Zhukov drank his tea quietly whilst he waited for Malinin to examine the NKVD figures he had brought back with him, setting them against the figures received from the Fronts.
The CoS leant back in his chair, wiping his face with his left hand, as if clearing his mind for what he was about to say.
“And these figures are the NKVD’s official submission, Comrade Marshal?”
Replacing his cup in the matching saucer, the bald-headed commander of the Red Army responded with a shrug, heavy with his belief in the possibility that all was not how it seemed.
Seeing Malinin’s furrowed brow, Zhukov added the same codicil he had received from Beria.
“Our Chekist comrades acknowledge a possibility of error up to 2% either way.”
Malinin grunted as he brought his own cup to eager lips, sipped, and summarised some more.
“What are admitted in this document are considerable losses in the rear zone, some through air attack, some through partisan attack, and some through accident alone.”
Malinin stood, wiping his wet lips with a handkerchief, moving to look at the map on the wall, not one of the intended advances into Western Europe, but one showing the heart of the USSR, and the lands westwards to Germany.
“Losses and expenditure, once the manpower and supplies are in the forward frontal zones, are heavy, this we know. And we have reliable reports to confirm losses well in excess of what we allowed.”
Neither man needed to remind the other that new allowances were being complied, so that supply and manpower levels could be maintained.
‘Provided…’
“Comrade Marshal, these figures simply do not add up to me.”
It was nice to hear that another senior man also felt the wool was being pulled over the Army’s eyes.
Malinin continued, finger quickly tapping out an indistinct rhythm on the map, marking the major manufacturing zones of the USSR.
“If the production figures are how they are stated, and traditionally, production figures are extremely reliable,” Zhukov conceded that with a brusque nod, “Then what is being produced enters the transport system in the Rodina and only part of it comes out at our end.”
His finger made a single sound as it contacted with the geographic representation of Germany.
“A part which, at first look, would seem to be about a quarter less than it should be.”
The commander in chief took up the baton.
“With losses and expenditures way over expectations, and supplies less than anticipated, we have a serious problem, which is exactly what I told the General Secretary yesterday.”
Part of Malinin marvelled that Zhukov was still here, given Stalin’s propensity for head rolling.
“And how did the General-Secretary decide to resolve the issues.”
Zhukov smiled at his CoS, understanding that the statement was couched in such delicate terms, just in case there was a recording in progress.
“The usual, as I have already said, plus he will be ordering some air assets from other areas, including the Far East, to increase our own ability to destroy Allied assets.”
Both men knew that such an order would send many a mother’s son to his early death, so dangerous was any excursion behind enemy lines at the moment.
“The Navy has been ordered to escalate its submarine attacks as much as possible, obviously making transports a priority to stifle supply.”
“I’m sure the Navy will enjoy that.”
The two shared a professional grin that was devoid of real humour, in the knowledge that the upped tempo would result in ships being lost and more men would die.
Pointing at the chair, indicating Malinin should resume his seat, Zhukov’s voice dropped to a barely audible level.
“I cannot rely on what I am being told by Moscow, not at this time. I need to find out the truth.”
A silent message passed between the two men, ending with both nodding as the senior man picked up the telephone.
“Polkovnik General Pekunin please.”
Zhukov had time to finish his drink before the voice of the GRU commander resonated in his ear.
“Ah yes, and good day to you too, Comrade Polkovnik General. Yes, you may be of service, or rather, we both know someone who can.”
The leader snorted quietly, soft enough to neither trouble any of the sleeping men some thirty metres to his front, nor for the sound to reach the ears of the handful of men patrolling the makeshift camp.
His men, well schooled in the arts of killing, watched as he made his hand signals, dispatching silent killers into the darkness, compromised only by the light of the moon and stars, and the small glow of a light in the single tent at the centre of the clearing.
Behind him, as well as to either side, MG42’s silently waited, ready to turn the woods into a cemetery at a moment’s notice.
Behind him were a handpicked group, twenty men who would be able to undertake the grisly work he had set aside for them, provided the first part went well.
That first part was in process, his experienced eye seeing the subtle change in shadows as his killers drew closer to the dead men walking.
Almost imperceptibly, the darkness around one sentry grew darker and the man disappeared for a second, seemingly reappearing, only slightly taller and thinner, and carrying a PPSh rather than the Mosin rifle he had been idly cradling a moment beforehand.
The nearest sentry decided to relieve himself, settling to unzip his fly at the moment that a dirty hand clapped itself hard to his mouth, pulling his head back, his surprise swiftly overtaken by the momentary pain of a blade severing everything of value in his neck.
Another sentry, spooked by something he couldn’t exactly understand, dropped to one knee, looking back across the clearing.
As he watched his two other comrades, apparently patrolling without a care, he relaxed, deciding to drop into the bushes to sample one of the American cigarettes he had taken from the bloated corpse he had found outside of Regensburg, the night before.
His lighter flared, granting him flame for his cigarette and light to see the man who killed him.
The impact knocked the cigarette from his grasp and he fell to the ground, the full weight of his attacker on top of him.
Winded and unable to speak, he tried to stand but the weight increased, and a hand held his mouth tight as he struggled face down in the leaves of the newly arrived autumn.
The Werewolf Kommando rammed his pointed knife into the base of the Russian’s skull, severing the spinal column.
SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer Lenz saw the last sentry go down and gestured his assault group forward, the score of killers swiftly passing by, the occasional muffled sound marking their progress until they halted, commencing the grisly work of the night.
SS-Kommando Lenz worked its way through the camp, dispatching the NKVD troopers of the 36th NKVD Convoy Forces Security Division silently and swiftly, employing blades for the most part.
Two of the men stood with silenced pistols, ready should a man awaken prematurely.
They were not needed.
The group spread through the camp, until only the tent had been left untouched, and fifty-seven young men had been brutally slain.
Artur Lenz strolled forward, his body once more accustomed to the rigours of war after weeks on the move avoiding Soviet security forces. Tonight he was making a statement, destroying one such force before swiftly relocating to another area.
There was also something he wanted to know.
As he assembled his men in the clearing, the MG42 teams relocated, providing external security now, the remainder of the Kommando adding to the ring around the camp, now facing outwards and ready for all comers.