Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (45 page)

The radio died.

Olegrevin felt the thuds as something chewed away at his aircraft. Whilst the response was slightly less than normal, he evaded with a tight port turn.

In front of him, an enemy 262 was in trouble. Instinctively, he sent a burst into the damaged jet and was rewarded with an instant fireball.

Just in case, he yelled his orders into the radio, but he expected no reply, and there was none, as he was sure that the radio was the original of the burnt electrical smell that assailed him.

The enemy fighter ace was nowhere to be seen, and he realized that suddenly the sky had become less busy.

Olegrevin’s eyes flitted from aircraft to aircraft, but all he saw were the red and white tails of his regiment.

Below and heading north-east were the MiGs of Djorov’s group.

In the distance, he could just about make out the remnants of the 109s that had escorted the first group of enemy bombers.

As he double-checked that no hostile aircraft were still in the vicinity, he made a loose count of his aircraft, and came up short by seven.

‘Nearly a third… fucking bastards… the fucki…’

His eyes saw and sent the images to his brain, which took a little longer to understand.

He thumbed his useless mike, despite himself.

“Yaguar-belyy, Yaguar-belyy, enemy aircraft diving… break left… break left!”

Even as he shouted uselessly, Olegrevin worked both pedal and joystick, breaking away from the rallying aircraft of his regiment, reasoning that if his men couldn’t hear him, they would at least follow his movements and realise that the enemy was upon them.

Below him, Djorov had been momentarily distracted counting his own aircraft, finding five missing, before his eyes strayed back to the 262 group… and what was diving on them.

“Yaguar-belyy! Yaguar-belyy! Enemy aircraft diving… break left… break left!”

‘More jets… Blyad!’

Steinhoff, nursing a sprained ankle, found a position from where he could observe what was happening above.

His Walther was kept close to hand, just in case some nosey Soviet soldier came on the scene.

He didn’t know who the new arrivals were, but he had no doubt that it was the head of the DRL’s fighter units himself, flying with the newly established ‘Squadron of Aces’, a unit constructed around experienced men that nearly rivalled his own for total kills and missions flown.

Steinhoff’s professional eye took in the small details that escaped most other watchers, instinctively understanding which of the black blobs was flown by an expert, and which was likely to fall in the vicious dogfight that was developing.

The ‘Geschwader von Asse’, as the new unit was officially named, or ‘Asse Geschwader’ as it was more simply known by its pilots and ground crew, was easily gaining the upper hand, the Soviet fighters already low on fuel and ammunition, and the pilots tired by the intense combat they had already experienced.

Steinhoff sniggered to himself, remembering the AG on the side of the General de Jagdflieger’s Me262, standing not for ‘Asse Geschwader’, but just for the legend’s name.

Adolf Galland.

He shaded his eyes, seeking some sign of the great man in the skies above but the aircraft, all of the same type, were indistinguishable from each other, so he could not even celebrate when an aircraft here and there staggered and fell from the sky.

Steinhoff grasped his pistol tighter in sympathetic alarm for his comrades, as he watched some of the strange new Russian jets rising up into the fray, but relaxed quickly as he examined their movements and swiftly concluded that they were undoubtedly second best in aerial combat with the superior 262s.

He shouted at the blue and white battleground above.

“Come on, leutchen. Knock the communist bastards out of the sky.”

None the less, the arrival of the Sukhois gave the enemy some breathing space, and two distinct groups formed, that comprising the enemy making off and diving as quickly as they could, the other group, quickly reformed, headed off to the southwest.

Steinhoff frowned, wondering why the DRL aircraft had yielded such a strong position, not knowing that the ‘Asse Geschwader’ had been recalled to respond to a heavy Soviet ground attack mission on German frontline units near Göttingen.

He watched the 262s depart at high speed, and then similarly dwelt on the Soviet departure, all the time noting, with satisfaction, the pall of smoke rising from Magdeburg.

His satisfaction turned to ice water in his veins as something metal touched the back of his neck.

A gravelly voice, seemingly hell bent on destroying Steinhoff’s native language, asked a simple and direct question.

“So… who the fuck are you, sunshine?”

Steinhoff talked and the four men listened, whilst six others, similarly attired, waited in the shadows and hedges, looking the other way.

Even though the men wore no recognizable uniforms, they were undoubtedly professional soldiers, and men who would kill him without compunction.

What he very quickly appreciated was that his life hung in the balance, so he produced his documents as quickly as he could, and sought permission to remove his bland jacket, revealing his proper uniform and awards in all their glory.

The speaker raised an eyebrow, but otherwise gave no sign of any reaction.

Weapons remained trained upon him whilst the officer, he was clearly in charge, examined the paperwork.

“Right-ho, boys. He’s one of ours.”

A hand offered up the documents, and remained, waiting to be shaken.

“Sorry about that, Colonel, but we can’t be too careful. Titus Bottomley, Major, SAS. You’re lucky we’re here. There’s an absolute cartload of Uncle Joe’s boys down the road there, and sure as eggs is eggs they saw you come down. We have to move, and move now. Sarnt Cookson.”

An arm whipped around Steinhoff’s shoulder and the German found himself propelled by an irresistible force, belying the British NCOs modest size.

“Arsch!”

The ankle sent a shockwave up his leg, working his mouth on arrival at his head.

“Sorry… my ankle.”

Bottomley took a quick look and turned towards a fallen tree trunk.

“Hold, Cookson. You’re injured, Colonel?”

Steinhoff managed to confirm the ankle problem through gritted teeth.

“Settle him down there, Sarnt. Corporal Tappett, have a quick shufti at this fellow’s ankle, there’s a good man. We need to be gone in two, so shake a leg.”

The tree trunk separated into two pieces, and the mobile part moved forward and knelt in front of the incredulous Steinhoff.

In under two minutes, his ankle was bound tightly and two tablets had travelled down his throat, effective painkillers flushed down with a gulp of water.

Whilst that was happening, Bottomley consulted with another man who had emerged from a small bush, establishing the line of march and movement orders with his second-in-command.

Tappett interrupted respectfully.

“Major, he’s good to go, but not too fast, Sah. It’s a nice sprain, to be sure.”

Tappett received a slap on the shoulder by way of thanks and acknowledgement.

“Hang with our guest then, Corporal, if you please.”

Without further ceremony, Bottomley circled his hand around his head and motioned with his hand.

Steinhoff gave up counting when he reached forty men that emerged from their concealment, and realised that these British soldiers were, if nothing else, extremely adept at the art of blending into the countryside.

“Right, Colonel, we’ve a few miles to go, and precious little time to do it in, so do please try to keep up.”

Bottomley’s German had improved so much that the pilot understood it had all been part of the deception.

He had heard of these SAS soldiers, but had never expected to encounter any, let alone rely on them for his life.

“I’ll do my best, Major. Lead on.”

The binding was good, and Steinhoff followed the main body on their journey back to Allied lines.

As they made their way steadily away from the site of his landing, the DRL officer took in more of his new ‘comrades’, their tatty clothing and unkempt appearance not in keeping with their lithe and professional movements, and their obviously well maintained array of weapons.

Despite still being behind Soviet lines, he knew he would be kept safe and return to his Geschwader in safety. Clearly, these Britishers were all that their reputation promised, so Steinhoff fully understood that he was surrounded by a group of extremely competent professionals, for whom the art of warfare came as easy as falling off a bike.

Sergei Tomaschuk was not an early riser at the best of times, and this was most certainly not the best of times. The previous evening he had enjoyed the Lourenco Marques hostelries and consumed considerable quantities of the local libations, rums and beers mainly, and his all three of his heads were paying a terrible price for a few hours of pleasure.

The hammering on his door roused him from his agonies, and he determined to destroy whoever it was rousting him well before his time.

The door flew open as he wrenched on the handle, only for his plans to change immediately, when he found that his torturer was none other than the NKVD resident, who stood waiting impatiently.

“Comrade Tomaschuk, eventually. Good morning. You have two minutes to get ready.”

Grassovny clapped his hands to chivy his number two along and walked in, throwing open the curtains to allow the early morning sun to stream into the modest bedroom.

Outside, the USSR’s embassy compound was quiet and going about its business as normal, unaware of the urgent matter that had woken the NKVD’s top man in Mozambique, and brought him to the door of the Naval Attaché and deputy head of the NKVD section at such an unearthly hour.

Looking much better than he felt, Tomaschuk stepped out of his bathroom, resplendent in the uniform of a Red Navy Captain of the 2nd Rank.

Grassovny again clapped his hands, as much in approval of the metamorphosis as to underline the importance of his mission.

“Right, Comrade Kapitan, let us go.”

Grabbing his cap, Tomaschuk hurried after the disappearing NKVD man.

Catching him up on the stairs, he asked the first of his many questions.

“Where are we going, Comrade?”

“To the docks, Comrade Kapitan, to the docks.”

“The docks? What’s happening?”

“It’s the English.”

“What?”

“They’ve landed soldiers!”

Eight minutes later, the two Soviet officials were in a nondescript building, overlooking the harbour.

It did not need an expert eye to understand that British soldiers were swarming all over the docks, and that two grey painted transport ships were tied up at the quays, with what appeared to be a large warship hovering outside the port entrance.

“So… you’re the sailor. What are we looking at, Comrade Kapitan.”

Tomaschuk knew one for certain, and three by class, so was confident in his answer.

He started with the vessel disgorging soldiers.

“The nearest vessel is a transport, and American one. It’s what they call an attack transport, a ship that delivers troops straight onto a beach or into the war zone.”

Grassovny continued to stare through his binoculars as he asked another question.

“How many men?”

“Two thousand or so, Comrade Grassovny.”

“Four thousand at most then.”

“At the least, Comrade Grassovny.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The second vessel serves a similar purpose. I can’t remember its type right now, but its capabilities are roughly the same. In any case, I say four because there’s only berthing for two vessels at the moment. There may be others below the horizon.”

Grassnovy understood and inwardly lauded his man’s understanding.

“And the warship there?”

Tomaschuk moved his head to confirm his first impressions of the enemy destroyer.

“A British J-class destroyer. I can find out which one, but I doubt it makes a difference. The smaller vessel is an ocean-going tug.”

As if responding to an unheard order, the two men moved their binoculars to observe the larger warship, gently moving around outside of the harbour.

Grassovny waited patiently, and gasped audibly as another enemy vessel became apparent.

“Blyad! There’s two ships out there.”

“Yes, so I see, Comrade. The nearest one is a light cruiser, again British… Arethusa class I think… which means she’s either Arethusa herself, or Aurora. The others were sunk by the Germanski.”

“And the very big one?”

He drew hard on his memory of the relevant silhouette books and intelligence sheets, and could only come up with one thought.

“It’s an Essex class aircraft carrier. Over that I can’t be specific. They all look alike, but the Amerikanski have plenty of them.”

“Amerikanski?”

“Definitely, Comrade. They have given none to the British that intelligence knows of, so it is Amerikanski.”

‘Blyad… that complicates things…’

A cough from the doorway drew their attention, and a nondescript black man greeted their gaze.

“Well, Mutumbu? What did you discover?”

“Their ship is unwell, Mestre. They get permission to dock and make better very quickly.”

“And the soldiers?”

“The soldiers are allowed ashore to walk their legs, Mestre. No guns allowed.”

He had noticed the lack of weapons, so that fitted.

“Good work, Mutumbu. Now get your boys working hard. I want to know who they are and where they’re going within the hour.”

The African nodded his head and was gone.

Both Soviet intelligence officers returned to examining the view, processing the latest information and comparing it with what they were seeing.

Less than an hour later, the additional information was to hand, and both prepared urgent reports for Moscow.