Tide Of Fortune (Kirov Series Book 20) Page 3
They were trying to get another 100 meters to the small Yaroslef Station, which left the main rail hub on a separate line. It was shielded on one side by a small lake. The armored train was waiting for them there, camouflaged by heavy canvas tarps and masked on one side by a line of tall boxcars from an old freight train. By the time the NKVD realized what was happening, and began to shift their attack in that direction, Berzin had reached the train site.
There was a tense moment as they struggled to get the stretcher up onto the train, with bullets raking the old covering boxcars with a hard clatter. “Ryakin!” shouted Berzin. “Your men are with me. Move!”
Beria knew that the Black Snow plan had been designed to evacuate the government to old St Petersburg, Leningrad. So it was no surprise that he would try to secure that rail station, and Berzin knew that the line leaving the city from that point, heading northwest, would likely be fraught with peril. There were too many places a train could be ambushed on that line, so instead he planned to head northeast, on the line to Yaroslava. He knew that would be guarded as well, but gambled that the forces allocated would be much smaller than those on the main line. In this he was correct.
A shrill whistle cut through the air, and Berzin knew their enemies were signaling to one another, his ruse discovered, and probably gathering any forces they had left to make one last assault on the Yaroslaf Station. By the time the fighting was thickening up, with the green clad NKVD beginning to make assault rushes covered by their spitting submachine guns, the armored train had a full head of steam.
It was a heavy unit from the Railway Defense Service, Train Number 2, dubbed “Grom,” and it was well armored, with two heavy 76mm guns in armored turrets, two more 57mm AT gun turrets, three twin AA guns, and machineguns bristling from every side. During the Revolution and in the long years of fighting after, they had been the steel beetles on the rail lines, terror on the tracks as they rumbled from one place to another, laden with security men. Some later had heavy turrets mounted on them for good measure, sometimes tiered one above the other like a battleship.
Their one great weakness was the limited and predictable route they would have to follow on the rail lines, which made sabotage the preferred way of dealing with these armored monsters. Once derailed, they would be no more than heavily armored pill boxes, stuck in place. But to prevent that, each train mounted one or two special dummy cars in the front, which would be the first to slip off the rails in the event of sabotage.
Berzin knew the narrow rail line was a dangerous escape route, which was why he did not plan to be on this train very long. It would suit his purpose for the time being, able to fight its way out of the city if the lines were clear, and he had seen to that long ago. It would get them to an airfield north of Moscow, where he had Zhukov hold a full regiment of Airborne troops to make sure it was secure. Three transport planes and two well armed Petyakov Pe-8 four engine heavy bombers, with several Yak fighters would be waiting for the real escape, and their planned route and destination was not even known to the pilots.
Berzin was aboard with his all important charge, and rushed to the engine compartment, leaning in to the voice tube and shouting orders up to the twin MGs on the upper rear turret to say goodbye to Beria’s men. It rotated quickly and put down withering fire, which snapped off the rail lines and cold stone pavement to cut down one NKVD assault team and send two others to ground.
The NKVD rallied and came on again, and this time Grom opened up with everything it had, the 76mm cannons blasting away, machineguns rattling, and the two 57mm guns targeting a truckload of fresh troops that had just pulled into the station. Berzin pulled the train whistle three times, a signal to men he had posted on the line ahead to make ready, and Sergei Kirov slowly headed out of the station on that train.
Chapter 3
So Sergei Kirov never made the speech he planned to give that night, but he escaped the fate Beria had planned for him, the dark spider at the center of Volkov’s secret web in Moscow dead instead. It wasn’t until they were safely on the planes, the engines roaring for takeoff, that Berzin finally relaxed, leaning heavily near the window as he fell asleep, exhausted. By his side the two doctors waited in attendance, doting over Kirov, and making sure everything possible was done to make him comfortable. They would fly 250 miles to a secret base near Vologda, about 350 miles east of Leningrad. There, Berzin planned to wait, gather intelligence, and see what the situation was in Leningrad itself.
Once on the ground, Kirov was moved in a well guarded truck to the Vologda Kremlin, a miniature version of the complex in Moscow, with the same ornate architecture, and silver onion domed towers of Saint Sophia’s Church. The city itself was an important communications hub northwest of Moscow, commanding vital water channels and rivers that connected Moscow, Novgorod and even extended up to the White Sea. By the reign of Ivan the Terrible, it had become a major trade center, receiving ministers and representatives from many western countries. It had once been the regional HQ of the 6th Red Army during the Revolution. Given its importance, the city was heavily guarded, with strong AA defenses.
It seemed a perfect place to re-establish governmental authority, and Berzin’s plan was to make it seem as if exactly that was happening there. He knew that any remnant of Beria’s plan still operating might soon trace their rout, and realize where Kirov was. In fact, he made every pretence of demonstrating that, ordering numerous state flagged limousines to come and go, with men in dark coats exiting and entering the buildings of the little Kremlin, and a very visible security presence.
But Kirov would only stay there three days, until the doctors were certain his condition had stabilized and he was beginning to heal. Instead he was secretly driven out of the city on an old supply truck, where he took up residence on a farm commune well outside the city. All the guards there were dressed out as field workers, and heavy flak guns, and even three KV-II Tanks, were concealed beneath bales of hay. It became known as the “Barnyard Kremlin,” the seat of all Soviet power now in exile, and there was much work to be done there as both Berzin and Kirov struggled to gather the many reins of that power and re-establish control.
Kirov lay on a soft bed in the great room of the farm house when Berzin joined him for the first real briefing. He had collected all the information he could find, and now it was his sad charge again to be the bearer of all that bad news to his friend.
“Out with it, Grishin,” said Kirov, squinting at him through half closed eyes when the GRU man came in. “I know it’s more bad news. Look at your boots!”
Berzin smiled, looking down at his boots, now soiled with the sodden ground of the farm site. “You will forgive me for not polishing them up this morning,” he said with a smile. “I have been just a little too busy.”
“Then tell me,” said Kirov. “What’s happening in Moscow?”
The Germans are in the city, with at least one unit, their 11th Panzer Division. They came right in behind that damn fire Beria started, God roast his soul in hell for that.”
“How far did they get?”
“Right into Red Square,” said Berzin with a shrug, and Kirov closed his eyes.
“Then they took the Kremlin? All of it? They have the Archives?”
“No sir, I took care of that by lighting a little fire myself. It’s all gone, the maps, newspapers, and all the books, except this one.” He pointed to a nearby table where that single volume sat, still stained with Kirov’s own blood. There sat the new Red Archives, a history of the Great Patriotic War, a single book on a bedside table in a simple farm house north of Vologda.
“What else?”
“We are still getting information on the scope of Beria’s plan. But if he thought to install himself in your place there in the Kremlin, the Germans have already foiled that. They don’t have a secure grip on the capital yet, and Rokossovsky is still fighting on the roads west of the city.”
“What about the Siberians?” asked Kirov. “They should be there by now.”
“Zhukov pulled them off the trains north east of Serpukhov.”
“What? I gave him direct orders to send those troops to Moscow!”
“Easy sir, it could not be helped. Beria knew about those orders, and he also knew that army was the only force we could throw into the defense of the capital to try and prevent what just happened. So he and his little band of traitors sabotaged all those rail lines. They made it as far as Kolomna, but Beria’s men took down the rail bridge over the Oka there, and that was that. Zhukov had no choice in the matter. He sent a few of the recon battalions on by road, with some artillery, but the rifle divisions and ski brigades were never going to get there in time. No transport was available at Kolomna. With the Germans breaking through at Serpukhov, he moved that whole force towards Kashira to organize a counterattack on that flank.”
Kirov shook his head. “How did they get to Serpukhov so easily?”
“The Germans have new tanks, sir. They are not distributed to the main force panzer divisions yet, but they concentrated a good many into a heavy brigade, and it broke through like a battering ram north of Tula some time ago. They got as far as Chekhov by the time Beria made his move. Now Zhukov is counterattacking.”
“But will we lose Moscow?”
“For a time, and a third of the city or more will be in ruins if we ever get it back. Zhukov insists we will, and in fact, he says the Germans have stuck their head in a bee hive there, and he is planning to chop it off to put them out of their misery. It will be street fighting, house to house, and perhaps all winter.”
“Then he is still planning to counterattack?”
“Yes, but we stole away most of the Armies he wanted for that. It will take some time, but we will hit them when the snows are thick around them, and the mobility of their panzer divisions is neutralized.”
“We must make them pay for every block of that city,” said Kirov. “We must make it a Stalingrad, just like that battle from the material. And what about that, Grishin? What about Volgograd?”
“The SS reached Boguchov near the Don, but that is still a hundred kilometers west of our positions at Kletskaya. Volkov tried to get a bridgehead there, but we stopped him.”
“Will the SS get through?”
“Not in the short run. They stopped to consolidate, and will have to go 250 kilometers from the positions they are holding now to reach Volgograd. Zhukov does not think they can get there this winter. The road net along the southern bank of the Don is not good. Don’t worry, all is not lost, even if we meet here now, and not in the Kremlin.”
“We will fight on,” said Kirov. “What is generally known of my condition?”
“The country at large knows nothing, though the rumor mills have spread panic after Black Snow. Beria gave the order to start that before he even came to try and finish you off. In fact, that was what alerted me, and set me racing for the Red Archives, as I knew that order could not have come from you.”
“I wanted to stay and fight for Moscow,” said Kirov.
“And I would have stayed with you,” said Berzin. “As things stand now, I must tell you that I am not yet certain we have complete control. Most of the Armies on the front are still intact, and responding to orders from Zhukov and the General Staff. But the ministers and other government personnel fled the city when that fire started, and they are fairly well scattered. Some have reached Leningrad, but the NKVD has been causing trouble there as well. We have to take swift action, and I must tell you that I have ordered Red Rain.”
“Good,” said Kirov with a frown, which surprised Berzin, as he expected Kirov might protest that such measures were not yet required. “I have tried to govern fairly, and without the strong arm that Stalin might have used,” Kirov went on. “But if ever there was a time when a plan like that was needed, this is that hour. Stick it to them, Grishin. Find out who is loyal and who stands against us. And by god, make sure Volkov feels the pain. You have my permission to implement the full range of foreign reprisals.”
“It’s Red Rain, sir,” said Berzin. “There are no halfway measures in that plan. The niceties of diplomacy are over. Anyone who will not pledge loyalty to you and the existing government of the Soviet state, as we now constitute it in this room, is going to feel the bite of the storm. I activated my entire network yesterday, the full might and muscle of the GRU, and I mean all over the world.”
“Be careful with the Americans,” said Kirov. “We’ll need them.”
“Of course, sir. But I did want to question you about one man in particular—Vladimir Karpov. We were tracking his movements, but GRU North reports they’ve lost that ship.”
“Lost it?”
“Not one station on the northern coast has been able to get a sighting for over two weeks.”
“Could it have foundered in the ice?”
“Not likely. That airship fleet of his is still hovering about up there, but the ship seems to have vanished.”
Now Kirov nodded, seeming to Berzin’s careful eye to know more about that report than he would speak of just now. “Exclude the Siberian element in Red Rain,” he said at last. “Send those agents to the Mongolian sector.”
“The Japanese?”
“Of course, Grishin. You know they’ll be after the American navy at Pearl Harbor. You know how those dominoes will fall. Hitler will foolishly declare war on the United States, and then we will have to declare war on the Japanese.”
“Yet we were neutral in the material,” said Berzin.
“You think the Siberians will remain neutral? I think not. That ship may have fallen off your surveillance net, but I have a strong feeling that it will turn up in the Pacific soon. That’s where it was headed, and that is where it will end up. As to Vladimir Karpov, he will not be targeted for now. I don’t think your men could get to him in any case. He’s on that ship, wherever it is.”
“Very well sir.”
“Grishin…”
“Sir?”
“Thank you—for saving my life, for standing with me as you did, when all hell must have been burning around you.”
“A man must choose where to stand many times in life,” said Berzin. “In my life, I have always been grateful, and honored, that my place has been here at your side.”
* * *
By the time Berzin’s GRU picked up the scent of the ship named for Sergei Kirov, it was December 2nd. Red Rain had fallen hard on their enemies in that interval, eliminating over 300 suspected rivals and enemy agents, smashing into the structure of the NKVD itself, rooting out Commissars and colonels and men like Beria’s henchman Molla, the man Orlov wanted to choke to death in one telling of these events.
Sergei Kirov’s wish that the streets of Moscow would become a Stalingrad was carried out. The Germans stayed in the city, holding onto the smoldering ruins they had conquered, where they still found some things left to burn for winter fires. Elsewhere on the front, the German advance began to slow in the frost of winter. Zhukov’s counterattacks played for time, until he could gather enough forces for the long anticipated winter counteroffensive. It would not be ready by December, but the Soviets still had enough troops on the line to force a kind of winter stalemate. The Germans continued to try and eliminate the vast pocket they had bagged before Moscow, but it fought on for much longer than the Vyazma pocket survived.
All those operations were still underway when Karpov reappeared, grateful that he had not missed the attack at Pearl Harbor. Yet things were going to unfold in a much different manner this time around. Strange events were on the wind, quite literally, for the weather was going to change things, one of the many traitors to history that people often overlook. It’s cold, heartless winds had already driven that fire through the streets of Moscow, as if conspiring with the German invaders at that crucial moment to lead them into the heart of the city they had struggled so long to conquer. And elsewhere, half a world away in the Pacific, another storm front was changing the careful timing of events as the Japanese plann
ed to enter the war.
Yes, the sinister weather, along with the inclinations of a Crazy Cruiser Commander who wanted to try his hand at carrier operations on the way back to Pearl Harbor, were now about to begin rewriting history. One of the little Lost Lambs off Lady Lex had stumbled upon something north of Hawaii, and there were also three battleships out of the barnyard, their bows turning north now, when they might otherwise have been berthed and quietly sleeping in the harbor.
Far to the north, Vladimir Karpov was hastening through the last of the ice ridden Bering Strait when Nikolin picked up that fateful coded naval signal broadcast to all fleet units by the Japanese, “Climb Mount Niitaka.”
In recent months, the cold, treacherous winds of war had blown across the endless expanse of Russia to Moscow, and through the dry, forsaken deserts of North Africa. Now that storm front was breaking in the quiet dawn of December 7th, 1941, and it is there that our story must now return…
Part II
Day of Infamy
“There is heroism in crime as well as in virtue. Vice and infamy have their altars and their religion.”
― William Hazlit
Chapter 4
They fell from the sky like dark birds of prey. Flight after flight, one Shotai after another, their dark green wings painted with the red fireball of wrath. The Kates were swooping low, their bellies laden with the heavy water lances that would soon open the steel hulls of the enemy battleships. Above, the Vals plummeted down in their dive bombing runs, and beyond it all, the white winged Zeroes circled like hawks as they searched in vain for opposing enemy aircraft. Yet in spite of every warning, the surprise had been complete, and soon the Zeroes were off to other targets, some to the sleeping airfields at Hickam, Wheeler and Ford. There they came in low, guns blazing as they strafed the tightly packed planes on the concrete tarmacs.