In reality, and with the full agreement of the Irish Government, the joint RN and RAF manned vessel spent most of its time based at Killybegs, Éire, on the condition that the eleven man crew wore no caps, and were kitted out in common working rig, not uniforms.
As the war progressed, cooperation between the Irish and British authorities grew, despite Éire’s official neutral stance, so much so that by the end of hostilities, officially sanctioned journeys from Killybegs to Castle Archdale, and other locations within Northern Ireland, were not unheard of.
My thanks to the website naval-history.net for filling in some of the gaps.
At first, the listeners had heard a frenzy, a veritable maelstrom of furious blows and raised voices.
Or rather, one voice, one very angry and merciless voice.
But the noises had slowly subsided until there was a silence that drew them in, and encouraged their minds to speculate.
There was a gentle tapping on the door and, with a nod from Blackmore, the RAF policeman unlocked the cell door, permitting Viljoen to emerge.
Without singling out any specific recipient, the disheveled pilot spoke softly.
“Thank you.”
There was no joy in his heart; no warm feeling of a need for revenge well satisfied, or a brother appropriately avenged.
There was nothing.
Some of them understood, indeed, some had told him beforehand. None the less, Viljoen had wanted his time alone with Brown, and wouldn’t accept anything less.
Initially, he had pummeled Brown, working out the death of his brother on the perpetrator, hurting his hands as he struck blow after blow on the defenceless man.
Then he had stopped, as inside him a different struggle took place, occasionally lashing out as revenge gained the upper hand, more often stood immobile, as his own self-worth triumphed.
Dan Bryan exchanged nods with two others present and stepped forward, placing a calming hand on Viljoen’s shoulder.
“I think we might get these scum away now, Squadron-Leader.”
Viljoen nodded, although Bryan needed no permission.
The division of spoils had been decided well in advance.
Any IRA men taken would enjoy time in the company of earnest men with enquiring minds, all members of Éire’s G2.
Any Soviets would find themselves in the hands of US intelligence services, confronted by a long list of indelicate questions and expectations of honest answers, with no hope of salvation. The death of Dudko had been seen as a problem, until Shandruk revealed that another Soviet Marine officer had been taken, one who would probably have an interesting story to tell.
Any information gained by either side would, where appropriate, be shared.
The physical intelligence haul was to be examined by SOE, and, as with any by-products of the operation, the expected harvest would be shared with any interested party.
By the time that the sun broached the Irish sky, Reynolds and Brown were on their way south, Shandruk was out cold as Holliday operated to remove the two bullets that had struck him a centimetre apart, Nazarbayev and Sveinsvold found themselves again imprisoned, although in a guarded hospital ward with food and proper beds, and Section Officer Megan Jenkins had made the first of a number of startling discoveries.
Chapter 129 – THE BASES
Diligence is the mother of good luck.
Dalziel had enjoyed precious little sleep, most of which had been during the car journey from Castle Archdale to the OSS camp near Cookstown, but he was awake now, and waiting to hear what had been so important as to rouse him ahead of the allotted hour.
Jenkins, almost out of her feet, had insisted on staying awake to deliver the vital information.
“Bases, Sir, their submarines were being supported from a number of concealed bases.”
‘Blast it! Glenlara wasn’t the only bloody one.’
Jenkins felt Dalziel’s silent anger.
She had a map of the Atlantic out, already marked with the information she had first found some hours ago.
“Here, at Glenlara, we know about. But there are more.”
The pencil, acting as a pointer, moved to east coast America. She stayed silent, allowing the enormity to sink in.
“Bloody hell! I mean to say… bloody hell!”
The normally calm naval officer was overtaken by the thought that Soviet submarines had been supported from a covert base on the American mainland.
He recovered his composure before continuing.
“Our cousins will be rather embarrassed.”
The pencil moved up to Nova Scotia.
“I see. Oh dear… that’s rather closer to home. One for HMG and the Canadians.”
The pencil journeyed across the Atlantic in the briefest time before coming to rest.
“Well, you have to admire their style, if nothing else.”
The base on Renonquet Island was laid bare.
Malpica was next.
“Our Spanish allies will be delighted, I’m sure.”
The final point came to rest at Lisbon.
“How?”
“According to the documents, one vessel… err…,” she looked for the appropriate piece of paper and found it with ease, “…the Doblestnyi, surrendered herself to the Portuguese at the beginning of the war, Sir.”
Dalziel completed the statement.
“Most of the crew interned, I daresay, all except a maintenance group. Enough men to pass supplies and equipment to any nocturnal visitors.”
Jenkins was beyond her comfort zone, but the captured documents suggested that the old destroyer was acting as a supply point, so maybe Dalziel was on the money.
However, she did put forward another suggestion.
“And probably intelligence gathering, Sir?
He frowned, thinking the matter through.
“Hang on. A bloody Russian warship in Lisbon port would have been reported surely? I remember no such reports.”
“The ship is an old Town Class, a familiar sight, and not one to draw too much attention. Not flying the Soviet ensign, I bet, Sir.”
“A fair bet, Section officer. Anything else?”
“Yes, Sir. We have an interesting naval code book.”
“We broke their code some time ago, Jenkins.”
“Not this one, Sir, least I don’t think so anyway.”
She proffered a thick pad with very official looking binding, official government notations on the top edge, covered from top to bottom with a series of five random letters.
Dalzeil swallowed as the Holy Grail was handed to him.
“Do you know what this is?”
“Not really, Sir.”
“Well, unless I’m mistaken, it’s a Vernam’s cypher.”
“Sir?”
“A one-time pad.”
He looked meaningfully at the Soviet radio transmitter sitting proudly on a small table.
“Anyone else know about these pads,” he had already spotted two more with the same impressive binding sat with the priority intel that had been recovered from the radio room.
“Not yet, Sir, but more people will be arriving shortly to document and interpret this haul,” She indicated another six large bags worth of paperwork, spread across the tables of the old mess hall.
“It could take weeks to wring everything out of it all, Sir.”
“Yes it could, couldn’t it?”
As he spoke, Dalziel reached across and added the other two pads to his briefcase.