Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (10 page)

Rokossovsky had already had his
phone call, and was passing on the pain, wreaking his own brand of hell on his subordinates, angered as much by the problem as the fact that he had been apprised of it by his Commander, not his own staff.

Senior heads were beginning to roll throughout
Soviet occupied Europe, as the unheralded logistical problem burst from its hidden location into the bright lights of close examination.

The sound of the telephone
being rammed into its cradle sounded like a gunshot.

“Mali
nin!”

The normally cordial and professional relationship between the two men was very obviously on hold, the incensed Zhukov in no mood for niceties.

“Right now, I want Ferovan and Atalin here, right now.”

Malinin made his note, unsurprised that the two colonels had been summoned.

“Immediately.”

Understanding that his normal procedure was not suitable for the moment, the CoS opened the door and gave a clipped order to one of his Majors.

Beckoning to three other officers, he turned back into the office.

“Done, Comrade
Marshal.”

Zhukov heard but chose not to answer, his mind full of the necessaries of overcoming the supply issue.

“I want an immediate message to all senior commanders, requiring a full inventory of supplies, discrepancies against normal levels, consumption rates, replacement rates, and losses due to enemy action.”

One of the officers, a young and very keen colonel was given the nod.

“I want the production and transportation reports from our Theatre Supply command”.

Zhukov looked down at his list and saw the error, quickly scratching through one thing and scribbling something else.

“I have relieved the Theatre Supply Officer and he’s on his way here to account for this fuck up.”

Malinin made his own note.

“His deputy’s in charge for now. Ferovan and Atalin will go to the Headquarters and report back to me just exactly what piggery has been taking place here. Organise the usual travel and authorisation documents for my signature.”

Malinin cued a second officer who left with his urgent task.

“I want the latest GRU and NKVD transportation reports today. I want the latest GRU and NKVD reports on partisan attacks today. I want the latest GRU, NKVD, and Air Force reports on the effectiveness of the enemy air attacks on our logistical chain, here, today.”

Uncharacteristically, Zhukov stabbed a finger at his CoS and friend.

“Get them here and get them analyzed, today.”

The final officer, an overawed Captain, disappeared, trying hard to work out how he was to start the process his
Marshal had ordered.

Zhukov fell back into his chair, his fury subsiding now that he had taken positive steps to discover what had
happened.

He realised he had taken it out on his man.

Indicating the other chair, he encouraged Malinin to sit down.

“I’
m sorry, Mikhail.”

Malinin accepted the unexpected olive branch with good grace, understanding the new pressures on Zhukov.

Zhukov passed him the list he had been working on.

The CoS cast an eye over it, seeing the names of walking dead men upon it, some of whom were very good men indeed.

“Keep that safe until things are clear, Comrade.”

Malinin nodded, happy that his commander was not acting so precipitously as to execute some seriously competent officers for guilt by association.

“Before today is done, I want to know the full position so that I can go to the GKO and offer up the correct heads, as well as correct our plans to cover any problems.”

A knock on the door brought a calmer
response from Zhukov, his face almost smiling as the tea was placed on the side table, the young orderly retreating at speed.

Malinin poured.

Holding their hot cups, both senior men pondered the problem in silence.

Taking a cultured sip from his vessel, Zhukov shook his head, expressi
ng silent horror at the thought suddenly filling his mind.

“Mikhail, I want to know if we have been deliberately misled by our
NKVD colleagues.”

Malinin nodded his understanding of the delicacy of that order.

“Contact Alpine, Southern, and Balkan Fronts. Get me some shells moving in from them immediately.”

That went into the notebook.

“Some figures on internal stocks such as Iran units, or anything that can be obtained from our Eastern forces, or our Socialist brother Tito, although the time to transport them here may be a problem.”

As did that.

“Most importantly, I need to know if we are sitting on a disaster here!”

That possibility had been only too apparent from the moment that the reports of a lack of 122mm ammunition made themselves so spectacularly known within 3rd Red Banner Front, and subsequent enquiries revealed a similar problem in its infancy within 1st Baltic.

“I intend to fly to Moscow on Tuesday, and I want to have answers for the General Secretary,” the Marshal’s face darkening slightly as he pondered the meeting ahead, “And some questions for our Comrade, Marshal Beria.”

To the British and Canadians it was a Canso A. To the rest of the allies, and the Russians too, for that matter, it was a Catalina PBY flying boat. Built under licence, the Canso looked precisely like her American parent and was equally businesslike.

G for George of 162 Squadron RAF was on a rescue mission, as were a number of her sisters.

The weather was unfavourable, low cloud and squally showers, all driven along by high winds that were whipping the sea into white-tipped savagery.

None
the less, G for George’s twin Wasp engines drove her forward, fighting the resistance, keeping her at a steady 140 mph, eight hundred feet above the roiling water below.

As yet, there was no sign of the missing blimp, or her crew.

Radar had steered them onto a large contact, too large to be wreckage from the blimp.

Hawkins, the radio operator,
reported to the pilot, presently circling the neutral vessel below.

“Skipper, Sparks. She’s Swedish. Called Golden Quest. They are having some engine difficulties and are heading north to take shelter in the lee of one of the islands while they sort it out.”

“Roger Sparks. Did you inform them?”

A short pause, either because the man had to put his mask back on, or because he was annoyed that his pilot felt he should ask. Or both.

“Yes, Skipper. He’s seen nothing, but he has his own problems in any case. If he sees anything he’ll sing out, over.”

Flying Officer Joy didn’t care for the man, recently arrived from training school to fill the place of his former radio operator, a competent man who had succumbed to some sort of heart problem and been taken off Ops.

“Skipper, Navigator, time to commence turn to port for next leg.”

“Roger Navigator.”

The Canso gently dropped its left wing and eased round ninety degrees to port, almost mirroring the intended course of the Swedish vessel.

The aircraft approached Blanche Island.

“Starboard Waist, Skipper. On the surface at two o’clock low. Huge slick and wreckage.”

All eyes that had a chance to look strained but there was no need. The oily mark was immense.

“Pilot to crew. Going down for a closer look. Stay alert.”

Turning to port, the Canso circled and bled of some height, coming back in over the site at two hundred feet.

“Anyone see anything other than rag and oil?”

There was no reply of note.

The aircraft turned again but this time to starboard, prescribing a figure of eight over the site of something that they suspected was the grave of a submarine.

Joy gave voice to his feelings.

“Pilot to crew. I believe that slick is confirmation that the Blimp killed the sub it was attacking. Anyone disagree?”

The crew, except Hawkins, were all experienced men
who had their own U-Boat kill under their belts.

No one
challenged Joy, and he determined to say as much in his report.

In any case, Hawkins was distracted by something else entirely.

“Skipper, Sparks. I’ve a radar reading here, heading 027. Picking up weak IFF, over.”

Allied aircraft all carried ‘Identification Friend or Foe’ transponders that marked them as friendly when ‘painted’ by their own side
’s radar.

Joy acted immediately and the starboard wing dropped, as the Canso altered course to fly down the line of the signal.

“Pilot to navigator, now flying 027.”

“Skipper, it
’s gone, over.”

“Then find it man!
I shall circle. Where are we, Nav?”

Squinting at the map, Flying Officer Parkinson thumbed his mike.

“Skipper, directly below us is Cape Negro Island and…”

“Got it
, Skipper. It’s back, same heading 027.”

“Roger Sparks.”

Joy’s mind was already working the problem, and he thought he had the solution, especially when Hawkins lost the signal once more.

“Pilot to crew. I think it’s on the island. Low sweep, keep your eyes skinned starboard side.”

The Canso came slowly over the island, running south to north.

There were no sightings of anything of note, but, as per the standing instructions, the starboard waist gunner shot some film for development later.

“Skipper, Sparks. Signal has disappeared over.”

On the island, the transponder, stimulated to reply by the radar signal, drained the last of the residual power and remained silent, the pod and envelope hidden under hastily cut greenery.

Joy made a decision.

‘No wreckage of note, and if the blimp had come down on the island the site would be apparent. Must have been a
phantom.’

“Pilot to crew, Log it, radio it in
, but we continue with sweep. Navigator, give me a course, over.”

On the ground, many eyes watched the large flying boat as she swept over the island, obviously searching for their now dead comrades.

In the small but functional sick bay, Sveinsvold heard the sounds of his expected rescue slowly fade into the distance, as G for George resumed her search elsewhere.

Smiling back at the rough but caring Russian sailor who was rebandaging his wound, he considered his options, which didn’t take long.

At 1707hrs, a second Canso flying boat made a trip over Cape Negro Island, failing to locate any IFF transmission whatsoever.

Having fulfilled that part of its mission, N for November flew off to its allocated search area, already widening as the hunt for the USN blimp went on.

The presence of the previously reported Swedish steamship was recorded in the flight log.

Pulling smartly away from the small pier, the rowing boat headed for the steep sides of the merchant vessel.

Little of note was aboard for the return journey, the flow of stores and men being
nearly all one-way.

Sveinsvold’s wounded leg meant that he could not climb, but the sailors had swung out a rig, and he was swiftly hoisted aboard.

The second man took longer, requiring more careful handling as he was seriously wounded, having tripped and fallen onto sharp rusting machinery on the small dock, three days beforehand.

The delirious
Soviet marine was carefully swung aboard and quickly spirited away to the ship’s extensive medical facility.

On the island,
the Russian Orthodox cross around Sveinsvold’s neck had attracted some attention, especially as communism and religion were bad bedfellows.

As soon as he was swung aboard one of the
Scandinavian crewmembers, all good communists, spotted the Norse amulet that shared his throat with the cross, the latter a gift from his good friend Vassily, in happier times.

Sveinsvold was not so good in Swedish
, so he switched to Norwegian, the two men finally settling on Russian as a common language.

The old Swede helped the wounded ‘submariner’ below, as the ‘Golden Quest’ prepared for night to fully descend, before supplying the submarines that were waiting to surface with torpedoes

Her orders had also been changed, and fuel was also to be supplied, to cover the loss of the milchcow.