The last enemy, p.4
The Last Enemy, page 4
He told the corpsman to find a gurney and a man to assist. Murphy was only half aware of what was going on, fading in and out of consciousness. He found himself looking up at a bright light shining down over him. A surgeon was bent over the wound, murmuring to an Army nurse, who stepped forward and used sterile swabs to clean the dirt and debris from the entry point. He heard the surgeon say something about the bullet still inside him, and he wanted to say, “I know that, tell me what’s new,” but he felt the prick of a hypodermic needle, and everything drifted away.
He awoke an hour later surrounded by the stink of antiseptics and rotting flesh, with his shoulder swathed in bandages. It hadn’t been so bad when the bullet hit, all he’d felt was a dull numbness. Now it hurt like hell.
He tried to get off the cot, and two burly nurses held him down. They called the surgeon, a major, who returned to look at the wound. He looked down at Murphy, and he sounded more cheerful. “I got the bullet out, and we’ve doused the area in antiseptics to clean and sterilize the wound. You should be okay in a few days, Lieutenant.”
One advantage of a painful wound was it tended to focus the mind, and right now, his focus was on rejoining his men and going back out there and help get the war finished. “I don’t have a few days. I need to be on my feet.”
They put up a fight, but he wasn’t giving in, and the surgeon reluctantly took out the hypodermic and gave him another shot. “Just so long as you take it easy for a few days. Don’t take any risks.”
“Like fighting a war?”
His lips curled into a smile. “Point taken. The something you should know about the bullet I took from your shoulder.” He passed the round over to him, and it didn’t look familiar, “It’s not one I’ve seen before, so I got the armorer to take a look. He said it’s Russian, 7.62x54. It’s the first time he’s seen that caliber in this theater of war.”
“What does it mean? Are the Krauts so short of ammunition that they’re using captured Russian rifles and bullets?”
“I asked him the same question, and he said it’s unlikely. The Germans are short of many things, but not rifles and bullets. No, it’s something of a mystery. I thought I should mention it. Take care, Lieutenant, and try not to get any dirt into that wound.”
“It’s appreciated, Major.”
“Maybe not for long. When that morphine shot wears off, it will hurt like hell. I’m just warning you.”
“I’ll bear it in mind.”
He walked away to find his unit. Wondering how come a Russian bullet had found its way to this region when there were no Soviet soldiers within hundreds of miles. He was still trying to figure out when Rooker spotted him.
He pointed to an area behind rows of tents being hastily dismantled by squads of soldiers. “They’re over here, Lt. We’re trying to keep our heads down.”
“You’re expecting an air attack?”
“Nope. General Shriver.”
* * *
Grechkov recalled how close he’d come to death, and how lucky he’d been to escape alive from the bloodbath of the Eastern Front. A wound in his left leg and severe concussion from a shell that burst two yards from the hole where he’d taken shelter. Along with his paratroop battalion he’d taken part in the Vistula–Oder offensive, launched in January. They’d pushed the Germans back from the gates of Moscow toward the very border with Nazi Germany, every yard of ground gained at an immense cost in lives.
The Vistula-Oder offensive had been little different from the others, characterized by bungling Red Army generals who watched their men die in their tens of thousands in ill-planned attacks. Most put their plans into action with little or no regard for the lives of the soldiers. Their lives were cheap, and the Soviet Union had an inexhaustible supply of cannon fodder. Not his business.
He’d spent three weeks recovering in hospital, and three more weeks recuperating, until he was ready to return to the fighting. To his surprise, three days before he was due to rejoin his unit, he’d been ordered to fly to Moscow. Most men would’ve been relieved to escape the endless slaughter, but not Captain Leonid Grechkov. He was no coward. A man who never felt fear, a man who’d proved himself many times in battle, often taking insane risks to reach an objective.
This time it was different. He’d felt real fear when he stared into the remorseless, cold, dark eyes of the man who stood in front of him. The man looked coarse and rough, almost a peasant. He was short, shorter than he had imagined. Pitted skin, a shock of thick black hair, now turning gray, and the characteristic thick, bushy mustache. Nobody could mistake this man for any other. Dressed in a plain tunic buttoned to the collar, Joseph Stalin was the General Secretary of the Soviet Union. The man who daily made decisions about those who would live. And more frequently, those who would die.
He’d stood at rigid attention, waiting for Stalin to speak. “You are Grechkov?”
“Yes, Comrade Stalin.”
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“No, Comrade Stalin.”
The dictator of Russia smiled, showing blackened and yellowing teeth. He put his pipe between his lips and took his time lighting it. “I have a mission for you. You will select a small unit to drop into Nazi Germany, capture a man, and bring him to Moscow. He is presently in Nordhausen, in a research facility on the northern edge of the Harz Mountains. Our spies tell us the Nazis are working to develop a new type of weapon, a weapon of immense power. One bomb that would be capable of destroying an entire city or army.”
He gaped. “A single bomb?” and quickly added, “I’m sorry, Comrade Stalin. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He’d ordered men executed for less.
Stalin waved it away. “One bomb, that is correct. We are unsure of the details, but if it’s true, do you know what it could mean? The Nazis could turn the tables and destroy the Red Army. You must locate this man and bring him to Russia. Stop him from completing this new weapon, and bring its secrets, everything he knows, to the Soviet Union. This one weapon, if it is real, could win this war and all future wars. Bring him to Moscow. And, Grechkov…make sure the Americans don’t get him first.”
“Excuse me?”
“The Americans will likely reach Nordhausen ahead of the Red Army. This man must not fall into their hands. You will go into the designated American sector with a small unit so as not to attract too much attention. A total of eight men should be sufficient. Your best men, Grechkov. Men prepared to go to any lengths, to die for the Motherland if necessary. Are you such a man?”
He stiffened. “I am, Comrade Stalin! And I will ensure every man is no less dedicated. We will complete this mission or die in the attempt.”
He nodded absently. Every soldier in the Red Army had no illusions about the possibility of surviving the war. “You will gather your men and fly out today. Any questions?”
“No, Sir. Yessir. You said the Americans are close. What if they find him first?”
He replied without hesitation. “Make sure they don’t find him first. Do whatever is necessary to stop them.”
“Whatever is necessary?”
The eyes hardened into dark chips of granite, and Grechkov felt the overwhelming power of this man reach out to him. “Kill them if they get too close. “
He was shocked. “Comrade Stalin, they are our allies. Kill them?”
He shrugged. “Of course. Something else, Grechkov. The Germans are not fools. If this weapon is as powerful as we believe, I doubt they would rely on a single location in which to develop it. We know they built several underground plants to manufacture their V2 rockets, including the facility at Nordhausen. Because of the threat of heavy bombing and the proximity of the American armies, they’re likely to have constructed a secondary location. The Americans are dangerously close, so they could already be in the process of transferring their operation to the other plant.”
“But, Comrade Stalin, how and where would I find this other plant?”
He smiled, once again showing the stained, brown teeth beneath the bushy mustache. It wasn’t a pleasant smile and reminded Grechkov of a wild beast about to devour its prey. “Where you least expect it.”
He didn’t understand, but he automatically replied, “Yes, Comrade Stalin.”
“There is one thing more, Grechkov. In the event you need more men, I will order our aircraft to patrol the area day and night. Two platoons will be made available on permanent standby. If you need them, send a pre-arranged signal, and they will drop by parachute onto your position.”
“We will deal with whatever we encounter, General Secretary.”
He gave him a sour look. “Perhaps. They will be waiting should you need them. You are dismissed.”
After sending a top priority message for his men to report immediately to M.V. Frunze aerodrome, he and his seven-man squad had endured what seemed like an endless journey packed into an Ilyushin DB-3 long-range bomber. One of the few aircraft capable of making the flight non-stop from Moscow to Germany, the twin-engined Ilyushin bomber carried a crew of three. This time it flew with just the pilot. His men were crammed into the cramped fuselage like sardines. Two traveled in the bomb bay. The droning cacophony of the engines had been hard to endure without going mad, the cold intense, worse than Stalingrad. And with no way to stretch their limbs, they arrived over the drop zone so stiff and numb that Grechkov had to push some of the men through the hatch.
They’d landed without breaking any limbs and began trekking toward Nordhausen. He shared the identity of the target with his men, along with a scant description. The main identifier was his rank, an SS-Obergruppenführer. The short briefing had also informed them he was a scientist, not a fighting soldier, so he wasn’t likely to put up much of a fight.
They hadn’t located him, not so far. But they’d come across a small squad of American troops heading toward Nordhausen. He hadn’t intended to get into a firefight, but he hadn’t had a choice. He couldn’t take the chance they might locate the SS officer first. They’d assume it was Germans who’d done the shooting, yet another of the sporadic firefights that had erupted all over all fronts, both East and West. It was a pity they hadn’t killed them all to make sure they wouldn’t be back. He didn’t care about dead Americans. His priority was to find the target and get him on a flight to Moscow. If they had to kill a thousand American soldiers to complete the mission, it was of no interest. Men died all the time, soldiers and civilians. Especially in the Soviet Union.
He checked his bearings, glanced at the map, and pointed northeast. “We should reach the town in about an hour. We don’t know the location of the weapons facility, but it’s sure to be well-guarded, so it won’t be difficult to spot. We’re moving out, but I want one man to remain. Just in case they come back.” He looked at his NCO, Ivan Danilov.
“Sergeant, you’re good with a rifle, the best we have, and you’re my most reliable man. I want you to remain here. In the unlikely event they return, hold them off for as long as you can. Comrade Stalin is relying on you.”
Danilov shot him a questioning look. He was an experienced soldier, and he knew he’d just been handed what could mean a death sentence. “How long do you want me to hold?”
“Twelve hours should be sufficient. After that, follow us to Nordhausen.”
If I’m still alive.
“Yes, Captain.”
* * *
He was trying not to surrender to the pain of his wound, yet his face was white with agony, stretched into taut lines. He tried not to show it, but he wasn’t fooling anybody. Tom Rooker and Dan Kelly joined him, and Kelly gave him a sympathetic look.
“You look like shit, Lt. How do you feel?”
“Like somebody shot me, and if that wasn’t enough, the damn surgeon tore a big hole in my shoulder getting the bullet out.”
“Not good, uh?”
“Not good? Do you want to know what makes it worse? The bullet came from one of our Allies.”
“A Brit? Canadian?”
“Russian, would you believe it? I know there aren’t any Russians in this region, but all the same, some sonofabitch Commie put a bullet in me. Bastard.”
Just then, Lawson’s jeep arrived, again driven by Clemence Delon wearing a Free French uniform. They climbed out, and the lanky Brit stood over him. “How is it?”
Kelly answered for him. “Colonel, how would you feel if one of our own side put a bullet in you? He’s pissed.”
His forehead furrowed. “I don’t understand. An American soldier shot him?”
“Fucking Russkie. Show him, Lt.”
He shrugged, pulled the bullet from his pocket, and held it out. “It shouldn’t be here, but somehow this bullet found its way into my shoulder.”
Lawson took it, examined it closely, and nodded. “This is a standard 7.62x54 Moisin Nagant rifle round. It’s Russian sure enough, and it could mean we have a problem. A big problem.”
“I don’t get it. A problem?”
“I need to know more, and I have to go back to that hillside and look around.” He glanced at Clemence. “We’re leaving. Whoever was on that hill, they’ll be long gone, so we’ll have a chance to look around without somebody shooting at us.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Just you and your driver, a girl, Colonel? If you run into trouble, it won’t be enough. We’re not due to march out until 06.00, so I have time to go with you.” He wasn’t asking, he was telling him, “I’ll grab my gear and be with you in a couple of minutes.”
He returned with his Springfield rifle and the MP-40 and climbed into the rear seat. She frowned at him. “A girl? I’m a soldier of the Free French Army, so don’t forget it.”
“I won’t forget.”
As if to emphasize her irritation, she dropped the clutch and the jeep kangarooed forward, lurching and bouncing over the uneven ground. They headed back to the hillside where they’d run into the ambush and arrived at the foot of the slope an hour later. Lawson told her to stay with the vehicle while they climbed the hill. They were halfway up when a bullet zipped past the Brit’s head. Both men flung themselves down, hugging the earth as more three shots buzzed and whined overhead. They searched for the shooter as another two bullets whistled past them. And found nothing.
Lawson grunted, “This guy is good, probably a trained marksman. He’s well hidden, and I’d guess he has the rifle deep inside cover to hide the muzzle flash.” He looked at Murphy. “We need to take him out.”
“Give me a minute.”
He pointed the Springfield up the hill and peered through the scope. At first, he saw nothing. Checked every shadow that could be a tiny opening, enough to conceal a sniper, and found nothing. He slowly panned the precision optics over the hillside, pausing every couple of yards to check out the slightest possibility. One time he thought he’d found it, until he identified it as a rabbit hole. He knew it was a rabbit hole because he saw a rabbit suddenly sprint out and race off.
What had spooked the animal? It would be wary of humans, and he opined the likelihood was the shooter was close. Maybe no more than three yards from the burrow, and he focused his attention on that area. Checked and rechecked, and he found it. The shot would be a bastard. All he could make out was a tiny, round hole, like a foxhole, with an opening little more than eighteen inches in diameter. The camouflage was clever, a latticework of dead leaves and vegetation that blended with the ground. He was in there, no question. The problem was how to get him to show enough to kill him.
He was shooting from deep inside the hole, impossible to draw a bead on the guy. The only way to take him would be to get close enough to look directly into the hole and put a bullet in him. It wasn’t going to happen. There was no way he’d get that close without taking a bullet himself. He had to show himself.
He looked at Lawson. “Have you fired an MP-40?”
“Negative, but I’ve fired a Sten gun, it can’t be that much different.”
It was very different. The British Sten was a crude gun, only accurate at short-range, and not always reliable. The German MP-40 was a superior weapon, although during this late stage of the war, the lack of raw materials had impacted its legendary reliability. As had the desperate shortage of skilled labor. Large numbers of skilled German engineers had been conscripted into the Wehrmacht, many to serve on the Eastern Front. Most would die there. He explained what he needed, and Lawson was less than enthused with the idea.
“If you show yourself, you’re as good as dead.”
“Not if you get it right.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And if I don’t?”
Murphy shrugged. “That’s a chance we take in war.” He grinned, “But who wants to live forever?”
As he said it, he glanced down the hill at the Willys jeep parked out of sight of the sniper. She was still seated in the driver’s seat, sensed his gaze, looked up and waved. He waved back, and it wasn’t just his life at risk. If the sniper killed him and followed up with Lawson, there’d be nothing to stop him from descending the hill and putting a bullet in her.
I have to get this right first time. One shot, one kill. That mother up there goes down. Period.
Chapter Two
He chambered a round into the Springfield and glanced at Lawson.
“Let’s do it.”
The older man nodded he was ready. Murphy knelt, poised to make his run, like a sprinter on his starting blocks. A second later the MP-40 opened fire. The Brit was aiming at the sniper hole, peppering around it with 9mm bullets, and maybe some went in. He leaped out into the open and raced up the slope, hoping to Christ the gunfire would keep the shooter’s head down. He made the first fifty yards when Lawson ran out of bullets. Simultaneously, he stumbled on a loose rock.
The bullet from above would’ve drilled through his head if he hadn’t stumbled. The sniper almost had him, and now he was stretched out in the open like a turkey for the plucking. He rolled aside in time to avoid the next bullet that whined past him and buried itself in the ground. He had to do something, and fast, yet there was not a thing he could do. Except one. Go for it. If the bastard was going to kill him, he wouldn’t make it easy for him. He catapulted to his feet, holding the rifle at the hip. Either he’d get there and kill him before he took a bullet, or he wouldn’t. That was life. Or death.
