The Berkut (2 page)

"Only a boy," one of the men on the ground said.

"A German," the man on horseback said sharply; then he kicked his mount lightly and urged it forward into the sea of mud. The others looked at one another, returned to their mounts, gathered their equipment and set off on foot, following the tiny dark form that was now barely visible in the failing light.

3
-
APRIL
28,
1945,
6:40
P.M.

The plan for Colonel Brumm's extraction was as simple as it was dangerous. The nose of the glider was attached to a long elastic cable, which had been developed by a special research team studying new plastics called polymers. One hundred meters ahead of him there was a large loop in the cable, and this was suspended between two poles about sixty meters in height. The plan called for a transport plane to fly low, dragging a trailing hook behind it. The hook would be engaged to the cable loop, which would tighten and pull his glider airborne. Simple and direct-his kind of plan. Those who had designed the system called it "the slingshot."

Over the years, more than two dozen test pilots had been killed trying to perfect this escape method. It had been designed as a way of removing the Fiihrer from the Eagle's Nest in the Obersalzberg, and eventually it had been perfected. More than a hundred pickup sites had been constructed around the country over a period of years and small gliders had been stored at each location. Even though the method now worked, some doubt lingered because most of the testing had taken place on mountaintops. Here in the battered forest the margin for error would be close to zero.

Brumm's main concern, however, was about the ability of the pickup craft to survive. It would have to pass through a heavy artillery barrage in order to get to him; if risk was high for him, it was even higher for the pickup crew. To help, he had ordered German artillery to stand down for three minutes, and now it was only a minute from that pause. The incoming aircraft would have to be on time and make the hookup on its first pass; he doubted it could survive a second try.

He leaned out of the cockpit to listen. Suddenly, the German artillery ceased firing; the Soviet shelling sounded small. Within thirty seconds the Soviets stopped too, their commanders obviously pondering what the German cease-fire meant. Other than sporadic rifle fire and occasional short bursts from automatic weapons, the area was silent for the first time in days, and suddenly he heard the engines of the incoming aircraft.

The plane was near. He couldn't see it, but he could tell from the pitch of its engines that it was banking for its approach. It was low, almost on the treetops. He had no doubt that the pilot would do his job. It was his way to always expect the highest possible level of performance from his subordinates. Those who could not deliver were severely disciplined; those who would not were transferred to other units where requirements and expectations were not so high.

Satisfied that the aircraft was the one he expected, Brumm leaned out of the cockpit, pointed a flare gun into the night sky and squeezed the trigger. A green flare whooshed upward and exploded into a cascade of emerald sparks. He broke open the gun, pulled the spent cartridge and inserted another round. Leaning out again, he aimed the gun along the line created by the glider's fuselage and fired straight ahead toward the tree line. There, hidden under a thin cover of dirt, was a cache of several dozen jerricans containing petrol. The flare drove through the mound into the cans and ignited a huge explosion and fire, which lit the entire area and made the poles holding the cable loop clearly visible. Staring at the device, he was amazed that it was still in place and that both it and the miniature fuel dump had escaped the enemy artillery fire. He took it as a good omen.

The sound of the aircraft died; it was now behind him. He quickly rechecked his harness, put his feet on the rudder pedals and grasped the control column with his gloved hand.

The transport growled slowly overhead, s6 close that for a moment he thought it would land on top of him. Even with the bright fire ahead, visibility from the cockpit was limited, and he could not see if the hookup had been made. But he could feel it. At first there was a gentle rustling of the glider, then a small slide forward, followed by a firm snap as the cable reached the end of its elasticity. The glider bounced, then lifted. He got control of the rudder, and as he pulled back on the stick the light aircraft shot straight into the sky. As he passed over the trees ground fire leaped up at him, but he ignored the tracers and tried to focus on the towplane.

They climbed quickly, turning slowly but steadily to the south and west.

It had worked! Soon the fighting fell behind him and the dark countryside rolled by underneath. He stabilized the glider directly behind and below the tow craft and reached for his radio.

"Well done," he transmitted calmly. "I'm stable. Turn to heading zero nine zero." The transport turned immediately and the colonel began scanning the terrain below for the landmarks. The crew in the aircraft did not know his final destination; they were to follow his directions. At some point along the way, his plan, which the transport's crew did not have, called for him to drop away.

Brumm felt good. The Russians were behind him for the moment, and once again he was in control of his own destiny. So far all had gone well, and he felt confidence that the operation, which had been painstakingly developed, would succeed.

He had been in a division-level headquarters when the coded message had come through to him. It consisted of only one word. "Wolf," he said out loud.

4 -
APRIL 29, 1945, 1:00 A.M.

The five-man Special Operations Group had worked its way into what remained of Berlin's suburbs from the east, using elements of the Third Shock Army as a protective phalanx. Throughout the fifty-mile push from the Oder River, Vasily Petrov had been careful to protect his small unit; he had no intention of losing(any of his handpicked men as the Soviet armies clubbed their way into the Nazi capital. The group was too valuable a resource to be wasted without an appropriate return for such a high investment. It pleased Petrov to think in economic terms; the capitalists might be depraved, but they were also efficient, and he prized efficiency above most attributes. To prevent a premature expenditure of his priceless resource, the small Russian constantly kept his unit behind regular troops, allowing the army to pay the high price for moving ahead. As he and his men trailed a Soviet battalion, he reminded himself that theirs was a mission far more important than laying claim to a few square miles of Nazi rubble.

At I :00 A.M. the Soviet troops shielding the Special Operations Group emerged from a set of twisting parallel streets to find themselves at the edge of an open
Platz
containing a sunken garden, statuary on pedestals and a radiating pattern of flat stones. Petrov sniffed the scent of lilacs in the spring air with obvious pleasure. But when the Russian infantry began to advance into the garden, he hesitated; something was wrong.

Ezdovo, the Siberian, immediately moved into position beside his leader. An orange glow of fire hovered and flickered over the city, but it was not enough to light the space. Because most of Berlin had lost electricity a long time ago, there was little light except from nearby fires; here, unlike other parts of the city, there were few burning. Ezdovo did not look at his leader, but he squatted next to him, staring into the darkness, shifting his head from side to side to compensate for the blind spot in the eye that limits human vision at night. He had learned the technique as a hunter during the months-long darkness of Arctic winters. "Trouble," he said. It was not a question; in combat his instincts were nearly identical with Petrov's, and when his leader halted, he was already feeling the same wave of suspicion.

Petrov whispered, "You feel it?"

"No resistance," the Siberian said calmly. "Big area, easily defended, a natural bottleneck against anyone coming out of the streets. The Germans wouldn't let us in here if they didn't want us to enter." It was an unexpected development; so far the German resistance they had faced had been fierce, though amateurish. Hitler had ordered a fight to the death, and many citizens were obeying blindly. Now, in a place where a defense action was easy, even natural, there was none. It felt wrong.

"Ambush?" Petrov asked.

Ezdovo rose slowly from his squat to check the progress of the soldiers ahead of them. Some were already nearing the other side of the garden. "No," he said confidently. "An ambush would prevent us from getting this far. It feels like a kill trap."

Petrov needed no further confirmation; he had reached the same conclusion. The area was no doubt mined and set for remote detonation by someone watching from a nearby rooftop. "Move," he ordered suddenly, giving the Siberian a gentle shove. "Idiots," he added in the direction of the soldiers who were now filling the park and taking the respite from fighting as an opportunity to rest and smoke. Petrov saw that the battalion commander was in the middle of his men, his radio operator beside him; they were seating themselves on a low wall of light-colored bricks.

When Petrov and Ezdovo bolted away, the other three men followed. When their leader acted, they did not ask questions; to do so could be fatal. As the five of them ran along the back of the park, several soldiers shouted at them. "Relax, the Nazi bastards are kaput." They raced on, ignoring the cries. Finally they reached the opening of a street that led north and swerved in. As they cut into the opening, Ezdovo stopped, dropped to his knees, lifted his weapon and faced the
Platz
area to cover their backs. When the others were safely past him, he tried to follow, but before he was fully in, a massive flash of light engulfed the park, followed by a shock wave that sent them all sprawling, stunning them and leaving them staring blindly, gasping for oxygen as parts of buildings fell around them.

Gnedin, the greyhound-like physician and newest member
of the group, was the first to re
cover. Ignoring his comrades, he went directly to Petrov and found the leader of the Special Operations G
roup kneeling in the middle of the street, covered with a layer of stone dust, bleeding from his ears.

Bailov, the muscular young Ukrainian with long red hair and a close-cropped beard, was next to regain his senses. He was dizzy, his steps unsure, but he clicked the safety off and clutched his weapon close as he went to Gnedin's side.

"Is he all right?"

"Concussion," the doctor said. "Not serious. Check the others." Because Ezdovo had been last out of the
Platz,
he had taken the

brunt of the explosion; the back of his canvas jacket was singed and he was dazed, but he was already on one knee, facing back in the direction they had come, his weapon up. Bailov patted him on the shoulder. "Where's Rivitsky?"

"He was next to Petrov."

Bailov left the Siberian to search for the other man and found him a few moments later. Rivitsky's legs were sticking out of a pile of rocks. At first glance Bailov thought the worst, but a muffled voice barked angrily from under the debris, "Get this shit off me!" The order was punctuated by a long cough. Bailov dug quickly. A wall had collapsed on his comrade, but by luck a support beam had landed first at such an angle that it had shielded the man from the rest of the falling wall. When finally freed, Rivitsky's face was so covered with dust as fine as chalk that he looked like a fat ghost. The sight made Bailov giggle nervously, provoking a poorly aimed swat from the fat man still on his back. "Comrade," Bailov crooned, "is this any way to treat your savior?"

When they had recovered sufficiendy, Petrov gathered his men in the shadows. He was still bleeding from the ears, but as always was in command. "Remote detonation," Ezdovo told his leader. Petrov did not hear the Siberian's exact words because his ears were still ringing, but he understood what had happened; over the years he had set the same kind of trap for his enemies, and he knew what the army had blundered into.

Bailov tapped the stock of his rifle nervously, his eyes darting, alert for threats. Gnedin sat quietly, trying to compose himself. It was one thing to see the result of violence and quite another to be a participant. He was still new to all this, and his nerves were frayed by the experience. Rivitsky was still coughing and slapping at his clothes to get rid of the dust; he was the sort of person who, despite his pear shape, took great care in sartorial matters.

The heavy and slow-moving Rivitsky had been born and raised in Leningrad. When the Special Operations Group was afield, he tended to tire easily, becoming short-tempered and complaining constantly. But Petrov did not concern himself with such inconsequential traits; he trusted Rivitsky as much as he allowed himself to trust any human being. It didn't matter that the balding fat man was not cut out for the prolonged exertions of war. He had a steel constitution, an unbending will and the ability to kill with his hands if anybody got close enough. More important was his mind, his ability to organize, to think logically and to absorb volumes of detail. "What now, comrade?" he asked between coughs.

Petrov was in no mood for explanations. Their mission required getting expeditiously to the Reich Chancellery on the other side of the Spree River. The unit was not to be risked by confronting the ragtag army of German citizens fighting desperately to defend what was already lost. The Special Operations Group was driven by a higher order-much higher-but now their careless infantry escort had stumbled into a trap. Petrov had no doubt what they would find in the park, but he knew they had to look, if only because they would need a radio in order to link up with another military unit.

The five men moved cautiously through the
Platz
and into the garden, strung out single file with Petrov in the middle, Ezdovo in the lead and Bailov in the rear. When they reached the place where they had last seen the battalion commander, they found only a hand beside the ruin of the wall, some shreds of clothing and a demolished radio, which Petrov kicked, his lips pursed. "When we acquire a new escort, we will secure our own radio," he announced. "We can't afford any more delays and we can't trust the army."

Not wanting to remain in the open, Petrov led his men back in the direction from which they had originally come. Thinking there had been an error, Genedin reminded his leader that the river they sought was to the west and that they were traveling in the opposite direction. As the newest member of the group, he was not yet accustomed to Petrov's logic or his uncanny instincts.

"While geometry teaches that the shortest distance between two points is always in a straight line, this seldom holds true in war. In practice, you will find that theory is often different," Petrov said patiently but firmly.