Robert Craven - Get Lenin

‘Jesus,’ gasped Regan.

They all stood looking at it for a moment in awe. Crews were moving along gantries and fuel trucks were filling the four engines either side. Like the tent, the airship was white, mottled in places for camouflage, and was no longer than a hundred feet bow to aft.

‘Are we still in Russia?’ asked Kant.

‘About twenty miles from the Siberian border, Gentlemen and Lady,’ said a voice.

They turned to see an Air Force Captain approaching, wrapped in a heavy flight jacket. He was tall, perma-tanned and in another life wouldn’t have looked out of place along the Cote d’Azur. To Schenker’s ire he gave a casual military salute. ‘Welcome. I’m Captain Willhem Rathenow, special flight operations. Beautiful, isn’t she, Captain Brandt?’ He turned back to look at the airship.

The moorings were pulled taut, keeping the entire ship a few feet above ground. There were no markings to indicate she was German, much to Regan’s annoyance. ‘How will the audience know it’s a Kraut airship?’ he moaned aloud. Several engineers heard the outburst and stared at him. Regan was oblivious to the glares.

‘Any problems with partisans?’ inquired Brandt. Like him, Kant and the unit were looking all around the wall of green, trying to penetrate the shadows.

‘No, we’ve only been here a day and a half. Wolves, yes, and unfortunately we lost a sentry last night to a bear. No sign of the poor fellow, but partisans, no. This country is so vast, Captain,’

They trudged into the tent. It was surprisingly warm. As if it were a tour, Captain Rathenow acted as a guide. ‘She took just over 24 hours to assemble. We shipped her in on the Junkers transports outside. The interior is like a beehive, the airframe is treated with fire retardant. The hydrogen mix is contained in small individual cells and stacked into the airframe. Then the whole assembly is bolted together section-by-section. She’s an engineering feat.’

Brandt studied it in wonder. ‘Does she have a name?’

Rathenow smiled. ‘Her name is The Isolde .’

Below the airship, just behind the bridge, was an elaborate rig of chains, pulleys and rigging. The tour ended here.

Rathenow knew the next question before it was asked. ‘She was able to lift a training ‘canoe’ U-Boat out of dry dock last week. We carried it twelve miles without any problems. The item we’re going to lift won’t be as heavy.’

‘Yes, but then you didn’t have every sailor and dock worker shooting at you either,’ said Brandt.

The airship’s outer skin looked flimsy. Sustained gunfire was bound to damage it. He knew the troops protecting the carriage would put up a serious fight. The only guarantee so far in this war was that the Russians would fight to the last man.

Rathenow’s confidence was unwavering. ‘We tested the prototype with small arms fire and machine guns. Nothing short of a field gun will bring it down. The bridge is bulletproof, along with the engine housings and supports. Because of the honeycomb cells, she can fly on as little as fifteen-per-cent effectiveness.’

‘How about fighter planes?’ inquired Schenker, marvelling at the ship’s perfect symmetry.

‘There won’t be any,’ said a voice behind them.

Brandt and Schenker turned to look at a tall white-haired man, resplendent in a fur-lined winter coat. With him, dressed in sable, was possibly the most beautiful woman Brandt had ever seen. He was speaking English with an American accent, the woman translating into German as he spoke.

‘We have learned that a decoy train left Moscow the same time with a staggered fighter escort. It’s like one big flag saying Lenin’s going this way! They even have idiots standing along the line cheering it on.’

Beneath her black sable hat, a few strands of auburn hair had strayed. Her eyes were steel grey and wide-set beneath tidy brows. Her mouth was a bee-stung pout, but not sulky, and her chin inclined toward stubborn. Brandt guessed Nordic or Dutch and observed her eyes taking everything in

Quiet and very intelligent , Brandt sighed inwardly — rich old men and beautiful women, nothing changes . Looking at her he almost forgot the war, imminent death, the cold and hunger. A professional soldier all his life, he had never married and, oddly at this moment, felt older than his thirty-three years. Looking at her and her steady gaze, he felt unsure of what to do next.

Eva found herself directing her translation to the German Army Captain with the steel-grey eyes.

‘Fighter planes would present a problem,’ said Rathenow, ‘but I’ve every faith in your unit, Captain Brandt — ‘

‘- Captain Schenker.’ Schenker was again in superiority mode, no doubt for the benefit of the woman. His helmet had been replaced by a jauntily tilted officer’s hat. ‘This operation is under the Waffen SS jurisdiction. I can assure you, Captain Rathenow, that my unit will perform well in eliminating the security on the train. The Reds will not have time to call for assistance,’

Kant’s reaction was subtle. He stiffened slightly, his eyes burning with hatred at Schenker below his helmet's rim. Olga sensed it too and moved alongside him. Brandt was quietly thankful he wasn’t in their sights. And knowing Kant, this was going to be Schenker’s last trip before an honourable burial in Berlin. The woman in sable’s reaction was interesting. Her attitude had shifted up a gear from cool composure to unease at the sight of the SS insignia. Maybe she’s not Nordic, possibly Eastern European or British?

‘Please, be my guests,’ said Rathenow as he encouraged them towards a small outbuilding alongside the hangar. ‘The airship will be ready to launch in two hours, so let us eat, talk and prepare our plan. We rendezvous with the train at 19:00 hours.’

The airship's crew offloaded the unit’s equipment from the Junkers and carried it onto the airship, with Regan trotting alongside yelling instructions.

They had showered for the first time in weeks in the officers' quarters. Shaving equipment was laid out along with fresh towels, uniforms and underwear. Schenker had gone first, citing seniority, and showered alone. Brandt, Hauptmann, Bader, Schultz, Koheller, Voight and Kramer looked thin as they dried themselves off.

Kant had a scar running across his chest from shrapnel received in France. In the mirrors, their eyes stared out from the hollows of their eye sockets. Without their beards, their faces lost some bulk and appeared more lined and haggard.

‘Only the Luftwaffe could get away with this, an almighty airship in the middle of Russia,’ quipped Hauptmann, slicking his thinning, wet black hair back with a comb. Turning his head he decided he didn’t like it.

Kant was shaving with a cigarette in his mouth, his tongue moving it from left to right as he worked the blade around his face. ‘The flyboys always like to think they’re gods just because their arses never touch the ground.’ The cigarette bobbed.

‘Except when they’re shot down,’ laughed Hauptmann. Hauptmann had now shaved his head, his pate gleaming and red with razor burn. He turned his head left and right in approval at the new look.

‘Showers, razors, food, booze — feels more like the last day before the firing squad, Sergeant,’ followed Schultz. His big arms patted his freshly-shaven jaw delicately. He was known by the team as ‘Der Anker’, ‘The Anchor’. Capable of lifting a man over his head, he had won several strong man competitions around Munich and caused the Quarter-Master General untold problems in finding a uniform that would fit him. He was the nearest thing Brandt had to a pack mule. Sometimes, looking back over his shoulder on a mountain ascent, all that he could see were equipment and supply cases and a pair of arms sticking out from them.