The Lure of the Pack (20 page)

“I see, and the codeword?”

“HA!” Again came the loud booming laugh, “that is up to you
my dear Wilhelm, as of now!”

Wilhelm Oratz clenched his fists together, adrenaline racing
through his veins. Such power he thought, the power to incinerate the Vatican
and finally plunge Europe into civil war, and it would begin with a simple
code. “Amen,” he whispered.

“What?”

Oratz looked frostily into the eyes of his Russian friend,
“Amen…is the code I shall use!”

“Interesting!”

“Your coffees gentlemen! Please let me know if you require
anything else Mister Menkov.”

“Of course I will Viktor.” The Maitre d’ left again as
Vitali stirred his Espresso, his thoughts entwined in its strong aroma. “So,”
he looked up at Oratz, “Amen it is then!”

“When can I expect delivery?” There was a smug look on the
face of VKE’s Sales Director; he was pleased with his sense of irony, his sense
of imagination. How apt he thought.

“Wednesday, mid-day. The briefcase will be delivered
directly to the hotel. Of course, you will be out at the time, so the staff
will have strict instructions to place it in their safety deposit area. When we
arrive back from the site visit, you can collect it.”

“Good, and the anti detection system?”

“My contact in the SVR has assured me the case is
impregnable against any known airport security devices. We will exchange your
current case for the new one, then obviously you can place your business documents
or whatever, inside. The device is fixed and layered underneath. I have to
admit,” Menkov suddenly looked very pleased with himself, “we have copied the
design of your briefcase, from the photographs you sent me by e-mail, with
relative ease. However, it is slightly larger in length, width and depth, but
no one should notice, especially with all the press activity taking place
around you as you pass through customs.”

“Very good, and how do I utilise the hand held transmitter?”

Menkov sipped his coffee and put his cup down, “all in good
time my friend, I will show you the transmission device when we are travelling
tomorrow. That way I can run smoothly through the set sequence you need to
follow. You can then rehearse the procedure each time we are in the car, just
to refresh your memory, that way we will have total privacy as Nikolai will be
driving.”

“Excellent!”

“…and Pope John Paul the Second will give his blessing to
begin the Festival of Peace, with an estimated crowd of over one hundred
thousand attending the event in St Peter’s Square. At the same time, all over
the world people from various nationalities and religions will help celebrate a
very special day of peace, including services in cathedrals and churches across
mainland Europe. The Pontiff’s blessing is scheduled for 2.00 p.m. a week on
Sunday…”

“Incredible, isn’t it?” Jean-Paul’s voice seemed slightly
melancholy as he looked at Nick, Jeanette and Piper, the BBC’s news report
continuing in the background.

“What’s that, Jean-Paul?” enquired Jeanette; now back from
her meeting at SHAPE.

“People’s resolve in times of crises. We have sickening acts
of terrorism taking place across Europe, killing and maiming thousands, with
revenge attacks following in their wake and now,” he smiled, “the Pope is ready
to give his blessing to begin a festival involving millions of people, in a
celebration of peace.”

“Well Jean-Paul,” Piper walked over and patted his CEATA
colleague on the shoulder, “perhaps there is hope after all.”

“Yeah,” said Nick, “a celebration bringing out the best in
people. That’s really cool, and a hundred thousand in St Peter’s Square, wow,
that will be an awesome sight!”

“Don’t forget the hundreds of thousands taking part in
religious services all across Europe, Nick,” said Jeanette. She quickly glanced
over at Piper, “I agree with Ash, this festival will bring a great deal of hope
to people, and lord knows we need it at the moment!”

“I am still intrigued as to your target Wilhelm, but I know
better than to ask.”

“You will know soon enough Vitali, now, let us participate
in one more glass of vodka, for I wish to propose a toast!”

A look of utmost astonishment quickly swept over the face of
Vitali Menkov. “Wilhelm I cannot believe this! You, are ordering two more
glasses of vodka?”

“Yes, this has been a splendid evening my friend and I feel
like celebrating.”

Is it my imagination thought Menkov, or is Wilhelm actually
smiling again? “VIKTOR, TWO MORE GLASSES OF VODKA!” This time it was Wilhelm
Oratz’s voice that travelled across the restaurant.

“HA, I am amazed Wilhelm, this is a rare sight indeed,
another hearty smile on a face of stone!” The two small frosted glasses
arrived, filled to the brim with the strong smelling Russian liquor as the
beautiful tones of Dmitri Shostakovich’s Opera, Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk played
gently in the background. It was as if, thought Menkov…angels were singing!

“I propose a toast Vitali,” Wilhelm Oratz held his glass to
face height, his thin lips creasing into an evil smile, “to the destruction of
religion!”

“HA!” The two glasses clinked together, “now, how do I
respond to your toast my dear Wilhelm?” Vitali Menkov’s broad, open smile sent
a vivid message to his friend. It had indeed, been a very successful evening.
“Ah yes…” he said, his eyes alight with wicked bedevilment, “Amen to that!”

8

EASY PICKINGS

Dateline: 12 March 1943 - 14.28 hours

Location: The City of Kharkov, The Ukraine

It was a time long before the planning for Project Were and
as usual, the city stank…of death. “TARGET THAT BUILDING, TWO O’CLOCK, HIT
IT…NOW!”

The 50mm gun from the Panzerkampfwagen MkIII tank belched
cordite as it recoiled. With a deafening explosion, the high explosive shell
hit its target sending clouds of debris reeling into the air, across the
already rubble-strewn street. “HIT IT AGAIN, FIRE!” Another recoil meant
another explosion, sending dagger like shards of splintered wood and glass
soaring through the dust. “HOLD FIRE, HOLD FIRE!” Waffen SS Sturmbannfuhrer
Karl Von Kurst held his right hand up as the twelve grenadiers crouched behind
him prepared to assault the building to the right of them, a building full of
Reds. The dreadful Russian winter had once again seen their metal helmets
painted white, their SS lightning runes still standing proudly, openly visible on
each side. Now, the battle hardened men in their dirt strewn, heavy, fur lined
parkas, which had given such welcome protection against the Russian winter,
were ready to engage in heated, brutal battle once again. As their minds became
focused on the task ahead, Karl Von Kurst’s grenadiers readied themselves once
more for savage hand-to-hand combat with their Bolshevik enemy.

The broken, shattered city of Kharkov had to be retaken, and
over the last twenty-four hours Von Kurst’s hard-hitting detachment from the
Waffen SS Totenkopf division had been fighting like mad dogs in the northern
sector of the city. Amidst the din of war, Von Kurst looked around, his face
filthy and lined with sweat. Where the hell is Falck, he thought? Deeply
concerned, he turned to one of his most trusted SS colleagues. “Scharfuhrer
Kempler, prepare for covering fire, take your team to the left and set up over
there,” Von Kurst pointed to a clearing of rubble, it was a perfect area for an
MG42 machine gun nest, a true killing zone. “Hit the scum as they move out.
WHERE THE HELL ARE THE OTHERS?” Suddenly, a white-hot torrent of lead spewed
down on the grenadiers from a battered three-storey house on the left. More
Reds thought Von Kurst, his eyes aglow with hate and loathing; the bastards are
giving my men the fight of their lives. The SS troops returned fire, as what
was left of the broken building’s glass window frames splintered inwards from a
lethal assault of firepower, the Panzer III, with a loud thunderous roar firing
again, giving further cover. But not enough!

“WE’RE BOTTLED IN HERR STURMBANNFUHRER; THE REDS WILL CUT US
TO PIECES IF WE DON’T MOVE NOW!” A grenadier yelled the uncomfortable truth to
his highly respected senior officer.

In a tactful response, Von Kurst shouted once again down his
radio to the commander inside the Panzer. “TARGET LEFT, INCREASE ELEVATION, TEN
O’CLOCK HIGH!”

“AFFIRMATIVE.” A loud metallic clanking sound could be heard
above the cacophony of battle, the Panzer’s turret slowly rotating, its gun
barrel elevating to meet the SS Major’s instructions. The tank fired, its
mainframe jolting with the cannon’s release of its shell, giving way to another
massive explosion. The Totenkopf grenadiers crouched down, holding onto their
helmets as bricks, glass and wood spewed out around them. Then they heard the
sound they had all been waiting for, another tank, this time accompanied by a
half-track.

“GIVE COVERING FIRE!” Hauptsturmfuhrer Jurgen Falck’s order
was concise, the gunner of the front mounted MG 42 machine gun beginning his
usual short, three-second bursts into the building to the left of him. The
result was devastating. If it was one infantry weapon the red army feared the
most from Germany’s Waffen SS units, it was the finely crafted Machinengewehr
MG 42. With its cyclic firing rate of 1,200 rounds of 7.92 mm ammunition per
minute, the sound of the weapon firing its lethal projectiles was sometimes
likened to tearing cloth. Every Bolshevik soldier feared it!

“HERE THEY COME, HIT THEM NOW!” With bated breath, Von Kurst
and his men levelled their own weapons once again and let loose a torrent of
death. A savage response met the SS grenadiers assault, the seasoned veteran’s
of the Russian front dropping to the ground, finding cover quickly amidst the
shattered, filth laden debris of a once beautiful city. As always, Von Kurst
and his men were all covered in dirt and the remains of dried blood, both
Russian and German, but they didn’t care, they just wanted revenge. The Reds
had retaken the Totenkopf’s prized city just a month earlier, now it was time
to hit back.

Shouting manically a horde of Russian soldiers appeared from
the broken, shattered buildings to the right of the grenadiers, the enemy
knowing instinctively their only way out of the hell hole known as Kharkov, was
through the northern sector of the city. The sector now heavily encircled by
the Waffen SS Death’s Head division.

“CUT THE PIGS DOWN,” yelled Von Kurst. It was slaughter on a
grand scale as the battle hardened SS soldiers opened up with everything they
had. But the Russians still came forward, as always chanting and roaring brutal
defiance against their Nazi aggressors, seemingly fearless, running towards
death itself down the bloodied, broken, shattered street or firing from vantage
points in the ruinous, fear filled debris. “IRON HORSE ONE AND TWO, TARGET THE
BUILDINGS TO THE RIGHT, QUICKLY!” The terrifying sounds of brutal combat were
everywhere; seemingly surrounding both German and Russian combatants in a
vortex of hate filled battle. Heavy machine gun fire and explosions from
grenades and tank rounds echoed all around, and as usual, the most horrifying
sound of all stood out within the hellish cacophony of death. Namely, the
screams of dying and injured men!

“HAUPTSTURMFUHRER FALCK, WHAT OF THE SITUATION IN THE CITY’S
SOUTHERN SECTOR?” Karl Von Kurst could hardly hear himself speak as he huddled
behind the Panzer III, yelling yet again into his radio transmitter. The
firefight was gaining in intensity.

“THE LEIBSTANDARTE AND DAS REICH HAVE MADE EXCELLENT
PROGRESS,” Jurgen Falck replied, “THEIR TIGERS AND MARK FOURS HAVE PUNCHED
STRAIGHT INTO THE BOLSHEVIK DEFENCES. THEY ARE RETREATING LIKE FRIGHTENED
PIGS!” There was a pause as a loud explosion enveloped Falck’s half-track. A
grenade had been tossed by a Russian infantryman. A high-pitched wailing scream
echoed across the street as the grenade’s sickening, crumping sound enveloped
the battle-scarred vehicle. One of Falck’s men lay yelling in agony.

“FALCK, FALCK, ARE YOU ALRIGHT?” Karl Von Kurst’s concerned,
shouting voice could not be heard as further explosions enveloped Kharkov’s
arena of death, the second Panzer slowly moving forward, carefully seeking new
targets. Von Kurst watched as the metal beast opened up with its co-axial
machine gun, scything into the Russians, cutting them down like so much poultry
in a slaughterhouse.

“YES HERR STURMBANNFUHRER,” at last Falck’s eagerly awaited
reply came, and not a moment too soon, “THE REDS ARE RETREATING THIS WAY, WE
HAVE ONE HELL OF A FIGHT ON OUR HANDS!”

“ANOTHER DETACHMENT IS ON ITS WAY JURGEN, FALL IN WITH MY
MEN, NOW!” The Panzers continued covering fire as the two detachments of
grenadiers became one.

“COME ON YOU BLOOD SUCKING, BOLSHEVIK SCUM, COME ON!” Every
three-second burst counted for at least two dead Reds thought Fritz Kempler as
he squeezed the trigger of his MG42, the newly acquired position in the rubble
giving him and his team an excellent vantage point. Now another two machine gun
positions from Hauptsturmfuhrer Falck’s detachment, were set up to the right of
them. Any Reds moving down the blood-drenched street would be cut to pieces in
a hail of lethal crossfire. As Kempler looked around at the terrifying scenes
of violence and bloodshed, he glimpsed a figure with a weapon. High up, to the
left of him, a sniper! Grabbing the young grenadier at his side, Kempler rolled
to the right as the sniper’s bullet tore into his leg. “SHIT,” he yelled, a
searing pain slicing through his thigh. Within seconds, as blood began pouring
down his leg, Scharfuhrer Fritz Kempler realised he had been seriously wounded.

“SNIPER, THIRD BUILDING TO THE LEFT! IRON HORSE ONE, HIT THE
BASTARD,” yelled Karl Von Kurst. By now the two detachments of Waffen SS
grenadiers were fighting as one battle-hardened unit, with one singular goal in
mind, the total annihilation of Russian stragglers within their hard won sector
of the city of Kharkov.

Karl Von Kurst was fully in command again as Jurgen Falck
knelt at his side. As always with senior officers of the Waffen SS, they fought
alongside their men in the thick of the action, courageously leading from the
front. With another massive bellowing of cordite from its gun barrel, the lead
Panzer III let loose another high explosive round as a ravaging explosion took
the front of the sniper’s cover away. Terrible screams were heard again as
several broken bodies corkscrewed through the air. The round had killed the
sniper and several fleeing Russian soldiers, but Fritz Kempler was injured and
both Von Kurst and Falck knew their friend needed urgent medical treatment.

“I’M GOING TO GET FRITZ,” shouted Falck.

Von Kurst looked at his helpless friend screaming in the
rubble. “DON’T BE AN IDIOT JURGEN,” this was no time for sentimentality,
“YOU’LL BE CUT TO PIECES. WE HAVE TO WAIT, LET THE PANZERS CLEAR THE BUILDINGS
AS BEST THEY CAN!” Anxiously, Von Kurst and Falck looked on, powerless, as the
hellish, brutal quagmire of war engulfed their surroundings.

It was a short burst of machine gun fire that killed the
young grenadier as he urgently applied a tourniquet to Fritz Kempler’s damaged
leg. As the young man’s blood-soaked, lifeless body fell by his side, Kempler
knew he was slowly bleeding to death…and no one could help.

“I’VE GOT TO GET TO HIM; HE’LL DIE IF I DON’T!”

“NO JURGEN, NOOOOOO!” Karl Von Kurst grabbed his friend by
the scruff of his filthy jacket, but his hand slipped as Falck, his body bent
low and firing a full round from his MP40 sub machine gun, sprinted to the
rubble where Kempler lay. “GIVE COVERING FIRE, NOW!” Von Kurst leapt into the
half-track as adrenaline exploded through his body. “GIVE ME THAT!” He shouted
to the grenadier firing the MG42, “I’LL TAKE THE BASTARDS ON MYSELF!” Von Kurst
squeezed the trigger of the heavy machine gun as another horde of Russians made
a last desperate attempt to gain their freedom. 

With explosions, darting tracer and screams revolving all
around him, Jurgen Falck violently shook his semi conscious friend. “FRITZ,
FRIIIIIIIIIITZ,” he yelled, “LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME, SHIT!” The explosion
knocked Falck off his feet into the dirt and rubble. His ears were ringing, the
sounds around him muffled as he grabbed Kempler by the shoulders. Quickly he
glanced back at his fellow grenadiers firing at the oncoming Russians. Then he
saw his friend, the man whom he greatly admired, firing the MG42, giving no
thought to his own safety. It’s now or never, he thought! Pulling Kempler over
his shoulders, both Falck and the last grenadier in the machine gun nest
hastily began to make their way back to the half-track, a distance of only
thirty metres or so, but in the deadly hail of Russian gunfire, it might as
well have been a thousand.

“KEEP FIRING, KEEP FIRING!” Karl Von Kurst’s voice could
only just be heard over the dire sounds of urban warfare and the close up
waspish rattling of the MG42. The Totenkopf grenadiers were hitting the
Russians with everything they had. “QUICKLY JURGEN, MOVE, DAMN IT!” Along with
his men, Von Kurst continued covering fire as Falck struggled on with Fritz
Kempler hanging limply over his shoulder, his enemy’s lethal tracer continuing
to slice through the dust laden air around his struggling form as men from both
opposing forces lay screaming in the dirt. As Falck and the grenadier dropped
down by the half-track, shards of metal splintered near their faces. They were
both exhausted.

Hastily, Von Kurst crouched down inside the armoured
confines of the half-track, another grenadier swiftly taking over the firing
position on the MG42. Nimbly, he moved to the rear of the battle-scarred
vehicle and exited, keeping his body low, the scathing sounds of bullets
hitting the half-track’s light armour plating making him grimace. Panting
heavily he noticed the blood on his filthy, padded jacket. A bullet had sliced
across his shoulder, just missing vital muscle tissue and bone. “IRON HORSE ONE
AND TWO, TURN THOSE BUILDINGS INTO RUBBLE, NOW!” The two Panzers fired again at
the Russian positions. “YOU DAMNED IDIOT JURGEN, WHAT DID I TELL YOU?” Waffen
SS Sturmbannfuhrer Karl Von Kurst was not happy, but he still managed a smile
at his two close friends. “Tighten that tourniquet around Fritz’s leg,
quickly.” Falck did so.

“You crazy, wonderful bastards,” muttered Kempler, a look of
increasing agony welling up on his fatigued, stubble-ridden face. “Ha, these
piss stinking Reds, they’re such easy pickings!” With the continuous discord of
battle surrounding them, Karl Von Kurst and Jurgen Falck laughed grimly at
their friend’s feeble joke as Fritz Kempler slowly fell into unconsciousness.

“Sergeant Piper, I have something for you!” It was 09.05
hours, Tuesday morning and Nick Lucas walked casually down the corridor leading
to Colonel Mann’s office.

“Oh, and what’s that Nick?” Ash Piper, who was due for a
morning meeting with the Colonel at 09.15, took the sheet of paper from his
friend’s hand; it was a copy of an e-mail from the Financial Times Head Office
in London.

“You’re in…the promotional evening, this just came through,
minutes ago!” Nick’s tone of voice could not hide the fact that he was buzzing
with excitement.