Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (46 page)

“Come in.”

Lavrentiy Beria strode in, clutching two folders, both containing distressing news.

He nodded to Isakov, whom he had not expected to be present, and suddenly realised that he had been beaten to delivery of one revelation by the Admiral of the Fleet and commander of the Red Navy.

“Ah, Lavrentiy. You too have news from Mozambique, I take it?”

“Yes, indeed, Comrade General Secretary.”

Beria handed over the relevant folder, which contained all the reports concerning possible Allied movements to the Gulf, not just the latest information from Lourenco Marques.

The latest message tied in perfectly with the one Isakov had presented a few minutes beforehand.

Placing the folder on the desk, Stalin resumed tugging gently on his pipe, studying the words in silence.

He pointed the stem at the paperwork.

“So, we now have hard words… direct knowledge of this movement of Allied ships… and better information on where they are going.”

He tapped the naval report, if for no other reason than to annoy his NKVD boss.

“A carrier, a cruiser, a destroyer, all escorting two vessels… a single damaged ship into harbour. What does that imply?”

Isakov understood the question was for him.

“That they have great strength, Comrade General Secretary. To allocate such a force… it’s not for such small assets… not for small a mission… it suggests a much larger force to hand, one with a surfeit of strength and numbers.”

Beria took the opportunity as Isakov drew a breath.

“The, ah, special report from East Africa suggested over two hundred ships, Comrade General Secretary. Without that report we could probably suspect some sort of maskirovka, but that report was quite specific.”

Stalin and Beria both, demonstrating full agreement.

The General Secretary took up the analysis.

“And now, we have this information. A ship develops a fault and puts into a port, seeking to repair. This time on the other coast of Africa. It carries these soldiers…,” he looked down to remind himself, “These… 63rd Royal Navy soldiers… British soldiers in an Amerikanski ship, supported by capital ships, British and Amerikanski… all supposedly heading north-east.”

He drew on his pipe and spoke directly to Isakov.

“Heading to Bushehr?”

“Yes, it would seem so, Comrade General Secretary.”

“And we have no naval assets with which to interfere?”

“None at all, Comrade General Secretary.”

Beria realised he had extra information and raised his hand.

“Comrade General Secretary, the soldiers. My agents identified at least one senior officer from the British Fourth Corps, a unit we previously had included in their maskirovka operation."

“Second Army Group?”

“The same, Comrade General Secretary. It would appear possible that the transition from maskirovka to real units has taken place.”

“Montgomery.”

Beria nodded, allowing Stalin to cross the ‘I’s and dot the ‘T’s himself.

“So, this fleet of ships contains soldiers of their previously non-existent Second Army, on their way to join up with the British hero Montgomery, so they can attack into our territories in the south, and threaten our oil and mineral supplies.”

Neither senior man chose to speak, leaving a heavy silence in place, the ticking of the clock all-pervasive.

Stalin sucked pensively on his pipe, his mind working hard, his eyes narrowed in cunning as he worked the possibilities.

“Still think this is a maskirovka, Lavrentiy?”

“I believe it was when we first evaluated it, Comrade General Secretary. A cheap one, centered around sending the wounded Montgomery to Persia.”

“And now?”

“If it is maskirovka, then it is anything but cheap. Moving all those ships is a monumental task, is it not, Comrade Admiral?”

Isakov started, unexpectedly dragged back into the discussion.

“Simply staggering, in resources and complexity, Comrade Marshal.”

Beria nodded in acknowledgement and pressed ahead.

“And we now have confirmation of real soldiers, and ones previously thought to exist in name only, as part of their ghost army maskirovka. Comrade General Secretary, if this is maskirovka, then it is on a huge scale, and beyond what we have previously accepted as their skill level. That being said, I would like more time to develop better knowledge of their strength, but I understand that you must act immediately, for the sake of the Motherland.”

Beria kept the smug look off his face, knowing that he had just danced nicely around committing himself fully, and handed full responsibility to his leader.

Stalin puffed away, understanding that to do nothing would be unforgiveable.

He picked up the telephone and waited for the briefest of moments.

“Summon the GKO immediately. Nine o’clock. No excuses.”

Replacing the receiver, Stalin looked at the old timepiece, almost as if seeking confirmation of his decision.

Something made him hesitate.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?”

The second folder came into Stalin’s possession.

He read it slowly, his eyes widening, so much so that Isakov felt the need to enquire of the contents of Beria’s other folder.

“From one of the observation post we and the Japanese established on Tsushima…”

The pain was written all over Isakov’s face, the island having given its name to a terrible defeat that the Imperial Navy inflicted on Russian forces.

“It’s a siting report from the Senbyomakiyama station, Comrade Admiral. I have sent a copy to your office for verification. The numbers seem a little off, but the observer is a member of your navy, and seems adamant.”

That the man in question was also an agent of the NKVD was left unsaid.

“When, where, and how many ships, Comrade Marshal Beria?”

A huge sigh escaped Stalin’s lips, and he raised his hand to prevent Beria from saying any more, continuing to skip read loud enough for the other two to follow.

“Yesterday… between Tsushima and the Korean coast… heading northeast… and… this… this figure is accurate, Comrade Marshal?”

“I believe so, Comrade General Secretary. The report is not specific, but the officer in question is extremely reliable and not easily rattled. I have no problem believing his figures.”

Which was as committed as Beria ever got.

“Then we have a fleet of over three hundred vessels, from merchant vessels to aircraft carriers, sailing in the direction of the Sea of Japan.”

He rounded on Isakov.

“First Mozambique!”

He smashed the folder down hard, making both men jump.

“Now Tsushima!”

The second folder followed the first.

“Do they really have those assets, Comrade Admiral?”

Isakov needed no thinking time.

“Yes, Comrade General Secretary, they do.”

“Then I suggest you get your Pacific Fleet to do something about these bastards!”

He rammed his finger into the report from Senbyomakiyama, just to emphasis his point.

Stalin turned swiftly to the NKVD boss.

“Move more of your assets to the eastern borders immediately, Lavrentiy. Get us more information from whatever source you can. Work with the GRU. We need hard facts.”

He leant forward and picked up the telephone again.

“Get me Marshal Vasilevsky immediately.”

Late that evening, an urgent report passed across Beria’s desk and into Stalin’s hands, one that confirmed the arrival of the vehicles and men of the 4th Australian Armoured Brigade in Southern Iran.

The following day, further large scale movements of Soviet forces began, sending additional forces to the newly established Caspian Front, and more on the longer journey eastwards, to Siberia, and the shores of the Pacific.

So, whilst thousands of Soviet soldiers moved south and east, taking with them valuable equipment and supplies, the reports on their deployment filtered back across No Man’s Land, or were garnered from the indiscreet whispers and gripes of overworked logistics officers.

They arrived before incredulous eyes, presenting themselves to the men who had developed and sold the ‘big’ idea.

They, in turn, proverbially rubbed their hands in glee, almost needing to pinch themselves that the deceptions seemed to have worked as they did.

All in all, it was a stunning coup for Allied Intelligence, and a maskirovka of epic proportions.

It had required a show of strength, and that was delivered by a host of warships and merchant shipping, all to demonstrate real power, although, for Iran, the vessels carried only a naval infantry division, an Australian armoured brigade, and a few reduced size headquarters units, all of questionable fighting value.

The Pacific fleet contained more substance, with the alternative of putting their army and marine units ashore in a number of places.

In the event that the ruses were discovered them they would have, if nothing else, caused the Red Army to consumed large quantities of its POL reserves.

And there was always the option of changing the two ruses into something more substantial at a later date.

But for now, the Red Army sent much-needed units south to meet the threat posed by Montgomery’s force, and east to counter the seeming invasion of Siberia.

So, whilst Soviet attention was split, all Allied eyes turned back to Europe, and to the area of operations for ‘Awakening Giant’

Pain was still ever-present, but with the combination of his body’s resistance and painkillers of all descriptions, Yarishlov managed to get through each hour with hope preserved.

The skin grafts were agony, but he had contributed so very little of his own flesh to cover the huge burns, with most of the material coming from the corpses of other unfortunates, whose skin was harvested and refrigerated, for use by those whose capacity to donate from their own undamaged flesh sites was far outweighed by the damage they had sustained.

By such means did Yarishlov receive treatment that started to repair the deadly work done by the burning T-54.

The baths, the operations, the dressings, the times when his raw flesh was left deliberately exposed, the awful moments before his painkillers were due, and the effects of the previous doses had long worn off; each brought their own particular brand of hurt.

At his insistence, Yarishlov’s dress uniform was placed on a stand in full sight of his bed.

It was there to remind him of his goal… to motivate him to conquer the challenges ahead.

Having just had his analgesia, the pain was removed and he studied the uniform, drawing inspiration from it and, as always, his eyes lingered on the Hero Award.

Testing his fingers, he constantly thanked his creator that they had not been badly damaged, he became aware of the approach of a visitor, and was delighted to see it was Kriks.

“Stefan!”

“Polkovnik!”

He went to embrace his commander and friend, but hesitated, not knowing where to hold and where to avoid.

“It’s difficult to find somewhere. Here, take my hand.”

Yarishlov extended his right hand, the bandages hiding the loss of his little finger and part of the fourth.

Having shaken hands, Kriks leant forward and kissed his friend on both cheeks in the Russian way.

“It’s good to see you, Sir.”

Yarishlov laughed.

“Forget that crap, old friend. For the Motherland’s sake, call me Arkady.”

“That will come hard, but I will try… ah… Arkady.”

“So how are the boys?”

“Out of the line at the moment, which is how I got away to see you.”

“And?”

The pain was now evident on Kriks’ face too.

“In a fight on the ground, we were always ahead. You know the boys… you trained them, Polkovnik. But their aircraft have become worse, if that’s at all possible.”

“Losses?”

“Most of our losses were in the battle you were wounded in, and an engagement three days afterwards. We launched a counter-attack and ran into dug-in enemy tanks and anti-tanks guns. We held our own, even made advances, but their aircraft came and we lost many of our vehicles.”

Yarishlov asked again.

“Losses?”

“Half of our boys are in the ground or in a similar position to yourself, Comrade.”

Yarishlov grimaced with the pain of his thoughts.

“We’re out of the line and getting some replacements. Some of the new lads are promising, but they’re all raw, and… well…” Kriks looked around, checking who was in earshot, before leaning forward and whispering the rest of his response, “… the Army seems like it’s fishing in the bottom of the pond now.”

Yarishlov managed what counted for a grin.

“Last time you said that, we were facing Hitler Youth and Volkssturm. Those bastards did alright.”

He moved in even closer.

“The peasant spirit’s there, but little else. And it’s different for our soldiers now, remember? The Germanski were fighting for their homes and families. What are we fighting for, eh? You said yourself, the war is lost. And our boys are now fighting for what? We started this fucking mess, Comrade Polkovnik, and we’re fighting in Germany for soil we’ve shed blood on twice already.”

A nurse ventured into the ward, and busied herself with some enamelware.

Kriks changed his tack.

“The new boys are a scrawny bunch, not a scrap of fat on any of them… some have even been released from the Gulags to serve… others come straight from the hospital sick bed… probably about one in every five will make a combat soldier.”

He leant back and found a chair, all the time looking around to see who might have heard.

“I heard our prisoners of war were being given a chance to serve the Motherland again, Stefan?”

Kriks nodded and took a seat.

“If it’s so, and I doubt it, then they are being used elsewhere, not as qualified reinforcements for units like ours. So our strength gets watered down all the time, as good men die and boys take their place.”

The nurse moved to tend to the nearest patient, making them change the subject.

“Anyway, Comrade Polkovnik. How are you doing?”

Yarishlov spared Kriks the gory details, understating the seriousness, talking up the positives, and concluded with his returning to uniform.

“Well, that’s great news, Comrade Pol… Arkady… really it is. And when you return to service, remember to get me transferred.”

Something in the tone made Yarishlov frown.

“Is there a problem, Stefan?”

The nurse disappeared as quickly as she had arrived, and Kriks wrung his cap in his hands, in a very ‘peasant’ way, clearly uneasy about the matter he had just been cornered on.

He considered his words very carefully.

“Comrade Deniken has changed, Arkady.”

Yarishlov understood his man, and decided on a different approach.

“Unless you’ve changed, I expect you have something warming in your possession, you old rogue.”

Kriks smiled the smile of the guiltless and protested his innocence, whilst fishing in his bread bag.

Again he checked the small ward for nosey people, but the patients were all asleep, and there were now no members of staff to see or hear him.

He slid something under his friend’s pillow.

“Later… and for medicinal purposes only, of course.”

The protest died on Yarishlov’s lips as another bottle was produced.

“This is for now,” and a bottle of Goldwasser was broached and poured into two cups that magically appeared from the same bread bag.

“Na Zdorovie.”

The toast was whispered and two throats suffered under the assault of the Polish liqueur, laced with flakes of 22-carat gold.

The liquid assault was repeated.

“Fucking hell.”

Yarishlov coughed his way through swallowing the second shot.

“Hideous… give me another.”

The two friends smiled their way through five shots before a halt was called, albeit temporarily.

Whilst a sense of well-being filled Yarishlov, partially from the liqueur and partially from the visit of his old friend, he had not forgotten his question, and posed it as easily and blandly as he could.

“So what is young Deniken up to then, eh?”

Kriks, loosened by the alcohol, was less reluctant to hold his tongue.

“He’s gone mad… really… totally changed. No longer the happy boy we met all those months ago… yes… still efficient as an officer… but he’s lost his humour.”

Kriks grabbed his face and pulled on the skin, feeling wretched.

“He’s had prisoners shot… executed for no great reason. He was very angry when you were wounded… he took it out on some prisoners. It happens, of course. But it continues… he’s still doing it. It’s like you getting hurt has transformed him into some sort of machine… he works, he eats, he sleeps, he has no time for me, not like you did… like he used to.”

He checked the ward again.

“Remember how he used to be with his soldiers, eh? Always smiling… he knew their names… would sit down with them for a vodka and a cigarette… not now… not now…”

“What have you said to him? How did he respond?”

“He dismisses me. He won’t talk about anything except the unit and the needs of the war. I mention you and he blanks me. I bring out a bottle and get told to go and drink it elsewhere.”

“Does he not talk to you at all?”

“Once he did. Although it was brief and he was very controlled. He was very angry.”

“About?”

“You getting wounded, the men who were dying in this ‘stupid war’… his words, Arkady, and the fact that all the dying and suffering was for nothing.”

“Is that what he said?”

“That’s what I remember, Comrade Polkovnik.”

Kriks sat up and increased the volume of his voice, acknowledging the approaching nurse as he warned his friend of her presence.

“Visiting time is over, Comrade
Praporshchik
. Sorry. Comrade Polkovnik, time for your bath.”

The two shook hands again.

Yarishlov held his friend’s hand as firmly as he could.

“Remember, Stefan… he’s a good man. Stay with him and help him all you can. When I’m fit, I’ll send for you. Now…” he shook hands with great sincerity, “… Away with you. Give him my best, and ask him to come and visit me soon. Look after him… and look after yourself. The Motherland’ll have need of us all when this war is over. Good bye, old friend.”

Kriks croaked an emotional goodbye, and was chivvied away by the arriving senior nurse, who understood a lot about front line soldiers, and used that knowledge to locate and confiscate the bottle stowed under Yarishlov’s pillow.