On Desperate Ground (25 page)

Prescott had to leave out the real reason, although this version was close enough to the truth. The Germans did not rely on radio transmissions during the planning for their Ardennes Offensive, thereby depriving the Allies of access to any orders they could decode using ULTRA. They thought there was a high-level spy somewhere in OKH, and hoped to circumvent that agent by not using the usual radio communications network that included Exchange 500 and Engima encoded radio transmissions. They were wrong about the spy, but right about not using the radio network.

“What I’ve been doing for the last month is going over all our intelligence sources, including your reports, for hints of anything similar.”
 

“How could you pick out anything from all that information?” asked Rose.

“By looking for anything that referred to an operation tangentially. If that operation was blacked out everywhere else, then it means something. Something top secret, maybe a last ditch effort.”

“You found something.” It was a statement, not a question. Mack had worked for Prescott too long to not pick up on the signs that he was closing in on a long-sought-for quarry. He could feel the tension and excitement in Prescott. Rose looked back and forth between them, understanding that he had walked into the kind of secret world that only existed among officers at the highest levels. He wished he were back on the line, where you knew who was who and which way to aim your rifle.

“Yes, but it meant very little until today. Two weeks ago, we intercepted, through one of our agents, a Luftwaffe order concerning tactical air coordination with something called Operation Gambit.” Prescott looked at the two men to see if they recognized the term. The agent was in fact ULTRA, and only a BIGOT could be trusted with that information. For anyone else, Prescott attributed any ULTRA information as coming from a “top agent”. It was how most people expected things worked in the intelligence game.
 

“Is gambit the chess term we’ve been looking for?”

“A gambit is a chess strategy where you give up a smaller piece in order to gain a larger advantage.”

“So what the hell does that mean?” asked Rose.
 

“Maybe nothing,” said Mack, answering for Prescott. “But the Germans are more likely to name their operations after something that actually refers to the tactical situation. Like Sealion for the invasion of England, or Watch on the Rhine for their Ardennes Offensive.”

“It’s not that you could figure it out, but they often have a hint of the operation in the name,” explained Prescott. “We take the opposite approach, and pick neutral names from a pre-selected list. If a name even comes close, we go onto the next one.”

“OK, so what are they giving up?” Mack walked over to a situation map on the table. “Looks like they’re fighting hard everywhere they can. I don’t think they control the situation on the ground enough to decide where to give up a pawn. And what would a pawn be, a city, a river, what?”

“Good questions. For now, we have to assume Gambit is a neutral term. There’s one other important thing, though. The Luftwaffe order defined the operational area for Gambit.” Prescott walked over to the map and tapped four cities. “Between Wittenberg and Torgau on the Elbe, and Bitterfeld and Eilenburg on the Mulde River. The order was for any aircraft not assigned to Operation Gambit to avoid that box once the activation order was received.”

The three men stared at the map. They were silent, each doing their own thinking and calculating. Finally Rose spoke up.
 

“So, we’ve got Operation Gambit, which will happen something like 300 miles behind enemy lines between two rivers. It involves GI uniforms and equipment, but probably not in large quantities, since we have only our own report of POWs being stripped of uniforms. We know the SS couldn’t provide any. Also that the SS and Luftwaffe are both involved. Anything else?”

“Only that no other reference to or orders concerning Operation Gambit have been intercepted,” Prescott stated. “The Luftwaffe radio message was likely a mistake. Whoever sent it is probably carrying a
Panzerfaust
on the eastern front right now.”

“So Operation Gambit is very, very top secret,” Rose concluded. Prescott nodded and pulled another cigar out of his tunic pocket. He lit it and puffed, deep in thought for minutes. He stared at the map and frowned for a while. Then the frown eased. Prescott gestured with his cigar, bits of ash floating down over the Mulde and Elbe rivers.

“That’s pretty flat country out there, isn’t it?”

Oh noooo, no, no, no.
Thought Mack.

“Yeah,” answered Rose. “It’s lowland country. Lots of cleared farmland, some forest areas.” Rose caught Mack’s glance at him and thought he was questioning his knowledge of the area. “What? I have a 1935 Michelin guide to Germany!”

Mack just rolled his eyes and waited for it to come.

“You know,” said Prescott, as if he just thought of the idea, “that would be pretty good terrain for a team to parachute into, don’t you think, Mack?”

Oh crap!

“Piece of cake, Colonel,” Rose answered, looking at Mack. “Right, Captain?”

Right, you fucking boy scout.

“Right,” Mack answered with a total lack of enthusiasm. “How are we gonna get back?”

Prescott and Rose looked at him as if he were from another world.

“We haven’t even got you there yet, Mack, give me a chance. Maybe a Lysander landing at night, or maybe the cavalry comes to your rescue.”

Prescott and Rose exchanged amused glances, and then turned their attention to the map.
 

“Lieutenant, Forcemen are all jump-qualified, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve got six of my boys from the Force with me. They’re all qualified radio operators too.”

“Excellent. Put a plan together. As soon as we force the Rhine and break out, we’ll drop your group into the area. Make sure you have sufficient radio equipment and can give Captain Mackenzie a thorough tour of that box.” Prescott tapped the map and turned to Mack, about to speak, when Mack stood up and stopped him.

“So this is the easy last assignment you promised me, after dragging me out of that hospital? Parachute a few hundred miles behind enemy lines and look for some Nazi plot that we don’t know a damn thing about?”

“Whoa, Mack, I know this is a little more that you banked on, but don’t worry. This is just a reconnaissance, all you need to do is stay low, see what’s going on, and report back. We’ll either fly you out or you can hunker down in the woods and wait for us. Once we cross the Rhine at all points, it’ll be a horserace.”

Mack fell back down in his seat and rested his head in his hands. He couldn’t believe it. He had a very bad feeling about this job. He looked up at the map on the table in front of him. The Elbe River seemed a long, long way from here. New York City seemed a million miles away.

“Colonel, do you remember when you told me the war was going to be over by Christmas? Last Christmas? And that the Germans had nothing left to throw at us?”

“I was wrong then, Mack. I don’t want another goddamn surprise. That’s why you’ve got to go on this mission. You’ve already helped me put some pieces of this puzzle together. Now you’ve got to finish the job. That’s an order.” Prescott’s face showed determination, and his intense desire not to be caught napping at this point in the war.

“Don’t worry, Captain,” said Rose, who was clearly charged up at the prospect of a secret mission, “it’ll be a walk in the park. We’ll take good care of you.” He smiled. Mack didn’t.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

11 April 1945

SS Headquarters

Berlin, Germany

Sturmbannführer
Otto Hettstedt clung to the side of the overcrowded horse-drawn trolley car. Electric trolleys had long ago stopped running due to damage from the constant bombing. Normally, Hettstedt reported to work later in the morning and avoided the crowds at this early hour. This morning, he was unusually eager to get to his desk. The night staff had pulled together the last bits of information for his final report on the individuals involved in Operation Gambit. Hettstedt was so excited at the prospect that he hardly minded the press of flesh on the crowded trolley that forced him to hang onto the side in such an undignified position. Every other morning, he would sit and silently curse the other riders and dream of the day when a brightly polished staff car would arrive at his door to take him to work. The dream and desire were so real that he allowed himself to think about it now, oblivious to the destruction all around him. He saw himself emerging from an elegant apartment building, the doorman bowing slightly as he walked swiftly by, pulling on his leather gloves. Just outside, his driver opened his door and clicked his heels as he came to attention. Inside the car, he could feel the soft leather against the palm of his hand.

The trolley halted, and Hettstedt swung forward, holding on for dear life as he steadied himself. The dream was gone, and he saw the trolley had stopped at the intersection of
Prinz Albrecht Strasse
and
Wilhelm Strasse
. He stepped down, and waited for the trolley to pull ahead. Looking down the road to Number 8, he thought about how wonderful it would be to have all those who had disdained him in the cellar prison there. He would show them, and it would start today! He walked briskly around the rubble in the street, anticipating what was to come.

Two weeks ago, Hettstedt had reviewed the files on Faust, Neukirk, and others that had been collected from Wehrmacht, SS, and Gestapo files. Initially, there had been nothing to incriminate any of them. He had been surprised at the number of special assignments that both Johann Faust and Dieter Neukirk had been on. From raids on Allied oil lines in Iran to French North West Africa, they had ranged beyond the borders of the Reich at its greatest extent. Neukirk was a natural leader, commanding his dwindling band of Brandenburgers in every theater of operations. Faust’s name appeared in more varied situations, from his last posting with General Gehlen on the Russian front to von Rundstedt’s Paris headquarters before the Normandy invasion, and as a special liaison with the Vichy French before that. The files showed nothing but praise for both of them.

Hettstedt had been disappointed, but he kept on digging. He knew that sooner or later he would find a small detail, something unusual, something not quite right. He would know when he saw it, as you would know a thread might unravel as soon as you pulled on it.
 

He didn’t notice the thread immediately when he first saw it in Dieter’s service file. Something nagged at him, though, a notion in his naturally suspicious mind that told him to go back through the Wehrmacht file. He had leafed through the forms and documents until he came to it. A simple, standard form required of any officer on active duty who planned to get married, to be submitted to his commanding officer. There, on the line indicating the name of the future bride was the name Elsa Klein. He had remembered her immediately. She was a thread to be pulled. He felt a superior smug satisfaction at the thought of the fear Dieter Neukirk would feel when he heard his precious fiancée was in Gestapo custody.
 

Hettstedt had instantly ordered a thorough background check on Elsa. He then reviewed his file on St. Ludwig’s Hospital. Staff there had been checked when the Wehrmacht had taken over the hospital. Several had been taken into custody simply to see if time in the basement of Number 8
Prinz Albrecht Strasse
would cause them to reveal anything about their co-workers. Nothing had come of that, except that the return of those prisoners had demonstrated the power of the Gestapo. There were some reports, however, of certain irregularities in paperwork. Identity papers of civilians killed in the bombings had not been returned to the authorities as required. That was not uncommon, given that papers were often destroyed or scattered in the explosions and fires that came with the bombing raids. What drew Hettstedt’s attention was the fact that it had been noted at all, indicating a greater volume of missing papers than was usual. The notation was over two years old and had never been followed up on, a tiny detail in a mountain of paperwork, hidden away, waiting to be uncovered. To Hettstedt, it shone like a beacon, announcing itself and begging to be noticed. He took notice, with a vengeance.

He had ordered tabulations on the number of bombing victims who had died at three Berlin hospitals, including St. Ludwig’s. He then had them compared with the identity papers returned to the Gestapo by those hospitals. This information indeed existed, but it was scattered in bits and pieces throughout files in several government offices in Berlin. It had finally been collected yesterday. When he put the figures together, it was clear to see. The information had been there all along, he had just never looked at the problem this way. The other two hospitals returned between 70% and 80% of identity papers from deceased patients. St. Ludwig’s returned fewer than 40%. His investigators had been very precise, even breaking down the data into counts of male and female and age groups. The papers returned by St. Ludwig’s were mostly from older patients. The lowest category of return was for young girls.
 

Hettstedt had immediately suspected the papers were being supplied to Jews hiding in Berlin. He himself was from Essen and had never liked the Berliners and the city’s left-wing workers. They had called the working class section ‘Red Berlin’ when he had been posted here. He and his comrades had certainly dealt with that threat, but the number of Berliners willing to hide enemies of the state continued to frustrate him. Luckily, there were enough loyal citizens in the city and the Gestapo was still finding hidden Jews in attics and other hiding places throughout Berlin.