“Dammit, Deering, you’ve got to have some ideas! You’re the Soviet specialist…” Welland paused. “We’ve got to bring in the Americans.”
“It’s a no-win situation,” Deering’s voice was flat. “The PM does not want the Americans brought in yet, maybe not at all. And the only way of stopping Shaposhnikov once he’s on his way is to mobilize more troops into Europe from the United States.”
“But that would take weeks, months perhaps. Look how long it took us to prepare for Overlord.”
“Precisely my point, Admiral. It’s hardly the best way to exploit the one advantage we have — surprise.” Deering, devoid of answers, turned the floor over to Welland. “What do you suggest, Admiral?”
“Well, without the Americans blocking the attack, it’s obvious that Shaposhnikov has to be removed. The text tells us that he’ll be co-ordinating the 1st Ukrainian’s advance from this place Branodz. All we need to know is when he arrives and that shouldn’t be too difficult to find out. I suggest we send a team into Czechoslovakia and have him killed. If he has Stalin’s backing and we manage to get rid of him, the architect of Archangel, then it will buy us time. If he’s a maverick, operating on his own, then we stand a bloody good chance of nipping this thing in the bud.”
“What sort of team have you in mind, Admiral?” Staverton asked.
“This is exactly the sort of mission that the Special Boat Squadron is trained for. We parachute them in and have them kill Shaposhnikov. They would be in and out in forty-eight hours.”
“And if one of them is taken?” Staverton cocked an eyebrow at Welland. “Admiral, the merest whiff of British intervention is going to bring Stalin down on us like a ton of bricks.”
“What’s the alternative?”
Staverton sucked his teeth. “He has to be killed, you’re right in that, but we’ve got to make it look as if the Germans did it.”
“My dear Staverton,” Welland said disparagingly, “you don’t think I was suggesting that the SBS should go in wearing full mess dress? They would be disguised as German paratroops, SS, traffic police for all I care…”
Staverton stood up, walked to the map and stabbed his finger on the spot that marked Shaposhnikov’s HQ. “Admiral, do you have any idea what your men would be up against? There are close to one million Red Army troops in this sector alone and, if that isn’t enough, around fifty thousand partisans in these forests, all of them looking for Germans to butcher.”
Welland stared back impassively. He disliked the AVM, because he was everything he wasn’t: brash, short on etiquette, risen from the ranks, still with a trace of that northern accent.
“So, even if your men could get in, they couldn’t get out. And think what happens if one of them is captured. If you were faced with the prospect of having your eyes gouged out by some swarthy Slav peasant, Admiral, would you stay silent?” Staverton stressed the word “peasant” in a way that made Welland feel uncomfortable. It was as if the AVM knew what he had been thinking. He shifted his gaze to Deering.
“What about you, Deering?”
The Army Intelligence officer looked at the maze of Soviet forces ranged along the Eastern Front. “With the all-out military option closed to us, I think we should resort to diplomacy, tell Stalin what’s going on in Czechoslovakia. We must get him to take control of the situation.”
“You’re making the assumption that Stalin doesn’t know about Archangel,” Welland said. “For all we know he might actually be behind it. Just because Archangel appears to be Shaposhnikov’s baby, it doesn’t mean it hasn’t got the Generalissimo’s blessing.”
“Basically, George,” Staverton said, “we’re on our own, whichever way you look.”
Deering seemed to sag.
“What’s your solution to all this?” Welland said, turning to the AVM.
“Well, it’s a modest idea, but I think it could work. It’s the sum of a number of proposals discussed in this room tonight. Like you, Admiral, I believe Shaposhnikov should be assassinated. However, in my opinion, the only way to accomplish that is by an attack from the air — not an airborne assault, but one that masquerades as a German air-raid.”
“It sounds strangely familiar,” the Admiral said, sarcastically.
“It should do,” Staverton said. “Berchtesgarten, remember?”
Welland averted his eyes.
“What on earth has Berchtesgarten got to do with Archangel?” Deering asked.
“Before your days here, George,” said Welland. “It’s a long story. This isn’t the time or the place.” He switched back to Staverton. “Don’t tell me it involves that flying circus of yours at Farnborough.”
Staverton ignored the gibe. Temperatures were already high. “The EAEU is almost tailor-made for this job. My men are trained to fly German aircraft, to think like Luftwaffe pilots and, in some cases, to speak like them.”
Deering suddenly saw a glimmer and could no longer contain his enthusiasm. “My God, that’s it. But how many German bombers have you got down at Farnborough, Algy? Surely you can’t muster enough to mount an air raid?”
“I don’t have to,” Staverton said. “I only need one.”
The AVM saw the surprise on every face in the room except Welland’s.
“We’ve been through all this,” the Admiral said. “The answer is still no.”
“I want to hear him out,” Deering said. “The PM needs a plan of action on his desk tonight and the rules are the same as they’ve always been. The three of us have to agree a plan and a majority vote carries the day.”
“Only to be overruled by the PM tomorrow,” Welland said. “Why bother? I’ve heard it all before. It’s not worth it.”
Deering ignored him. “Speak, Algy. Let’s hear it.”
Staverton nodded his appreciation. “I could probably gather a dozen German medium or heavy bombers for this job, but they would be cut to pieces by Yaks in minutes. None of them would get within fifty miles of Shaposhnikov’s HQ.”
“Yaks?” Welland asked.
“Soviet fighters,” Staverton said. “Swift little buggers. Pack a nasty punch, too. The Russians have got hundreds of them in Czechoslovakia.”
“Then why would one aircraft stand a better chance of getting through?” Deering asked.
“It wouldn’t be just any aircraft. The one I have in mind is rather speciaclass="underline" capable of 550 mph at sea-level, armed with 30mm cannon, two 1000-lb bombs and crewed by just one man.” He reeled off the figures Mulvaney had given him over the telephone. “Cuts down the risk of unnecessary exposure if anything goes wrong, don’t you think?”
“Five hundred and fifty an hour?” Welland choked, thinking about the 450 mph maximum speed of a Navy Seafire. “What the devil can do that?”
“The Messerschmitt 163C Komet long range rocket fighter-bomber,” Staverton said.
“The thing your man went to the Baltic for?”
“Yes, Admiral. It’s currently undergoing final assembly at Farnborough.”
“But that thing’s a fighter, quite unsuitable for a penetration mission.”
“That’s what we thought at first,” Staverton said. “We only discovered yesterday that, in addition to giving the thing longer legs — more range, Admiral — they’ve also added a precision bombing capability, as well.”
“That’s a stupendous leap forward,” Deering said, unable to hide the admiration in his voice.
“Are you sure about this?” Welland asked.
Staverton smiled to himself; Welland was hooked. Now all he had to do was reel him in. “Whether you like it or not, Admiral, German technology has the edge over ours. If we approve a plan like Operation Talon with Shaposhnikov as its objective this time, it will work.”