Winter Storm (22 page)

Part VIII

The Devil’s Adjutant

“Those who play with the
devil's toys will be brought by degrees to wield his sword.”

―
Buckminster Fuller

Ivan
Volkov had been a very busy man of late. After nervous
hours and days, restlessly marking the progress of his cross Volga offensive,
he relented, in utter frustration, and left the matter to his Generals. He knew
the war was now reaching at critical point, where the success of failure of the
German offensive was now hanging in the balance. With this in mind, he took it
upon himself to take a very long airship ride to Germany, to meet with the one
man he knew who would decide the fate of the war, Adolf Hitler.

Now the
broad grey shape of the airship
Baku
gleamed in the sun above the stony
ramparts of
Wolfsschanze,
the Wolf’s Lair, high in the Bavarian Alps. It
was so named for the nickname adopted by Hitler himself, used only by his
closest associates and confidants, for he called himself the “Wolf.” The name
was, in fact, an old German form for Adolf, and so it suited him well.

Like
the object of his Army’s efforts near Moscow at that moment, his lair was
defended by three concentric circles of defense, but Volkov had floated
effortlessly above them all, much to the chagrin of the chief security officer,
who frowned when he saw the guns bristling from the gondolas overhead. Even
though Hitler was well protected behind nearly 7 feet of steel reinforced
concrete, nothing the small recoilless rifles on the airship could have
bothered, he was still compelled to order three 88mm flak guns to keep the ship
under close observation, their barrels not directly aimed at it out of diplomatic
courtesy, but rounds chambered and crews at the ready nonetheless.

It was
here that the men who built and ran the Third Reich would meet to plan and plot
their ongoing campaigns. Key officers like Hermann Goering, Wilhelm Keitel,
Alfred Jodl, and other vital ministers like Speer, Todt, and Ribbentrop all
took the measure of one another, the apostles of doom seated at the long wooden
table where the Wolf himself presided over long strategy sessions, and often
dull rambling over the machinations of industry and the wartime economy.

Now,
however, Volkov would be granted a rare private conference with the Führer,
only the second time he had actually met the man face to face since the Orenburg
Federation declared its support for the Reich. Unlike the other adjutants who
called, men like Mussolini, and ministers from prostrate republics in Germany’s
sphere of influence, Ivan Volkov was determined to make a real difference with
this valuable session. He was not called “the Prophet” without good reason, and
he had been watching the rapid onslaught of German forces with increasing
anxiety as this critical campaign developed like a darkening winter storm.

The two
men shook hands warmly, seated at the large map table beneath a massive banner
adorned with the German Swastika, and two golden eagles to either side, the
symbols of power and prestige that now cast their long shadows over Europe.

“Herr
Hitler,” said Volkov, avoiding the more common salute that used his name, and
not wishing to call the man ‘my Führer’ just yet. Volkov was a head of state,
and saw himself as an equal in every respect. The two men smiled as they seated
themselves, Hitler in his plain brown suit, Volkov in grey.

“I
suppose you are here to ask how soon you can expect a visit from General Manstein,”
said Hitler.

“He is
just east of Boguchar,” said Volkov, knowing exactly where the German SS Korps
was now operating, for he had poured over daily reports on their progress for
many weeks. They were speaking in German, a language Volkov had studied as a
young man, and one he had deliberately cultivated after that, knowing it would
serve him well given the future course of events, of which he was well aware.

“And
your own offensive?” Hitler’s dark eyes glittered as he spoke, soulless eyes
that seemed endless pits when he stared at a man; eyes that could kindle and
burn with utter rage that might border on insanity when he was disturbed,
though those moments had not been frequent at this point in the war.

“Our
troops are nearing Serafimovich, a vital crossing point on the Don bend.” It
was Volkov’s first lie, for his divisions had only recently suffered a
considerable setback near that place, thrown back seven kilometers by a sudden
counterattack mounted by fresh Soviet troops. But Hitler would not know that
yet, and so the little white lie would serve to get him through these
inevitable opening rounds in their discussion.

They
talked of divisions, and generals, and objectives and timetables, agreeing that
it seemed possible, even likely, that the SS would continue moving east and
reach a point where the two sides could join hands and cut the Soviet Union in
two by so doing.

“You
will see,” said Hitler. “By winter we will have isolated the entire southern
region, and by then we should also have Moscow. That should make an end of this
Sergei Kirov, and the collapse of his Soviet Republic should follow in short
order.”

“I
would hope so,” said Volkov, “but that may be much more difficult than you
think, Herr Hitler.”

“The
Soviets can be stubborn,” said Hitler dismissively. “Yet when my Generals are
planning our next moves from the stateroom in the Kremlin, all that will count
for little.”

“Your
operation Typhoon is making good progress?” Volkov asked, finally getting round
to the heart of the matter at hand.”

“Good
progress? My 4th Panzergruppe is twenty kilometers from the Kremlin as we
speak, and it has just been reinforced with a fresh division transferred from
France, our 2nd Panzer Division. I would have sent Hoepner another, but it was
necessary to pay lip service to Rommel in North Africa. That little theater has
produced dismal results, but we are finally getting him some of the new tanks
he has been needing. We shall see if they make any difference. The British have
stolen a march on us with this new heavy tank they deployed there.”

“Indeed,”
said Volkov, for he had raked through all the intelligence he could find on
that question, and found the matter very unsettling.

“They
do not have these tanks in any great numbers,” said Hitler, “but from all accounts,
they were too much for our older panzers to handle. But we have taken a lesson,
and now have several new medium and heavy tank designs, most already in
production, a few others still in the design phase.” He gestured to a sheaf of
papers and diagrams that had been laid out for review, and Volkov nodded as he
took his appraisal.

“This
one looks very interesting,” he said, singling out a design that he knew would
be among Germany’s very best, if not
the
best medium tank ever designed
in the war once it got past its early teething troubles. What do you call it?”

“Ah,
that is our
Panzerkamfwagen V
, the Panther, one of the Big Cats. At 45
tons, it will be nearly twice as heavy as our PzKfw IV models, but still
considered a medium tank given the plans we have. Look here,” Hitler shoved
another diagram towards his guest. “This is our new Lion, but he is only a cub
at this point at 55 tons. This tank is only now starting to reach selected
front line units, but we are ramping up production with the full weight of our
industrial base now. Soon the real Lion will appear, our 70 ton model, though
considering our progress to date, we may not even need many to conclude this
matter.”

Somehow
reducing the greatest conflagration the world would ever see to the status of a
simple ‘matter’ seemed to unnerve Volkov. He knew he needed to impress upon
Hitler the gravity of this moment, and the decisions he would need to take in
the months ahead.

“They
look wonderful,” he said. “Perhaps I might even persuade you to sell me a few.
We are still struggling with older designs, though I have something new in the
works. I trust that your missile programs are also receiving considerable
resources?”

“Of
course. That was another surprise the British had for us, though it appears
they only managed to mount their early prototypes on a few ships. Their new
anti aircraft rocket has been somewhat troublesome, and we are attempting to
discover how they are managing to guide and direct these missiles—most likely
by using a new type of radar. Well, have no worries, we were not given an
invitation to the ball, but we will soon crash the party in any wise. I have
several new designs testing now, and we have found the information you have
shared with us most useful. I suppose a battalion of new Lions would be the
least we could do to thank you for your assistance.”

“Much
appreciated,” said Volkov. “Yet now I must discuss something of great
importance concerning the likely future course of this war. And I have
intelligence that may surprise you. To begin with, I can tell you that it was
not the British who developed these new rockets, but the Russians.”

“The
Russians? Nonsense. Ah, then you mean the
nebelwerfer
of sorts, which
they now deploy in small numbers? We captured several and they are not all that
impressive, merely rockets mounted on trucks for rapid fire barrage. We are
working on the same. Yet the real threat has been at sea with these damnable
new naval rockets the British employ. The Russians have nothing to do with
that.”

“Oh,
but they do. In fact, they have everything to do with it. None of those weapons
were ever mounted on a British man-o-war. They were all deployed and fired from
a Russian cruiser, named for our current nemesis, Sergei Kirov himself.”

“A
Russian battlecruiser? That ship is penned up in Leningrad, and I believe it is
merely a heavy cruiser.”

“That
is not the ship I refer to. No. This is another vessel that was recently
operating with the British fleet in the Mediterranean, and has since moved to
the Atlantic. It caused all that mayhem with the Italians, and then got the
better of your own navy recently, if my intelligence officers serve me well,
and they do. The loss of your
Graf Zeppelin
was most unfortunate.”

“I was
told that ship was struck by two torpedoes,” said Hitler, “most likely from a
British submarine. That is the problem with our navy that I will have Admiral
Raeder address. I’ll admit that I was partly to blame, and I instructed him to
build big gunned ships to match and beat the British battleships, but a few
more destroyers might have saved the
Graf Zeppelin
that day, and I will
address the matter.”

Volkov
shook his head. “You have not been well informed. That ship was not sunk by
torpedoes. Your battlecruiser
Gneisenau
succumbed to such an attack, but
not the aircraft carrier. It was destroyed by a missile, a technology developed
not by the British but by the Russians. It is in limited deployment, confined
to this single ship, but as your Admirals will tell you, it is very effective,
even capable of seriously harming your heavy battleships, as it did in the
Mediterranean Sea and again in the Atlantic.”

The
silence from Hitler seemed like the prelude to a storm of inner rage, though
Volkov could see how he restrained his emotions. “A Russian ship? You are saying
they have a battlecruiser at sea that our own intelligence services knew
nothing about?”

“Correct.
I can verify that information, provide photographs, and even tell you the
present location of that ship. It was recently in their northern port of
Murmansk.”

“That
will be
our
northern port soon,” Hitler scoffed, but then took a more
serious tone. “You are certain of this? The ship involved in these engagements
with our fleet was Russian? Do you realize that these rocket attacks began well
before the onset of formal hostilities between our two nations? Are you telling
me the Russian navy was attacking our ships, cooperating with the British, as
early as June of 1940? Because that was the time when we first received these
reports of a new enemy naval rocket being deployed by the British.”

“It was
never
deployed by the British,” said Volkov, “and they do not presently
have such technology. If they did, do you think they would have allowed your
Luftwaffe to bomb London without using these new anti-aircraft rockets in
defense?”

“That
was somewhat of a mystery,” said Hitler. “But our people on the ground over
there have produced some evidence that the British are now developing rocket batteries
for aerial defense. It was our conclusion that their first prototypes were
designed for the navy, and that they are only now developing a land based
version.”

“Both conclusions
are completely wrong,” said Volkov. “They have no viable missile program that
could in any way match the performance of the weapons used against your ships.
Oh, they do have some small rocket batteries they are testing for aerial
defense. They call them ‘Z batteries,’ and they are being produced by G. A.
Harbey in Greenwich, but they are nothing like the weapons you have encountered
at sea. Later they will develop a weapon known as the ‘Stooge,’ radio
controlled like the plans I have sent you for your Fritz-X program, but we have
no reliable intelligence that they are behind the weapons that put so much
damage on your battleships, and prompted you to cancel all future Plan Z ships
in excess of 30,000 tons.”

The
hard edge of truth now stung the Führer, piercing the optimistic bravado, and
the braggery that so often dressed out these discussions.