“General.”
“Polkovnik”
They saluted formally and went their separate ways.
Nazarbayeva left the secure signals office, content that her nondescript message to Kaganovich would simply be seen as a normal request for a visit, not an urgent need to bear her soul and commence an anti-revolutionary manhunt within the higher echelons of Soviet government.
At 2200 hrs the Signals Colonel went off duty and knocked on her door, bearing a bottle of vodka and a jar of pickled herrings.
The herrings lay unconsumed, the bottle half empty, as Nazarbayeva took her sexual pleasures well into the night.
0100 hrs Saturday, 15th March 1947, somewhere in Poland.
Guderian watched the night exercise without really seeing anything, his mind so focussed on other events in progress.
In his mind’s eye, he could imagine the special groups moving silently towards their targets, each bringing along one, two, or three Russian prisoners, kept healthy and alive until this very evening, soon to be shot dead at the site of each attack and left as undeniable proof of Soviet treachery.
The targets were ones that would help conceal what was about to come; units that had the capacity to interpret that all was not as it seemed.
Guderian had recently finished a telephone with the new NATO commander.
Whilst he understood the man’s ego issues, or at least thought he did, he couldn’t help but like the man’s drive and singularity of purpose.
Since May ’45, Patton had preached that they should continue on eastwards and take on the red hordes on their own ground.
The idea of getting him placed in charge of NATO had been the contrivance of a moment of opportunity created by the loss of the leadership in one incident.
That the incident had originated with a German device intended to take down one man was of no consequence in the greater run of things.
Circumstances had provided the Fatherland with an opportunity that none of them could have dreamed of and, whilst he was full of trepidation about the possibility of leading men onto the steppes of Russia once more, he also knew it would be very different this time around.
Guderian took a gentle stroll, enjoying the crisp night air and silence, made more intense by what he knew was to come, and made his way to the intelligence centre.
“Good morning, meine Herren!”
The men gathered around the large table sprang to attention.
“Relax, relax. Is there anything I should know?”
The senior man, Lieutenant General Albert Schnez, pointed Guderian towards the intelligence situation map.
“Herr Feldmarschal, there’s some recorded air activity over the British lines near Braunsberg. We understand that night fighters have clashed over our own lines, east of Jata. I suspect that’s only because we’ve asked our airmen to be more vigilant in their policing of our air space tonight.”
“And this plot?”
“Ah, that’s a Soviet flight that will be inbound to Berlin. An agreed routing of three transports plus two escorts. Nothing out of the ordinary, of course, but…”
“But they’ll have to go.”
“Yes, Herr Feldmarschal. Our Luftwaffe officers understand this.”
He nodded towards the highly decorated air force officer who was already lost in his own intelligence world.
“Gut. Continue, Albert.”
“From what we understand, the only two places of concern are Vienna, as always…”
“The usual discontent?”
“So it seems. A few shots, perhaps nothing more than harsh words, but enough to get our American allies hot under the collar. Their radio network is alive with requests to fire… which may suit our purpose, of course.”
“Of course. And?”
“And the French, specifically our old friends of the SS. Apparently there was an accidental discharge of a tank weapon at Krzcin, resulting in an enemy casualty. It’s being sorted now, but the two forces have gone on alert.”
Guderian again wondered if some guiding hand was at work, but decided it was simply fate taking a hand once more.
“Anything from our Abwehr colleagues?”
“Yes, we’re getting regular updates, but nothing at all that causes me concern, except for the apparent repositioning of the new Guards Mechanised Army. I’ve already passed it through to your headquarters. They appear to have been on the move since Thursday.”
“Show me.”
The map was cleared of pencils, rulers, and hands in order to permit Guderian to see the new situation. He was already aware that the 1st Guards Mechanised Army had moved from its previous position in reserve opposite the junction between the Polish and German armies at Elk, set back in and around the city of Grodno.
“Yes, we factored in their departure… our Polish comrades were more than happy of course… so where are they going do you think?”
“I’m unsure, Herr Feldmarschal, but…”
“But you have a feeling of course?”
“Lvov.”
“Enlighten me, Albert.”
“If they want a big hard-hitting mobile formation below that there are two other alternatives in the Southern Ukraine and Bulgaria… plus the railway line they are on… we think they are on goes through Lvov.”
Guderian inspected the map, checked the locations of the other new Guards Mechanised Armies, and decided that his CoS was probably correct.
“And this one?”
He pointed at the 3rd Guards Mechanised Army positioned around Leningrad.
“Nothing as yet, but I’ve requested information from our assets. If they’re moving down to reduce the gap then we should be able to work out what’s going on.”
“But if the 3rd is moving down, that will be the British Army’s problem in the first instance.”
“Yes, Herr Feldmarschal.”
“So, Generalleutnant. I see nothing here to make me worry, and certainly nothing that would obstruct Undenkbar. Agreed?”
“I agree, Herr Feldmarschal.”
“Gut. Keep me informed, Albert.”
Guderian walked alone out into the morning with his forces now committed to Undenkbar.
Despite the greatcoat, he felt a sudden shiver go down his spine.
The last time he had felt such a shiver was on the morning of 5th December 1941, when he had called off the ground offensive against Moscow, knowing the German Army was spent.
‘Calm yourself, man. Now you’ve other advantages. The great industrial power is with you. There’s no defeat ahead, no retreat on the freezing steppe; only victory.’
“Or death!”
He laughed at the sound of his own voice carrying on the rejuvenated wind.
‘Or death indeed.’
0158 hrs, Saturday, 15th March 1947, the Elk-Bydgoszcz-Küstrin-Berlin safe air corridor. Northeastern Europe.
“I swear if that fucking Fokker comes close again, I’ll put him down.”
“Calm yourself, Starshy Leytenant, set an example to this enlisted man.”
“It’s bad enough that I have to baby sit these lumbering hogs, let alone that I’ve to put up with your babblings.”
“Hang on…”
Braun went all business and fiddled with the radar set.
“There’s two barrelling in to come under the transports… directly into the corridor. That’s not allowed.”
“Steer me in.”
Braun delivered the steer and the last He-219A7 in the Soviet Air Force dropped down to play cat and mouse with the harrying German night fighters.