Breakthrough (The Red Gambit Series) (94 page)

His legs felt numb, all except the wounded thigh, which screamed with every little movement.

He traded time for the absence of pain, permitting the tide to slowly bring him closer to safety.

On the beach he saw two men patiently watching him, two men who bore no resemblance whatsoever to any of his crew.

Both men looked nonchalantly back as the unmistakable sound of firing rose above the howl of the wind.

‘What the fuck?’

His mind was suddenly in overdrive.

As he drifted closer in, the two men moved to the water’s edge.

A third man arrived and received a report from the senior of the two watchers.

The words carried on the breeze
, a language Sveinsvold knew well from his time fishing on
Lake Michigan
with the crews of the various é
migré groups
,
in friendly competi
tion for everything from fish to women.

‘Russian?’

The Russian Marines, for that was what they were, seemed relaxed, and in a moment of clarity Sveinsvold understood.

‘They think I’m from the sub.’

In a moment
,
he took hold of his
dog tags
and jerked hard, releasing them to float to the bottom unseen.

The recently arrived Russian chivvied the others into the water
,
and soon
strong hands
were grabbing at the exhausted Norwegian, pulling him from the water and up to the beach.

Bjarte had decided to play the wounded man role to the full
,
in order to buy himself time.

His coarse mumblings in Russian slipped easily from his tongue, learned when the latest
Michigan
fisherman’s fad had been the ability to insult all others in their own language. They served to reassure the Russians that they had indeed been correct
,
and that this man was the sole survivor from their supply vessel.

On his arm he bore a tattoo, his wife’s name, and this served to further confirm his ‘friendly’ nature to the
Russian
marines, for they did not know that
Riga
was
his wife,
a pleasant Norwegian-American mother of four
,
as well as the capital of
Latvia
.

A blanket appeared and was wrapped round the ivory white body, and he was gently carried up to the road where two bicycles were lashed together to provide a base for a pair of floorboards, which were similarly
tied
in place, ready for him to lie on.

Sveinsvold suppressed his horror as two corpses were dragged in front of him, the two mechanics shot down by sub-machine guns as they rose from their beds.

The Russians spoke sympathetically to him, kicking one of the dead men to express their sympathy for the loss these Americans had caused.

A group of a dozen Soviet naval marines were now gathered around the centre piece of the bike litter, waiting for the command to set off.

Two more Russians emerged from the tatty building, bringing with them a
bloodied
James.

Last out was the unit’s commanding officer and owner of the submachine gun that had taken the lives of Sveinsvold’s crew mates.

An NCO reported to the Captain with a salute, indicating the bike litter, which received a nod of approval from the officer.

James, spotting the chief but not understanding the predicament, became agitated, growling sounds
coming from his ruined mouth
.

“Ah Comrade Submariner, I am sorry for the loss of your comrades.”

Surprisingly, h
is Russian was
more than
up to the job of understanding and he decided to risk conversation.

“Thank you
,
Comrade Kapitan,” grateful to the NCO for speaki
ng the man’s rank earlier, “The
Amerikanski
fought well and had the luck this time.”

Expecting a torrent of abuse to be aimed at the surviving American, the Captain was confused.

“But they killed all your comrades
,
and this one’s life is forfeit.”

Sveinsvold made his play.

“It is war
,
Comrade Kapitan. This time they won
,
and I will mourn the loss of my comrades while this one,” he pointed an exaggeratedly accusing finger at the now quiet Lieutenant, “Spends the rest of his war as a prisoner.”

The Captain frowned.

“I think not
,
Comrade Submariner. We have no need for prisoners here. Anyway, we must get back now. Prepare to march.”

Hands took hold of the Chief and gently eased him onto the bike litter, occasionally obstructing his view of James
,
as the young officer was pushed to his knees between the two dead mechanics.

No sound escaped either man’s lips. Not James
’
,
as the cold muzzle touched his hairline, nor Sveinsvold
s’
,
as part of his
L
ieutenant’s face detached with the passing of the heavy Tokarev bullet.

As the party swiftly closed down upon the main base, the Soviets pushing the litter assumed that Sveinsvold’s tears were those of pain.

The Captain, actually the second in command of the base security force, sent more men out into the night, tasked with sanitising the scene
,
and removing any trace of the blimp or its crew before the sun spread its wings once more.

They did an excellent job, with one small exception.

Great men are not always wise.

Job 32:9

Crisp dropped heavily into the worn but comfortable armchair and surveyed the town square, acknowledging the arrival of a freshly brewed coffee with the politest of grunts.

Before his eyes was a hive of activity, vehicles and men coming and going, supplies
and reinforcements
arriving for distribution
and allocation
, all part of the process of getting the ‘Screaming Eagles’ back on their feet.

The 101st had been withdrawn from the fighting in Southern Bavaria
,
and had been moved back into the
Netherlands
, although Sittard wa
s an unfamiliar
billet for them.

One in five of the Eagles were
still i
n
Germany
in one way or another. T
he casualties amongst the
parachute and glider infantrymen had been higher
than the other service arms,
as they
had borne
the brunt of the Soviet attacks.

The newly displaced 4th Indian Division slipped into line in their stead, fresh from a forced march from
Northern Italy
. The 101st gathered themselves up and made the journey back into the reserve
,
where they could reconstitute and prepare themselves for whatever they were next told to do.

With a professional but exhausted eye, Crisp noted the men jumping down from the back of two 6x6’s, each and every man sporting the patch of the 82nd US Airborne on his arm,
their faces
wearing the look
s
of men who had been exposed to hell.

It was these men that Crisp had come to find, as they were to be assimilated into his battalion, trained men to keep his
jump
qualifications
up,
but he worried if they were too much like damaged goods inside.

With
a burst of
energy
that
he somehow found within the empty recesses of his body, he sprang out of the chair, driving himself out of the bar, down the steps into the square and across to the slowly assembling replacements.

Baldwin and Hawkes noticed the Acting Lieutenant Colonel on his way
,
and harangued the new arrivals into some semblance of order.

The members of
‘
Hastings
’ were
present
in the spectator area, although neither seated together nor acknowledging each other.

Lord Southam’s presence had been noted by more than one of those representatives on the floor below, his unexpected and unusual appearance being put down to the important statement the Prime Minister was just finishing.

The Speaker indicated that the leader of the Opposition could rise, and Churchill did so, to sounds of encouragement from both sides of the house.

Normally, Winston would provide the highlight of the day’s business, and most in the gallery and, indeed, on the floor of the house, listened appreciatively to his summation of Attlee’s delivery, and his dissection of its contents.

Only six people there understood that something
momentous
was about to happen, and the Speaker only knew part of it to ensure he did what he had to do.

The
Member
of
Parliament
for Woodford took his seat again, permitting Attlee to either address or rebuff the concerns raised.

The Prime Minister countered Churchill’s points and reseated himself, prepared to be attacked a second time.

Churchill, being one of the six, decided not to rise again.

Murmurs of discontent grew on the opposition side of the House, the former prime minister clearly, and most unusually, passing off an opportunity to roast the present encumbent

Attlee made an error in interpreting Churchill’s silence, believing that he had won the exchange. Despite the confusion, his confidence received a boost, misplaced as it was, and perhaps contributing to what was to come.

The Speaker gave the floor to Clement Davies,
the new incumbent
Liberal Party leader,
elected in
after their recent drubbing at the polls.

He was similarly scathing about the Government
’
s position on the war.

Those third, fourth and fifth in the know felt their anticipation building
,
as Davies took his seat to permit Attlee another opportunity for
rebuttal
.

The Prime Minister concluded his follow-up, still off-balance from Churchill’s response, or lack of it.

The floor was open and, as had been requested, the Speaker called others
to speak,
before discharging the simple request the head of MI5 had put to him.

“The Honourable member for Wroughton.”

The sixth man stood, receiving the usual recognition and adulation due a man who wore his country’s highest bravery award.

Colonel Sir Fabian John Callard-Smith MP VC coughed gently and
composed
himself.

“Mr Speaker, I can only agree with my Right Honourable friend, the member for Woodford
,
and find myself asking the Prime Minister
to reassure this house that the spirit necessary for a successful prosecution of this new war still exists in both himself and his cabinet colleagues.”

The Labour benches howled in defence of their man
,
and Callard-Smith gave way to the rising Attlee.

“Mr Speaker, I can assure the Honourable Member for Wroughton that the Government is fully resolved to ensure the preservation of our Country and the Kingdom of our Sovereign, and that we will not shy away from any measure in order to secure the same.
I just gave the same reply to the leader of his party, which reply obviously was acceptable, given the lack of further exchanges.
”