Task Force Dragon

By Michael W. Romanowski

January 1945: World War II has entered its final stages, and the Allied powers jockey for both power and dominance. The various Allies, however, are not always on the best of terms--especially the USSR and the various democracies that must now work together to stop Hitler from his mad plan to seize control of all of Europe.

For US Army Major Phillip Vogel, this tense but secret dance of nations has become all too real. Secret documents detailing a dangerous subterfuge have come into German hands, and it is up to Vogel to acquire them and bring them safely out of Germany in the last days of the Third Reich. Add in a mission to relieve a brutal POW camp and fanatical Nazi defenders, and you have a mission that just may be his last.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Foremost Press
• Release date: Feb 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781939870322

Michael W. Romanowski

A keen interest in all things military has always been a central part of Michael Romanowski's life. Many members of his family are veterans of one (or more!) of the armed services. His grandfather served in the First World War. His father was in the U.S. Navy during World War II. So it seemed natural to him to join the United States Marine Corps, and thereby served in various locations around the globe, including Camp Pendleton, CA, and Okinawa, Japan. After his time in the service Michael earned a BA in journalism from Wayne State University in Detroit. After graduation he worked as a security consultant for the automotive industry. Today he lives in Central Missouri with his lovely wife and two children. His interests include collecting antique firearms, military history, and, of course, reading a good book whenever time allows.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The western Mediterranean—8 September 1943

They had been adrift for the better part of six hours when the clouds parted overhead, and the quarter moon appeared.

A chill mist clung to the water as Mateusz Lajewski raised his head and looked skyward. The air felt unusually cool on his skin, for his uniform was still damp from the crash. He fought back a shiver as he peered at the stars and tried to judge their overall position.

He turned his eyes back to the two figures huddled at the far end of the raft. One was supine and unnaturally still. The other stayed close to the first and cradled his body against the constant bob and sway of the incoming waves.

Is he still breathing? Lajewski asked.

Arek Radomski looked up abruptly, almost as if he’d been asleep. There was a pause. Yes, Colonel. Shallowly, but yes.

Keep an eye on him. The order wasn’t necessary, of course. The lieutenant knew full well that the general’s life hung in the balance. But Lajewski scowled and looked to the sky once more and tried to hear the purr of approaching aircraft engines.

Should I fire another flare? Radomski asked. He too looked to the sky and prayed for deliverance.

How many do you have left?

There was another pause, and Lajewski heard the clinking of items in a gear bag. Four.

Lajewski felt his palms itch. Save them until we see lights in the sky, or hear engines over the water. With luck, a rescue plane will be along shortly. They must know by now that we never arrived in Tunis.

Right. Radomski put away the satchel containing the flare pistol and its ammunition. Do you think there were other survivors?

Lajewski did not answer at first. Lieutenant Marta Wisniewski had been aboard as the general’s personal chauffeur and secretary. The fact that young Radomski had proposed to the general’s daughter just the week before weighed on his mind as well.

Of course. Perhaps the sound of his false cheer would carry on the wind. Have faith, Lieutenant. God watches over us all.

Radomski did not reply, so Lajewski settled back and tried to ignore the chill water that soaked into his crotch. Then General Wisniewski groaned and stirred a bit.

Is there any water left? The general’s voice sounded weak, defeated. But there was a hint of steel beneath the surface. Lajewski took up a canteen and unscrewed the cap.

Here, sir. Drink.

Both men propped up the general and helped him get a sip of water. He coughed, and convulsions wracked his ravaged frame. Lajewski cradled the older man’s body until the spasms passed.

Worry gnawed at him like a hungry animal, for shrapnel from a near-miss had lacerated General Andrzej Wisniewski across the abdomen. Luckily Radomski had had the forethought to retrieve a first aid kit from the sinking plane. Both men had then worked feverishly to staunch the flow of blood and stabilize their wounded leader. They had done all they could. But his survival, sadly, was very much in doubt.

I know you were speaking of Marta. She is dead, isn’t she?

Lajewski stared into Radomski’s night-dark eyes before replying, I cannot be certain. But it does not look good.

Something else I must repay our friends in London for. If we live.

Fresh horror flared in Lajewski’s belly, accompanied by thoughts he had not dared to speak of before. You don’t think they’re responsible for this, do you? They wouldn’t—

Wisniewski barked a small laugh. They could have offered us a fighter escort, yes? Despite the fact that the Germans can no longer mount an effective aerial blockade of this part of the Mediterranean.

Lajewski had thought the omission of an escort to be unusual, but hadn’t said anything at the time. Now he wished he had spoken up. They had been perhaps ten miles out from the RAF base at Gibraltar when tracers had burned against the night, and their Liberator bomber had been riddled across the tail and portside wing. He could still hear the screams of the man seated next to him and the horrible sense of gravity pressing in as their plane had plummeted toward the water below.

A German plane shot us down. There is no other rational explanation. Radomski sounded uncertain as he spoke the words. Almost as if he was looking for someone to assure him they were true.

Very few people knew we were enroute to visit our men in North Africa, Wisniewski replied. I cannot see any other explanation, except that we were somehow betrayed.

Lajewski did not see it that way. The fact that General Andrzej Wisniewski also happened to be the deputy commander of the Polish Armed Forces of the West almost certainly meant that his every movement was carefully watched by both Poland’s enemies and her allies as well.

Sir, what if . . . ? He suddenly paused and listened. They all did. At first Lajewski heard only the wind and the gentle slap of the water against the raft.

What is it? Radomski asked. Lajewski shushed him and moved to grab the satchel containing the flare gun.

An engine. Do you hear it now? A low rumble came to them, metallic-sounding and seeming to come from every direction at once.

My God. Yes. Radomski watched as Lajewski broke open the heavy brass flare pistol and inserted a cartridge. He cocked it and aimed skyward.

* * *

The submarine shuddered as she broke the surface. Captain 2nd Rank Sergei Grishkin could feel the boat roil and pitch as she began to push her way through the unquiet seas before them.

We need to be cautious, Comrade Captain. The man who’d spoken was thin, almost cadaverous, and had deeply hooded eyes that seemed to miss no detail, no matter how insignificant.

Grishkin nodded. Their regular zampolet, or political officer, had been replaced at the last minute by Comrade Derevyanko. He was a grim, humorless man. And while he wore the proper uniform, Grishkin had little doubt that this was the very first time he had ever set foot aboard a naval vessel of any sort.

Noted, Comrade. Gregori! Raise the radar mast, and make a surface sweep. Petty Officer Vatutin! Man the bridge watch.

Man the bridge watch, aye!

Seawater trickled down as the uppermost hatch was opened, and Grishkin and the rest of his bridge crew made the climb up into the boat’s sail. Soviet submarine B-77 was the former HMS Sunfish, and one of a rather proliferate class of British long-range patrol submarines. She was now on loan to the Red Navy and currently based at the Royal Navy facility at Dundee. Grishkin found her to be a handsome boat, and much larger and technologically advanced than any vessel he had commanded in the past.

The night air was characteristically warm as Grishkin made his way up into the sail. The radar mast rotated slowly overhead as both Derevyanko and Second Officer Gregori Yemelin joined him. Grishkin plugged his headset into the bridge connector and signaled the crew below that he had the conn.

This is the captain. Report.

Radar sweep clear, Comrade Captain. No contacts.

Very well. Keep an eye out for aircraft. He fought back a scowl as he peered at the stars and tried to judge their overall position. German aircraft would be of no concern this far west, of course. But they had been strafed and bombed in days past by British patrol aircraft. Apparently they looked just like an enemy U-boat from the air. He smiled grimly as he took up his binoculars and began to scan the far, night-shrouded horizon.

You are certain these are the proper coordinates? Derevyanko asked him.

These are the coordinates you provided me, yes. Grishkin felt his smile fade like smoke on the wind. Remember that finding such a small target in a search area this large is difficult at the best of times. Finding one at night is likely to be impossible.

Do what you can, Comrade Captain. That is all I can ask.

The moon was an angry crescent overhead, hidden at times by high-flying cirrus. Occasional rain squalls cut visibility even more. It was just passing 0200 hours when Petty Officer Vatutin came up onto the sail with a pot of hot tea to help ward off the night’s lingering fatigue.

You are a saint, Vassily. Thank you. Grishkin offered up an honest grin as he took a sip.

It is nothing, sir. Vatutin offered a cup to Derevyanko. Would you like some, Comrade? I—

A sudden light flared just off their starboard beam. The rating posted to port called it out, and all present turned their attention in that direction.

The signal flare gave off a low CRACK, and sent a magnesium glimmer arcing into the endless black. There it hissed to life, and dangled from a tiny parachute. Within moments, its angry red glow bathed all within a few hundred yards and brought the surface of the water into stark contrast with the darkened sea around them.

Yemelin already had his binoculars aimed in that general direction. Life raft in the water, sir. Two points off our port beam.

Grishkin felt his pulse rage in spite of himself. I see it. Lights!

One of the ratings on the sail flipped a switch, and a powerful searchlight sprung to life. Grishkin watched as that brilliant beam crept over the waves and soon fell across a dark, distant shape. Several men crouched and waved in that bobbing piece of flotsam and shouted for assistance.

The range was a little over one hundred meters. Is it them? Derevyanko asked.

I should think so. Grishkin turned to the gunner stationed aft of the conning tower. Open fire.

The rating racked the bolt on his .303 Lewis gun. His first press of the trigger sent a stream of tracers arcing into the night. Vivid fireflies flickered across the water, and Grishkin saw a dim figure stagger and fall. There was a splash as his body briefly slipped beneath the waves. More bullets sizzled in, fountaining all around. The raft hissed and flexed as those heavy rounds pierced flimsy rubber.

He let the Lewis gun chatter on for perhaps fifteen seconds. Cease fire! he called. The gunfire faded away instantly, leaving an odd sort of half-silence to fall across the bridge.

Helmsman, make your course one three zero. Ahead slow.

Course one three zero. Ahead slow, aye.

Soon they had pulled in alongside the torn piece of yellow rubber, and men with boathooks were on deck struggling to recover as much of what remained as possible. Derevyanko joined them, clad in a Mae West and looking more than a little uncomfortable to be so close to the water. There was a splash and hurried shouts as the first of the dead men was hoisted unceremoniously aboard.

Grishkin climbed down to the deck and watched as the two corpses were laid out next to each other. Dead eyes stared back at him, glassy and fishlike. He’d seen dead men before, of course, but rarely so quickly after their passing. The play of handheld work lights across the deck was a dangerous thing to do at night. But Derevyanko insisted. The fact that he spoke with the voice of the Politburo left Grishkin with little choice in the matter.

Hold the light steady, Comrade. I need to get a picture of both men.

Derevyanko carried an American Speed Graphic camera. Top of the line. Grishkin had heard of them, but had never seen one. He watched as Derevyanko shot picture after picture of the dead men, and handed his exposed negative plates over to one of the crew. When he was finished, he ordered both bodies weighed down, and cast over the side.

One fellow was an older man, near sixty. His bullet-torn uniform was British in style, but decorated with foreign rank insignia and awards. The other man wore a similar uniform. Grishkin did not immediately recognize them, or what Allied nation they served.

Nor did he care. He turned once more to Derevyanko.

Are we finished?

Yes.

Very well. He turned to Yemelin. Secure all hatches, and dive the boat.

Yes, Comrade Captain! An alarm claxon sounded, and the forward deck and sail rapidly began to clear as the men raced to their diving stations. Grishkin was the last man to leave the bridge. As he did so, he paused a moment to watch the waves wash over the deck. Then he secured the hatch over his head and followed his men back down into the eerily lit depths of his vessel.

* * *

Lajewski had struggled to stay afloat as the bodies had been brought aboard the sub. He’d heard distant voices, speaking Russian. It was hard to remember why that was important. Then, dull splashes, and more commands. He heard the submarine vent air, and he began to slip away into the depths once more.

Oddly enough there was no pain, despite the wounds to his chest and stomach. He paddled for a moment longer, and then felt the water close in over his head. The surface seemed very distant now, where mere seconds ago it had been so, so close. The moonlight above faded. Now the darkness came for him, and he was no longer cold. No longer thirsty, and no longer afraid. He had done his duty as best he could. At least that singular thought gave him comfort as night descended, and nothing seemed to matter any longer.

CHAPTER 2

Poissy, France—11 December 1944

The pain in his feet was always bad at this time of year. It was the cold weather that caused it—whenever the mercury dropped below a certain point, he felt the pain deep within his bones, like a smoldering coal fire.

Getting up from his desk, Colonel Raymond Mack crossed over to the woodstove and poured coffee from the pot that gurgled and hissed there. He limped as he walked. Most of the toes on his right foot were gone, victims of the frostbite he had contracted during the fighting on Attu nearly two years before.

Sometimes the memories came to him when he least expected. The bitter sting of wind and freezing rain. Screams, gunshots, and shouts of Banzai! as the Japs poured out of the mist, howling for blood. One kid got to within a few yards of him, screaming and spitting. He carried a goddamn sword, for Christ’s sake, so he must have been an officer. From the look of his cherubic, baby face he hadn’t been out of school for long. A goddamn kid. He’d pissed himself when Mack shot him in the gut with an M-1 carbine.

His hands shook just a bit as he poured milk into his coffee and headed back to his desk. The loss of his toes had doomed an otherwise promising career. Fortunately, the needs of the War Department had kept him in the service, if only in a supporting role.

At the moment he wasn’t sure if his injuries had been a blessing in disguise or not. For the past ten months, Mack had run a special unit within the US Office of Strategic Service, or OSS. Closely allied with its British counterpart, the Special Operations Executive, the OSS was responsible for all clandestine efforts against Hitler’s Third Reich.

The final report detailing his most recent failure sat on his desk. Mack had been responsible for inserting special three-man teams into enemy territory. Such units had been successful in occupied France prior to the Normandy invasion, usually in concert with local resistance groups. Their missions had been of all different sorts, although sabotage and VIP assassination were the norm. Now those successes seemed long ago and far away. In the last few months, three separate teams had been lost on missions into Germany. Nine good men killed or captured, and, for the moment, Mack was unsure why.

A knock sounded at his door, drawing him back to the present. He looked at his watch and frowned. The man he had been expecting was late, if only by a few minutes.

Come in. The door opened, and a familiar figure in Royal Army service dress entered. His hair was the color of steel wool, and his features were ruddy with the cold.

Sorry I’m late, old boy. The newcomer smiled crookedly. The traffic in from Paris was beastly.

Mack could not help but smile. Despite the difference in their ranks, the two men were nearly the same age and had known each other for nearly a year, ever since Mack had become involved with military intelligence.

No problem. Come on in and have a seat. Care for a drink?

Please. Liam Brown wore the uniform of a major in the Grenadier Guards, although Mack knew it had been a very long time since he had served with his old regiment.

Mack reached into his desk and found a dusty bottle of scotch. He poured two fingers into a pair of glasses before handing one over to Brown.

I came as soon as I got your message. What is it?

"HMS Vagabond is overdue." The whisky was a smoky, liquid fire as it slid past Mack’s teeth and fled down his throat.

Brown sipped his drink slowly, as if considering. How long?

Six days. The Admiralty is posting her as lost at sixteen hundred hours today. Vagabond had left port with a crew of thirty, not including the OSS team they’d been tasked with sneaking into Germany.

Damn.

Yeah. Mack refilled his glass. That’s three teams we’ve lost. I’d say there’s a definite pattern at play.

That’s a bit of an understatement. Brown held out his glass for a refill. What do you intend to do now?

I don’t have much of a choice. Ike wants Kempner in the bag, and I have the assignment. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’d heard you were still over at Milton Hall, helping Aaron Bank train those tame German deserters he thinks will help us win the war.

Mack referred to Operation Iron Cross, a daring raid planned against selected targets deep within the Reich. It was an audacious idea to be sure. Mack had not been cleared to know the full details of the mission, save that most of the raiding force was made up of German POWs subverted to the Allied cause. Even the location of the planned assault was being kept secret, although the even money seemed to be on the Eagle’s Lair, Hitler’s private retreat deep in the Austrian Alps.

Iron Cross has been canceled, Raymond. Roosevelt pulled the plug just last week. Apparently he wasn’t comfortable with the fact that so many of my chaps used to be on the other side.

I suppose Lucius Piatt was only too happy to countersign the order himself.

He was delighted, of course. Brown lit a cigarette and offered one to Mack. It was a good plan. We could have gotten him. We could have brought in Hitler.

You may be right. Mack set his glass aside. But for the time being that means you’re between assignments. I need help getting to Kempner, especially now that he’s finally being released from the hospital, and sent into the country to recuperate.

Do we have confirmation?

We do. He’s being moved to an estate in Bavaria, just a few miles from Hammelburg. We assume he’ll have a full security detachment in place, but I personally believe this is the best chance we’ll ever have to scoop him up in one piece.

Brown nodded his understanding. Both men were more than familiar with SS-Standartenführer Joachim Kempner’s long history with the Sicherheitsdienst, or chief intelligence arm of the Waffen-SS.

I wasn’t aware he’d been recalled to Germany, Brown said. The last I heard, he was still in Yugoslavia, executing as many of Tito’s peasants as possible.

We didn’t know either. Not until last week. Mack picked up a classified report and handed it over to Brown. Apparently he came back to Berlin for some conference or another. Reports are unclear on that. But we do know that he was in the Wolf’s Lair during the attempt on Hitler’s life last July. Supposedly he nearly died.

No more details than that? Brown seemed surprised, and Mack could only shrug in reply.

He was in the hospital for a while. A matter of weeks, apparently. Other than that we have few details.

And where is he now? Brown asked.

On his way to Hammelburg. Mack grunted. Our latest reports put him in route to Magdeburg, via train. With your help we should be able to come up with a way to grab him before he disappears down some dark hole, never to be seen again.

Brown set aside his glass and settled back in his seat. I’m not entirely sure what I can do to help. Kempner is surrounded by crack troops at all times. And to make matters worse, Jerry has been keeping him under close scrutiny after the move to kill Hitler.

That’s why we need to be smart about this. We’ve tried to insert a team by all the regular methods. An airborne drop. Plainclothes operatives at the Swiss border. And now the loss of that sub. We’ll need a combined airborne/overland approach this time, I think. Something the Germans will not be able to counter easily.

An airborne assault? Our lads would be slaughtered, Raymond. And all for no gain.

Who said anything about using our boys?

You mean my German chaps. Brown’s shock seemed genuine enough. Mack leaned back in his chair and flexed his knees, wincing as his wounds ached sharply.

"That’s right. I’ve talked to Ike about it, and he agrees. Your men have special talents. Talents that just might get us in close enough to grab Kempner without alerting the enemy until the last minute. Then