of the perfect late afternoon sky.

Once the defences appreciated that the growing dots were enemy aircraft, the warning went out
, and the civilian populace scurried for cover, as the gunners prepared their weapons, and the fighter pilots ran to waiting machines.

From the airfield considered home by the 57th Guards Fighter Aviation Regiment, the surviving six P-63 KingCobras rose to meet the threat.

On the other side of Baku, the 773rd Fighter Aviation Regiment responded by putting eight P-39 Aircobras in the air. From the same field, three Spitfire Mk V’s of the Baku District Pilot Training Unit added their venerable strength.

The Fighter Regiments had both been transferred back from the Western Front, returned to safer airspace to recover and bring themselves back up to strength
, before going back to Germany.

As the
Soviet planes went up, the Allied bombs came down, the Liberators dropping from a comfortable height of twenty-two thousand feet.

Five hundred pound bombs fell amongst the storage tanks and
wellheads, the refineries and the chemical plants.

The target was so densely packed
that it was difficult for the bomb-aimers of 99 Squadron to miss.

211 Squadron came in lower, with more precise intent,
pressing hard behind the torrent of descending bombs, their mission to ensure that the prime refining and chemical facilities received direct attention.

The training unit Spitfires flogged themselves to death
, seeking valuable height, as they pursued the Liberators.

The Aircobras and
Kingcobras latched onto the Mosquitoes of 211 Squadron, spoiling many a bomb-run, causing misses, or even preventing release.

Above the whirling mass came the Beaufighters, plunging down to take the pressure off the unarmed Mk XVI Mosquitoes.

Too late for one RAF crew, their aircraft coming apart around them, as the heavy 37mm cannon shells of a Kingcobra ripped the plywood wonder apart.

The firepower of the Kingcobra was impressive, adding four .50cal Brownings to the heavy cannon that fired through the propeller boss.

The Beaufighter brought a lot more to the aerial combat, its standard four 20mm Hispano cannons supplemented by six extra .303 machine guns on the wings.

Three of the cobras were hacked down on the first sweep, the weight of
metal defeating the Bell’s robust airframe.

None of the pilots escaped and all five aircrew, British and
Soviet, were dead before their aircraft hit the ground.

The Wing Commander in the lead Mosquito was hopping mad.

“Sinbad Leader calling Sabre leader, get them off our backs. Now! You just cost us an aircraft. Now do your jobs!”

Squadron Leader Arkwright grimaced at the open remarks,
made more uncomfortable by the fact that the WingCo was right. 177 Squadron, no, he had been slow to respond to the enemy fighters.

“Sinbad Leader
, roger.”

The Beaufighters roared in again, keeping themselves between the interceptors and the regrouping Mossies.

In the sky beyond, smokey, fiery trails marked the death dives of two of the training unit’s Spitfires, victims of the defensive armament of the withdrawing Liberators.

The Kingcobras flew off to one flank, the Aircobras diving to ground level
, in an attempt to split 177 Squadron’s defence.

Arkwright nodded in acknowledgement.

‘These boys know their job;’
a professional’s opinion on the swift reaction of the Soviet pilots.

“Sabre leader to all Sabre. Blue Flight come to port and stick with the yellow tails,” the unofficial marking recently adopted by the 57th Guards helping him in his description, “Red Flight take the flight at ground level. Green flight return to protect the bombers. Execute.”

Three distinct groups of Beaufighters formed, Blue flight scoring a swift success, downing another of the Kingcobras. Red Flight pursued the Soviet 773rd Regiment, and came under fire from light AA weapons, one of the heavy RAF fighters losing an engine as bullets smashed home.

Green Flig
ht, complete with the Squadron Leader, ran straight into a barrage of fire from heavier weapons, guns that had been waiting for the moment that they no longer risked hitting their own.

One Beau received a direct hit in the observer’s position, severing the fuselage in two. The rear portion fell away like a piece of garbage, its descent irregular and uncontrolled.

The front section, still powered by two brutish Bristol Hercules engines, flew on unsteadily, the horrendously wounded pilot trying hard to make his aircraft stay in the air.

He failed
, and the front section fell away, arrowing into the water of the Caspian Sea.

Three more Beaufighters took hits.

One lost an engine and part of its wing, but a magnificent piece of flying brought the aircraft safely down, landing heavily on one of the wider local roads.

The pilot brought his damaged aircraft to a halt and immediately set about destroying everything of value. He need not have bothered
, as the gunners in two venerable BA-11 armoured cars smashed the Beaufighter and her crew to pieces, happy to be doing something to protect the Rodina from the terrorist flyers.

The second fighter lost four foot of its port wing and, more importantly, the fuel cell in the wing was punctured, spilling precious fuel.

None the less, it remained airborne and limped off in the direction of its home base.

The third aircraft hit belonged to Arkwright.

The 37mm shell had failed to explode, which, for Arkwright, was just as well.

It had entered the aircraft just behind the control column, travelled between his arms without touching uniform or
flesh, and exited the canopy, smashing everything in its path and ventilating the cockpit.

Face cut by shards of perspex from the damaged cockpit, Arkwright struggled to see, the blood dripping into his eyes.

None the less, he was still called upon to fly the aircraft and make decisions, the first of which was reacting to Red Flight’s failure to interdict the Aircobras.

Green flight were best positioned now, and so he sent them in, staying back as his lack of proper vision could be more of a liability in the close quarter fight.

Blue flight was directed to recover their station on the Mosquito squadron, which unit was holding briefly, whilst the Aircobra situation was resolved.

Green Flight attacked and scored immediately, sending the enemy commander spinning spectacularly into a burning oil tank and driving the Aircobras away, opening up the attack run to the Mosquitoes of 211 Squadron.