Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (70 page)

The battalion commander had rushed out of the bunker at some time during the destruction of the US force, and found enough of the Tabun to ensure his lingering but inevitable death.

Amongst the defending Soviet riflemen, seventeen had certainly either succumbed or had a fatal exposure.

There had even been fatalities amongst the guardsmen of the 98th Guards Mortar Regiment, where mishandling and poor sealing of rockets had brought about the deaths of eleven personnel, including the artillery colonel who had delivered the shells and protective gear.

On the slopes of Height 403, First Sergeant Micco and his men remained in situ, unable to go forward, and sure as hell not going anywhere backwards.

The enormity of what had happened behind them shocked them so totally that, when Soviet troops surrounded them, they simply surrendered, and were meekly taken into captivity.

Bradley was enjoying a quiet moment, having just seen off De Lattre of French First Army after a working lunch.

A cool breeze blew through the large hemispherical window, bringing with it light relief, from which he was quickly dragged by the strident ringing of his phone.

“Bradley.”

The commander of US Twelfth Army Group listened in shock and horror as what was known about the events at Hofbieber were explained to him by the new commander of Third Army, using the exact words of the report sent by the distraught commander of the 90th Division.

“They did what?”

Feeling a calm descend, Bradley responded in a controlled matter-of-fact way.

“I see. No survivors, Lucian? None at all? Do we know what they’ve done… what they’ve used?”

He listened to the words that followed, understanding that, if the report was true, the war had just moved into a phase unlike any other in the history of man.

Lucian Truscott asked for orders.

Bradley had none that were any use against poison gas attacks.

“I’ll get my technical staff on it straight away. Find out practical precautions. I’ll get gas masks moving to frontline forces within the hour. I’ll also get air pounding anything that could remotely deliver these weapons. Now, I have to call the boss. Good luck, Lucian, and I’m truly sorry.”

He killed the connection and immediately sought another.

“Get me General Eisenhower.”

“Comrade Leytenant General, an urgent call from General Kurochkin.”

The two men were old friends so Trubnikov, recently sent from 3rd Red Banner to command 2nd Red Banner, welcomed the interruption to the medical examination the headquarters doctor was undertaking.

“Enough for now, Comrade. I’m fit as a borzoi.”

“Not so, Comrade Leytenant General. Your blood pressure is raised, so avoid stressful activities. Plus, there’s some noises on your chest, so no smoking.”

In open defiance, Trubnikov made a great play of lighting a cigarette, and grinned at the doctor as he picked up the telephone.

“Trubnikov.”

His grin widened as he recognised the voice of his friend, although warning sounds coursed through his brain as he also detected something more sinister in the man’s voice.

“Pavel Alekseevich, how…”

Had the doctor been measuring Trubnikov’s blood pressure as the commander of Second Red Banner listened to the report, he would have had a fit.

“What? We’ve done fucking WHAT?”

Across Europe, telephones rang and incredulous ears received the news of the Soviet gas attack.

As more and more details were confirmed, anger and disbelief grew hand in hand.

The heads of the Alliance were all informed, and there was a general universal call for a reply in kind but not, as some had expected, or even hoped, for the use of atomic weapons.

In Moscow, Stalin’s reaction was measured by the number of arrest orders he issued.

NKVD officers went forth and worked their way through the 98th Guards Mortar Regiment, all the way to the commander of Sixth Army, who blew his own brains out before the arrest squad could do it for him.

Interrogations were swift and brutal, and the Sixth Army lost many of its finest officers for no other reason than a lack of knowledge that Tabun weapons were even present within their unit.

The reasons that had ensured no chemical exchanges in the German War were still sound: more so in many ways.

Stalin talked urgently with Molotov in Sweden, passed on the incredible news, and gave his instructions on how to proceed once the full situation was understood by the Allied politicians.

Zhukov dispatched his two colonels, Ferovan and Atalin, armed with a defined brief to investigate the incident in a different way, and he also ensured that every supply depot was swept for any more such weapons.

Just to make sure, Stalin had Beria do the same.

On the Allied side of the line, lights burned well into the night, on both sides of the Atlantic.

The words were ones of horror and incredulity…

… of retribution…

… of revenge…

… and of The Bomb.

Meanwhile, word spread around the globe.

Careful not to risk her recently applied nail polish, she lifted the phone to her ear.

“Oh-three-oh-six.”

“Hi honey.”

“Hello Humphrey, I’m nearly ready. Shall I com…”

“Sorry honey, I can’t make it. Things have taken off here in the office. There’s an emergency meeting of the committee in half an hour.”

“Aww Humphrey. I bought that red dress I was talking about too.”

In truth, Olivia von Sandow was not disappointed, as her liaison with the Senator from Illinois had not proved as fruitful as her masters had expected, and the sex was simply lousy.

All that changed in one simple statement.

“So sorry, honey, but it’s big, really big. The lousy commies’ve used some sort of chemical and killed hundreds of our boys, and a lot of civilians in Germany. Between you and me, I guess the bomb’ll be back on the table, and I doubt anyone’ll try hard to stop it being used.”

“Oh no, that’s horrible, Humphrey.”

“We have all sorts of chemical stuff too, stuff we had set aside for use on the nips. You can betcha that’ll be on the table. The Brits are hopping mad too, and they’re on board with whatever we decide, so there’s no checks from that angle. The whole thing just went to hell in a handcart, Olivia.”

She heard his final words and made appropriate noises, and returned the phone to the cradle when she realised that Senator Humphrey Randall Forbes, member of the Armed Services Committee, had rung off.

She quickly decided that this was just the sort of emergency that the rapid contact system was established for, and picked up the phone again and obtained a connection.

“Occidental Grill, good evening.”

“Good evening, I would like to book a table for two tomorrow evening at eight in the name of von Sandow, and I would like to make sure that you set aside a bottle of the 1935 Latour Pauillac for me please.”

“One moment please… yes, we have a table, and that is reserved for you. Would you like to hold whilst I speak to the sommelier, Madame?”

“No, no need. I have an appointment at the Tabard for seven-thirty… just make sure he sets one by please. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Madame. We shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow at eight.”

The phone connection had already been broken and Olivia von Sandow, happy she had set up a dead drop with her Soviet master, was making a new call.

“Klaus, it’s Olivia. My date has cancelled this evening and I wondered if you would like to take his place. There’s a reservation for seven-thirty at the Tabard. You know it?”

To make sure her superior understood, she gave him the urgent code.

“I believe they have some fresh lobster just in.”

The meeting was set, and within the hour the head of the German Intelligence Service in the USA was aware that the American government, supported by its staunchest ally, was considering responding with the bomb, or their own hitherto unsuspected stocks of chemical weapons.

Which was not wholly accurate, for Senator Humphrey Randall Forbes did not speak for the White House.

Having powdered her nose, Olivia returned to her seat, confident that the message she had secreted in the cistern of the third stall would soon ensure that her Soviet masters also had the details that Forbes had so willingly surrendered.

“Well, Comrade Kalinin, your report?”

The Admiral was so keen to know that he overlooked returning Captain Second Rank Mikhail Stepanovich Kalinin’s crisp salute.

Admiral Oktyabrskiy
grasped Kalinin’s shoulder in a show of emotion.

“Spit it out, Mikhail.”

“I have signed off on vessel fifty-one, Comrade Admiral. The Chief Engineer assures me that fifty-four will be ready for my inspection as of tomorrow at 1500. I anticipate, if all goes well, that I will sign her off on Monday at the latest.”

Oktyabrskiy clapped his hands in joy, for reasons that were not apparent to Kalinin, who had no idea of the nature and tone of the phone call that the Black Sea Fleet commander had just endured.

“Forget fifty-four, Comrade. You are ordered to commence sea trials.”

“When, Comrade Admiral?”

“Your crew have done their training. I’ve seen your efficiency reports…”

“On the mock-up only, Comrade Admiral. I would require…”

“You have the weekend only, Kalinin. You are ordered to undertake whatever sea trials you dictate to bring fifty-one to readiness and make her operational. Is that clear?”

“Sir… Admiral… this is a magnificent submarine… but if I go to sea in it without a properly trained crew… and I mean not one trained on mock ups… but with water under and over them… I cannot…”

“You will do it, Comrade Kapitan. I have received a direct order, and I pass it on to you. You will take fifty-one to sea at 0900, Monday morning and conduct trails to bring her to a state fit for the Motherland’s use… for use as soon as is possible.”

Kalinin looked hard at the Admiral, and then at the sleek form of fifty-one, and then back, his face set in resolution.

“Comrade Admiral, you know… you have to know… this is madness…”

“It is an order, Comrade Kapitan.”

“It’s fucking lunacy, that’s what it is, Comrade Admiral, fuc...”

Again, Oktyabrskiy grasped the junior man’s shoulder, this time in warning, more than friendship.

“Shut up, you fool, shut up.”

The furtive glances that the Admiral shot in all directions told Kalinin all he needed to know about where the order had come from.

“You will do your duty, Comrade Kapitan. You will take her to sea and perform whatever sea trials…,” Oktyabrskiy lowered his voice but increased the weight of delivery in such a way that Kalinin got the message loud and clear, “…that
you
dictate… before making her operational. Do you understand, Mikhail?”

“Yes, Comrade Admiral.”

“Good.”

He released his hold on the submarine commander’s shoulder, and his posture became more relaxed.

“I have other news… good news… Comrade Kapitan. Your vessel will be J-51 of the Soviet Naval Submarine force, and will have a name, especially chosen for her by our glorious General Secretary.”

Kalinin noted the J-51 with approval, as he and his crew had started calling the Type XXI ‘Jana’, after the young NKVD officer who had been killed when a crane dropped part of the submarine on her.

Oktyabrskiy motioned to a group of four waiting sailors, who struggled forward something, clearly heavy, concealed under a canvas.

“Come, Mikhail.”

They descended from the gantry onto the dockside.

The Admiral waved his hands and the sailors dragged the cover away, revealing a nameplate.

Kalinin read the two words.

‘Sovetskaya Initsiativa.’

“What do you think, eh, Comrade Kapitan? A fine name, eh?”

“Yes, indeed, Comrade Admiral. One worthy of her purpose.”

“Have one of your officers oversee its installation before the official launch ceremony, Mikhail

With a hearty slap on the back and a soft-spoken reminder of his orders, Admiral Oktyabrskiy went on his way.

Watching him depart, Kalinin resolved to call her ‘Jana’, as ‘Soviet Initiative’ was far too much of a mouthful.