It was Romaniuk that commented first.
“So, much depends on my countrymen then, Pulkownik.”
As Gehlen boarded the Bristol Buckingham transport, he felt confident that Skorzeny would pull of the operation.
Like most of the Allied officers in the know, he would have preferred to visit Cierpice with a squadron of heavy bombers, but the niceties of their new relationship with the Polish Army meant that they had to accede to their request to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.
Which provided the glory-hungry Skorzeny with the ideal opportunity to employ his highly trained Storch Battalion in an attempt to capture, without shedding blood, the entire staff of the Polish 2nd Army.
The intention for the associated Soviet command personnel was somewhat less benevolent.
The Captain examined the approaching aircraft with a professional interest, actually, more than partially to satisfy himself that they were friendly and not about to slip a torpedo into him or his charges.
His binoculars moved across the vessels that were his responsibility; eight were placed under his protection. Eight transports, loaded to the gunwales with men and materiel, assigned to him for safe delivery to a beach in the Baltic.
Commander Hamilton Ffoulkes shot a quick look back at the flight of Seafires that was presently undertaking the combat air patrol over his group and W-5, a larger convoy of mainly ammunition and supplies sailing some six miles further east.
HMS Charity had been to the Baltic once before, during the operations designed to destroy Soviet air power in the area, so Ffoulkes was free of any illusions about what might lie ahead.
‘Lots of ships, not a lot of sea room,’ was a thought shared by most of the naval personnel who headed for the passages through the Skaggerak, Kattegat, and Øresund that would take the armada to its point of delivery… on the north shore of Poland.
Somewhere ahead, on the island of Saltholm, an exhausted Soviet observation party surrendered without a fight, as British Royal Marine commandoes surrounded their hiding place.
Acting under rigid orders, the silent Brits executed their prisoners, and any trace of a Soviet existence on the island was removed.
As the Marines went about their grisly work, dark shapes moved unobserved through the silent waters between Denmark and Sweden, German and British minesweepers preparing the way for the larger vessels to come.
Zhukov was shaken awake, itself an act that implied the utmost urgency.
“Blyad! A moment, man. For the motherland’s sake, give me a moment!”
The light was on, burning into sleep-heavy eyes, but he could still see the telephone being held out for his use.
“Apologies, Comrade Marshal, but Comrade Marshal Beria said it was an emergency.”
The name helped to bring Zhukov more into the land of the living, and he snatched the phone from the Staff Major, indicating his expectation for some tea.
“Comrade Marshal, I hope this is not an exercise.”
“Marshal Zhukov, I have just received reliable intelligence that tells me that the Allies will not be landing in the Baltic States, or Norway, but that they will invade Poland in the near future; a seaborne landing on the north shore. The General Secretary felt that you should be appraised immediately.”
Zhukov swung his feet out of bed, the cold floor now the least of his problems.
“Reliable, totally reliable, Comrade Marshal?”
“Yes. Comrade Stalin has convened a meeting of the GKO for 0200hrs.”
“I understand. Now, I have work to do. I will see you later, Comrade Marshal.”
Zhukov exchanged the handset for the hot tea that the Major returned with.
“Wake up the staff. Send alert warnings to the Front commanders in the Baltic, Norway, and Northern Germany, warning of possible enemy activity, including the definite possibility of seaborne assault.”
He had quickly decided to over-mobilise, rather than leave some areas unnotified and risk a disaster, especially if Allied maskirovka was at work.
Across Europe, Soviet senior officers were being rudely awoken, and Nazarbayeva was not spared, as the overnight duty officer, Major Repin, woke her.
“What is it, Comrade,” sounding more awake than she felt.
“Comrade General, warning orders have gone out to North Germany, the Baltic States, Norway, and Poland, anticipating an allied seaborne invasion. Fronts have been alerted to make their dispositions accordingly.”
Now she was awake, and leapt from the bed in just her shirt and the light trousers she had taken to wearing when sleeping in her office.
“Get the staff awake and in the headquarters immediately. I want this looked at… get them to go through everything for the Baltic and North Cape again… everything…”
Nazarbayeva turned away, expecting immediate compliance with her orders, but turned back as Repin stood his ground.
“Comrade General, before that I received another call from Moscow. The caller told me to tell you to concentrate on Poland, and that he anticipated the landing within the week.”
Repin was an NKVD agent, initially placed in the GRU to report back, which now was known to her. She had accepted Ilya Borissovich’s request to keep him in place as a means of easy communication, and it actually wasn’t that difficult to come to terms with as he was efficient in everything he did.
NKVD Major General Ilya Kuznetsov had sent her a message, giving her time to act and save her reputation, for as sure as night follows day, heads would roll if the Allies invaded without a hint of a warning from the agencies of the USSR.
“Thank you, Comrade Mayor. Now, get them out of bed.”
Already her mind was seeking information on Poland, recalling assets in place and any information collated already.
“We’ve missed something”, she announced to the grim face in the mirror.
Colonel Lisov received the message with no little excitement, tinged with real anger that the training had not been available to refine the newly renamed 1st Guards Mechanised Rifle Division into the extreme war machine that it could become.
He walked smartly through to his commander’s office and entered, the open door policy now set in stone as Deniken’s management style developed.
“Comrade Polkovnik, we have new orders.”
Lisov placed the document on the desk in front of Deniken, carefully avoiding the map he had been examining.
“Give me the rough details, Comrade.”
Having been up until the small hours working up a battle drill with Yarishlov, Deniken had not long been out of bed and was stood shaving at a stand in the corner.
“We are to entrain, commencing at 2100 hrs tomorrow night, using the loading facility at Torgelow. Command will provide us with sufficient trains and flatcars to transport the entire division to… and I quote… a location close to the enemy.”
Deniken started.
“Say what?”
“That’s what it says, Comrade.”
“They’re not telling us where we’re going? What sort of fucking piggery is that? How can I plan with that sort of decision?”
“I’m sure they have their reasons, Comrade.”
Deniken waved his razor to emphasise his point.
“Personally, I become less sure each time we get one of these orders, and sometimes I wonder who makes the bastard things up.”