None the less, not to know of the reprieve, the whole submarine group had taken a detour back out towards deep water, one that had used up valuable fuel, although I-353 still trailed the main force by some two hundred miles, ready to provide resources if needed.
Not that the Japanese boats would need them.
They had no plans to return home.
Kalinin handed over command to his first officer and returned to his quarters where, before he grabbed a few hours’ sleep, he again reminded himself of the geography of his own target.
He dropped off to sleep and dreamt…
…of Jamaica…
…of Chelsea…
…of Charles…
…and of Harvard…
1130 hrs, Thursday, 12th April 1947, Timi Woods Camp, Paphos, Cyprus.
Crisp accepted the salutes of his leadership and watched as they sprinted away to get their men aboard the waiting aircraft.
He still had trouble thinking of it as an aircraft, so vast was the Spruce Goose that it promised to defy the very idea that gravity would ever relinquish its grip upon the airframe and permit it to rise into the air.
But, he reminded himself, fly it did.
The vast interior was soon to be crammed with his soldiers. It was already accommodating weapons, ammunition, food, and medical supplies, but the weights had all been calculated and the incredible aircraft gobbled up everything without batting a proverbial eye.
As he observed the loading of his soldiers, he caught sight of Hughes and his band of civilians, dressed in the same uniforms as his soldiers, gesticulating wildly as they argued over weight distribution, fuel consumption, and the plethora of things that seemed to exercise and amuse them on a regular basis.
They had dismissed the warnings about being captured and the likely outcome of having their identities discovered.
Their issue of the uniforms was greeted with boyish howls, almost as if a dressing up party was in the offing.
That the uniforms belonged to the Red Army would be enough to ensure that anyone captured wearing them would be shot, but they were simply essential to the plan to storm Camp 1001, otherwise Crisp would not be wearing one himself.
Crisp relaxed and decided on a cigarette before he took up his place on the Spruce Goose.
He sampled the calming smoke and revisited the minutiae of the plan.
Part of his force had gone on ahead, shoehorned into a number of Curtiss Commandos, their part in the operation to be discharged in a separate place, but just as vital as the main force’s job in many ways.
Shandruk’s force had also already departed, their part in the operation due to commence prior to the arrival of the main force.
The Ukrainian’s role was vital, and could well mean the difference between success and failure in the ground plan.
Undoubtedly, the air plan would succeed, but in succeeding could well mean disaster for Crisp, his men, and those already on the ground.
On other bases, both on airfields or on slipways, aircraft with special roles to play were undoubtedly already being prepared.
The coordination required was incredible, and the original plan developed by Sam Rossiter and his team had been amplified and improved time after time.
Jenkins’ fantastic model had proved to be invaluable in planning the operation, although the complicated structure had now been dismantled and its constituent parts spread around so as to provide no clues as to its purpose.
Rossiter arrived on cue, to wish Crisp luck and shake his hand one more time.
“Can you do it, Colonel?”
“General… I can tell you this. We’re ready and able, trained, and up for the mission. If it can be done, it’ll be done… and if it can’t be done… well I guess the Air Force’ll have to carry the ball.”
Rossiter extended his right hand and grasped that of Crisp.
“The very best of luck to you and your men, Colonel Crisp.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
They saluted as RSM Sunday marched towards them, his bearing as perfect as if he were commanding a review on Horse Guards Parade.
“Sah! Mister Hughes reports that he’s ready to take off. All men are aboard. All supplies aboard and secured.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Major.”
Ten minutes later, the green-painted Spruce Goose, decorated with the markings of an aircraft of Soviet naval aviation, rose slowly from the waters of the Mediterranean, destination Tabruz, on the Caspian Sea.
1207 hrs, Thursday, 12th April 1947, 7th Mechanised Cooperation Training School, Verkhiny Baskunchak, USSR.
The atmosphere was always relaxed, but today it was more so as the final exercises were almost complete, and the unit under training had performed superbly, the joint product of excellent leadership by the experienced commanders and of great teaching by the men in the room.
They had just briefed Colonel Bortanov on the exercise he was expected to undertake the following day, and had let him go to prepare his plans, along with the staff of 218th Tank Brigade.
Accompanying him was Lieutenant Colonel Tob of the 115th Naval Infantry Brigade, also training with Bortanov’s unit prior to being attached to a newly forming Tank Corps, to be based around the 218th.
It was important for the successful final exercise that the staff of 7th Mechanised Cooperation Training School had no exposure to the home force’s planning, as they were to participate as the enemy force.
In just a few weeks, Yarishlov had forged his experienced officers into a solid unit, and 218th Tanks was the second unit to pass out of the three-week training programme far better prepared than when they entered.
As overall commander, Yarishlov had men under him to oversee the various disciplines required for the advanced battle tactics and manoeuvre course that was his to design and deliver.
Colonel Nikolay Zorin, once commander of the veteran 39th Guards Tank Brigade, was his tank commander.
Although they had never served together during either war, Yarishlov held Zorin in high esteem.
He was still thoroughly competent and innovative tank leader, despite the serious wounds he had suffered at Hamburg in the early days of August 1945.
Which was also another reason why Zorin held a special place in his heart; he had fought against his friend John Ramsey, and the pair of them often shared a vodka whilst Yarishlov listened to the stories of the incredible British resistance around the Rathaus and canals of the old Hanseatic League city.
Zorin and Kriks had become thick as thieves as a result, as had Colonel Bailianov and Yarishlov’s senior NCO, partially because of previous experiences together in and around Tostedt in August ’45, and partially because Bailianov and Kriks had a shared passion for chess, and were well matched in ability.
Bailianov’s role with the training establishment was to command the infantry and anti-tank forces that opposed the units under training, a job in which he constantly outdid himself, much to the exasperation of Zorin and the tank training staff, although good-humouredly so.
He had learned his craft under one of the very best infantry commanders in the Red Army, namely T.N. Artem’yev, and he was rapidly approaching his mentor’s quality.
Last of Yarishlov’s unit commanders was Major Harazan, an engineer by trade and inclination, and a veteran of hard fighting against the SS Legion in the Alsace, where he was wounded.
Subsequently he fought with Chuikov’s Alpine Front, where he sustained another wound, one serious enough that it removed him permanently from front line duties, although many observers failed to realise that he had only one leg, so spritely was he on the prosthetic limb that replaced his lower left leg.