BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 23)


By KATZMAREK ©


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Author's note.


This is a work of fiction based on fact. Opinions and
interpretations of events expressed are my own and as such are
entirely contestable.


This remains my property and may not be used for gain without
my express permission in writing.


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"You will be travel down to Minsk," Rhykov was saying, "there, you will be taken to an airfield. We have two planes prepared, specially adapted MiGs. You will learn to fly these planes. They are very fast, everything has been stripped from them, guns, armour, everything!"


"They both have special engines," added Lieutenant Colonel Chernagovka, "with superchargers. Very special engines. It's important that they don't fall into German hands."


"Both planes are to be fitted with demolition charges," continued Rhykov, "with delayed fuses. They will be set to destroy the aircraft automatically in the event of a crash. You understand this is important?" John Greenhaugh and Jana Ivanova both nodded. "And especially as some of the technology is not Russian."


"What?" John asked, "whose technology is it?" Both senior officers looked at each other. Jana hadn't seen this before. Rhykov, an admitted GPU Agent, and Chernagovka, suspected of working for Military Intelligence, the GRU; both in the same room and apparently cooperating on the same secret mission.


"The engines... are British," Rhykov said to a shocked silence from the two pilots. "We have... some special contacts with the British Secret Services. But this is top secret."


The third man spoke up. He wore civilian dress and, like Rhykov, called himself only by a surname, Sokolev. He told them that, if captured alive, they were expected to commit suicide with a Cyanide pill each of them were to carry.


"This, of course, won't happen," added Rhykov, "because you are such fine pilots!"


"Of course!" said Sokolev.


The fourth man said he was from the Air Force's Cartographical Service and wore the uniform of a Captain. He pointed to a map spread on the table.


"Bialystok! We believe there has been a build up of German forces in the past few weeks. Agents on the ground have not been able to penetrate German security in the area. It is important that we know what has been established by way of airstrips, vehicle parks, depots, that sort of thing."


"But particularly Fighter Units," Chernagovka interrupted. "Contacts, from the French and British have indicated that several key German Fighter Groups have been removed from France. Where they've gone, we don't know. It is important that we find these squadrons."


"Yes," added Rhykov, "some suggestion has been made that they're in Poland. If so, it's vital that we know. It could mean that their timetable is very advanced."


"Is that why the British are involved?" asked John.


"We've always had some exchange of information with the English," Rhykov said, "but lately they have displayed more willingness to cooperate. We think this is significant."


"You've *always* exchanged information?" Jana asked, incredulous.


"At some level," confirmed Rhykov, "only when it suits, of course. We leave the bullshit to Governments and get on with our business."


"We've carefully plotted a route for you avoiding all known German concentrations. However, the information we have is not totally reliable. There may be anti-aircraft sites, airfields that we're not aware of," Chernagovka said.


"You need to be at a very low height," added Rhykov, "the lower the better. These squadrons, if they're there, will be heavily camoflaged. The MiGs are fitted with high resolution cameras, thanks to our British Intelligence friends, which are rigged to the gun button on your control sticks. Both the English and ourselves are desperate for proof and we need photographs. That is why you have been chosen. You two are regarded as the best stunt plots in Russia. If you succeed and obtain this information you'll be heroes. If you fail to get anything, ok, but someone else will have to try. If you disappear, we know nothing. That is the way of it. You must study these charts and memorise them, routes, search area, until you know them in your sleep."


"It's a very wooded area," Chernagovka said, "you must stay below the treeline as much as possible to give you a chance. Remember the MiGs are very fast..."


"How fast?" John asked.


"Over 600 kmh... in excess of 400 miles per hour!"


"Christ!"


"They have Rolls-Royce Merlin engines with fuel injection and superchargers, perhap 16, 1700 horsepower?"


"We would like to build them," Chernagovka told them, "but they are a difficult motor to build in Russia. Besides, the English won't let us and without their technical assistance we'd be wasting our time."


"The MiGs have a superficial resemblance to the Messerschmitt," Rhykov continued, "we think, with the element of surprise, you will be mistaken for friendly aircraft. That's why we selected these aircraft. The MiGs have their national markings painted over and finished in not unlike a standard Luftwaffe camoflage scheme. Their people will not like the deception," he chuckled, "not like it at all."


"We thought," smiled Chernagovka, "that you ought to have a unit marking painted on the nose, like German fighters. For you, John, it must be a puppet, no? But Jana, we can't decide what your's ought to be."


"A prancing horse!" she said, "wild, free!" They all looked at her in surprise.


"Very well!" Rhykov shrugged, "I'll pass that on. Mare or stallion?" he asked, glancing at John.


"It doesn't need to be that detailed," laughed Chernagakov, "we leave something to the imagination, yes?" They all laughed.


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As the Summer of 1941 rolled on, tension was high on the German/Soviet border. Rumour and speculation abounded and concerned Officers worried about possible incidents between the nervous border troops. 


The Soviets had extensive networks of agents inside Poland, but during 1941 the SS, Gestapo and the SD had embarked on a terror campaign to root out Communist sympathisers. Many innocents were caught up, but also most of the Soviet spy rings were neutralised. Polish woods rang with gunfire as the SS went about executing anyone suspected of spying for Russia.


But something was happening. Despite secrecy, long trains of war materiel, road convoys, new construction of camps and depots and the preparation of airfields couldn't go unnoticed. Units were spirited away from France and this information was conveyed to the Soviets through Communist networks and to the British by the Resistance.


However, it should be noted, that Communists in France had been ordered by the Comintern not to participate in aggressive activities towards the occupying German army. In return, the SS left the Communists unmolested, although they were watched carefully and dossiers kept on their members.


There were accusations that Communists had informed on members of the French Resistance and cooperated with the SS. This caused almost unsurmountable impediments when the Resistance and Communists were eventually compelled to work on the same side. Even then, French Communists continued to further Soviet interests rather than the Allied cause as a whole.


Soviet/British intelligence cooperation before the German invasion is shadowy and speculative. That some sharing of information happened is true, but how far such contacts went will probably never be known.


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John and Jana studied the charts and material carefully as they were flown down to Minsk. There, they were driven out to the secret airstrip, buried deep in the forest. It was too small to land a large aircraft, only large enough for the special MiGs to take off and land.


The airfield was heavy with NKVD and Police security. The aircraft were hidden under the trees with camoflage netting spread over them. They'd already been painted in the fake Luftwaffe scheme but still sported the Red Star on the fusilage and wings. It wouldn't do to be shot down by nervous anti-aircraft troops during training.


They were only allowed two days in which to become familiar with the MiG. So different from a standard MiG 3 was this plane that it hadn't been allocated a type or service designation. The engineers informally named it the MiG 3bis (super) or just 'Super-MiG.'


It featured the characteristic long snout of the MiG 3, but the prop was a standard British Rotol. The rear of the fusilage had been lengthened about half a metre and the fin increased in area. The big Merlin was heavier than the Hispano-Suiza-based engine of the original aircraft so the centre of gravity had to be moved back to prevent the aircraft from being 'nose-heavy.' Its guns had been removed and the leading edges of the wings fared over. The wingtips themselves had been 'clipped' or 'blunted' in an effort to reduce drag. The effect was not unlike a Messerschmitt Bf 109E model. Unlike the Messerschmitt, however, the cockpit was set back level with the trailing edge of the wing. The Pilot's view downwards was still restricted, as John had complained back in late 1939.


The British Merlin engine was wider than the M105 of the original plane. Consequently the closely cowled engine flared upwards in a bulge around the cylinder heads. Additionally, it had a lengthened spinner and wider, longer airscrew. The undercarriage oloe legs had to be longer accordingly, to keep the prop tips from hitting the ground on take off. The effect wasn't asthetic and John wondered how he could possibly see out of the cockpit when taking off on the short field.


"We thought of that," said an enthusiastic engineer, "there will be marker posts every 500 metres on the edge of the runway, to stop you overshooting and going into the trees. We have calculated carefully, you will achieve rotation speed in two thirds of the distance, even with an additional fuel load."


"We need to test that," Jana told the man, sceptical.


"Of course!"


John climbed into the cockpit of one of the planes. With the hood pushed back, he leaned out peering past the huge bulk of the engine. With his bottom off the seat, he could just see forwards.


"Shit!" he muttered.


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Accomodation in the forest airstrip was rudimentary. A camp of army tents had been erected in a nearby clearing among the vehicles. Tankers full of aviation gasoline were uncomfortably close and the whole camp stank of it. Engineers slept in the back of their lorries, some of the enlisted men made bivouacs under the trees. The NKVD security slept away from everybody else in tents near their posts. John and Jana went into the forest by themselves with an army tent and made themselves a little camp by a stream.


A campfire would have brought the guards swarming. It was forbidden, but they obtained a little kerosine stove called in the Red Army, 'Stalin's pipe.' It was so-called because it rarely worked properly, just as Stalin was always seen re-lighting his pipe continually.


Alone with just the twittering of the forest wildlife and the distant laughter of the men, they nestled down together on a single straw mattress.


They hadn't made love for some weeks now; hadn't even been alone long enough to share a kiss. They missed each other, the intimacy, and the warmth and comfort of those nights in John's apartment.


This could be the last days that they might ever have. The mission was dangerous with a strong possibility of not returning. They would have to be extremely accurate with their flying; so low down and at high speed. One mistake would see either of them crashing with no chance of survival.


They spent a long while just watching the spluttering 'Stalin's pipe' struggle with the feeble breeze. It hissed and flashed when draughted by the slightest puff of wind. John watched transfixed as it tried to boil water for some tea.


"You will follow me," she told him, suddenly, "a kilometre behind."


"Why?" he asked,


"I am better pilot. If I make mistake and crash into tree, you will see it and avoid."


"No! I've been doing this all my life. You follow me, right on my tail."


"I'm senior, John. You do this please. I don't want to order you. You must carry on if... Is stupid to be close together. We could both end in same tree. Don't be rival, John. And don't look out for me!"


"I will look out for you," he told her, "you can't ask me not to do that!"


"Let's not argue about this?" she said, "it's not what we should be doing at this moment."


"Oh!" he smiled. She kissed him, long and passionately.


Later, as John lay on her with his cock firmly wedged inside, she whispered something inaudible.


"What?" he asked.


"I said I wish we could remain like this for ever."


"I know."


"I have never felt this way over a man before, you know that? You need to know... I would die for you, John. I never say that before... to anyone!" John, speechless, crushed her to him. He buried his face in her neck, flattening the breasts he loved so much. "You *must* come back."


"Don't die for me," he mumbled into her beautiful skin.


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The training went apace the next morning. Despite John's anxiety the MiG *did* lift off at the appointed distance. But, as he predicted, he couldn't see a thing forward unless he leaned right out of the cockpit. This he decided to do routinely, braving the slipstream, with the canopy pushed back. Once airborne, he was able to close the 'lid' quite easily with one hand.


The MiG's acceleration was spectacular. The Merlin's supercharger kicked in, whistling, at 1800 revs sending the speed climbing rapidly. In addition, the climbing speed of the MiG was unbelievable. Super light, it shot up like an anti-aircraft shell. Both he and Jana had broad grins when they touched down afterwards.


Landing the MiG was difficult and John used the same technique as taking off. He slid the canopy back and leaned out. Even so, the MiG slammed down quite hard as, with speed falling away, the MiG dropped like a brick. No doubt this was because of the reduced lift from the shortened wings. Jana attempted a technique keeping the throttle up further on landing. But touchdown was still unpredictable. It either hopped along the ground in a series of swoops, or flopped sullenly onto the runway. With more time the wing flaps could've been modified, but that wasn't possible.


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"Stop nudging me like that, Puppetman," the radio said, "I see your long snout behind me again, as usual!"


"Sorry Cossack leader. You wagged your tail and I forgot everything."


"Typical! 2k on my six, copy?"


"Copy! 2k from the target!"


"Not yet, big boy. Kissing the table now, copy?"


"Right on top of you!"


"Just let me up for dinner, ok, Puppetman?"


"What on Earth are they talking about?" the man in the corner said in English. He watched puzzled as his two Russian hosts giggled at the exchange on the radio monitor.


"Code!" laughed Rhykov, "Russian code!"


"Damned strange code to me," the Englishman muttered. He thought it strange the Russians would send a woman pilot on such a dangerous mission. But then, nothing about these Russians surprised him. They were just too damned casual about things, too casual by half.


"Coming 'round, Puppetman, see you on the other side of the fence!"


"Good luck, Cossack leader!"


"You too, Puppetman!" There was a further exchange, interrupted by static.


"What did she say?" asked the Englishman, "it was something like, 'I love you,' is that what I heard?"


"Not sure," shrugged Rhykov. He looked at Chernagovka who shrugged too, grinning. "Well?" he said, "that'll be it for half an hour. We won't hear any more until they come back over the border.


Chernagovka rose and fetched a vodka bottle. He poured three glasses and handed one each to the other two men. "This, I can't stand... never could!" he sighed.


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John watched Jana flatten out in the distance in front of him. They'd reached a compromise, she would lead them in and he out.


The MiG was still a hard plane to fly despite modifications to the tail and wings. It flew, though, like a rocket with its big prop and powerful engine. But it wasn't too keen around it's axis, horizontal ot vertical. Out of the turn, the aircraft accelerated back up to speed in a flash, however.


'But what speed!' thought John. He'd never gone so fast in his life in level flight.


The border was a barely defined slash across the forest green. The ground would change soon to pastoral land with villages. These they hoped to avoid before passing back into forest near their search area to the North of Bialystok.


The two aircraft would make one Hell of a racket across the countryside at this height. For this leg, they hoped that observers would mistake them for Messerschmitts. If not, their sheer speed should ensure they'd get away, hopefully, with the important evidence.


In 12 minutes they had covered the distance from the border to the target area, some 60 kilometres. Jana wagged her wings as signal for the search pattern and John swung East. 


They hadn't seen anything unusual up to this point. Just some civilian traffic, a train, and some marching troops. Once again into the forest, however, was a different story. John could see new roads and signs of activity. There was nothing, however that looked like an airfield. Nevetheless, he thumbed the knob on the control stick every time anything looked remotely suspicious.


A shallow forest valley caught his eye. He looked briefly for Jana and saw her emerge not far off out of the trees. It wouldn't do for them to investigate the same ground and their areas of search had been clearly defined. 


John passed low along the valley. As usual, some roads had been cut. But then, this area had extensive milling. Brush lay thick on the valley floor, but John noticed something instantly, it shouldn't be there!


The valley floor was covered with large river stones with the treeline coming down to the edge. But brush doesn't grow that densely in stone. John thumbed the button of his cameras again. 


Passing out of the valley, something else caught his eye. It was green, but with straight lines. John instantly knew it was the wing of an aeroplane.


John arrowed the MiG towards the rendezvous with Jana. She was right on time and, wagging his wings, he took the lead and headed her back towards the border.


But John suspected their little scheme had been discovered. 5 minutes into the return trip, John spotted 4 Messerschmitts about 1000 metres higher and 10 kilometres to the North. These were turning in their direction. Had Jana seen them? He didn't know, but he thought that radio silence now was irrelevant. They were at full speed, low and straight, and, if they kept going, the Messerschmitts would find it hard to keep up. But he *had* to warn her.


"Cossack leader," he called, "company, North, 1000 metres, copy?" 


She didn't answer but she *must* have heard him. 


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"Fuck!" said Rhykov, looking at his watch.


"Maybe they're early?" suggested Chernagovka, hopefully.


Looking again at his watch Rhykov told him the couple couldn't be at the border yet. "Trouble?"


"What's happening?" asked the Englishman, "what was that message?"


"Split up, split up!" crackled the radio.


"Who was that?" demanded the Englishman, but Rhykov got up and ran outside.


The minutes ticked by slowly as Chernagovka ran out to join Rhykov. They strained their ears for several minutes more until they heard the distinct drone of an aircraft. Suddenly, a roar echoed from a nearby hill and a MiG thundered overhead to circle around for landing. They all stood and watched it touch down. Before it stopped, groundcrew and the intelligence officers ran out to meet it. The aircraft had a puppet stencilled on the nose.


"Where's Jana?" John asked, "she here?" They all shook their heads. John jumped down and kicked the undercarriage of the aircraft. The Englishman, as if some realisation had dawned, asked if it was normal for Russians to take their wives on a mission. "Fuck off!" John snarled at him in English.


The Englishman recoiled as if slapped.


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KATZMAREK ©





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