Stalin's Gold

By Richard B. Talbot, Jr

Richard Talbot is a retired U.S. Army major. He served two tours in Viet Nam with the 1st Cavalry Division as a combat helicopter pilot. Since his retirement, he founded an educational manufacturing company and has worked as a town administrator. Richard has managed racquetball and health clubs and is a nine time national racquetball champion. He is the author of two other books: The Reckoning Trail and The Autumn of My Time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 27, 2002
• ISBN: 9781477179055

Richard B. Talbot, Jr

Richard Talbot is a retired U.S. Army major. He served two tours in Viet Nam with the 1st Cavalry Division as a combat helicopter pilot. Since his retirement, he founded an educational manufacturing company and has worked as a town administrator. Richard has managed racquetball and health clubs and is a nine time national racquetball champion. He is the author of two other books: The Reckoning Trail and The Autumn of My Time.

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STALIN’S GOLD

Richard B. Talbot, Jr

Copyright © 2002 by Richard B. Talbot, Jr..

Library of Congress Number: 2002092601

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

WINTER 1981

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

EPILOGUE

Dedicated to my wife Maryann and sister Debbie

PROLOGUE

Premier Joseph Stalin, dictator of all the Russias, stood before the dirty window of his office deep in thought, looking out over the snow-covered rooftops of Moscow. The wintry daylight felt cold on his face as outside, flakes of snow skittered against the windowpanes. Black plumes of smoke rose from the burning buildings to touch the clouds above his city savaged by the incessant dive bombings of the dreaded Stukas and the cannon fire of the approaching enemy.

In the distance he heard the rumble of artillery. It was October of1941 and the Nazi Panzer Divisions had driven deep into the heartland of his country and were about to knock upon the gates of Moscow and bring Russia to her knees.

Stalin had ordered his generals to hold firm at all costs; to the last man if necessary. Moscow must not fall!

He shifted his gaze to the dusting of gray storm clouds that hung low over the city and prayed for a heavy snow. Snow was his country’s friend and the only thing that might deter the onslaught of tanks and battle-hardened men of the Third Reich that threatened to overwhelm his meager forces.

If it was not for the Lend-Lease aid from the United States that was supplying new tanks, aircraft and equipment, the fighting would have ended weeks ago, he mused. President Roosevelt was a canny politician. He was sending supplies and equipment to the USSR and avoiding America’s entry into the war, while Russia was spilling the life’s blood of its people into the black earth of its homeland in exchange for resisting the German Army.

The Dictator’s concentration was interrupted by a soft knock at his door. Come, he commanded in a guttural voice.

His aide, Major Kovaloff, held the door open and the tall, slim figure of Air Force Colonel Alexi Nedved, dressed in a leather flight suit, stepped into the office of the most feared man in Russia. The young officer had dark black hair, a square jaw and dark, intelligent eyes. A scar ran across his right cheek, the reward of a distant dog fight against German fighters.

The Colonel was only twenty-five years old, the youngest colonel in the Russian Air Force. He had amassed thirty-four kills and was the most decorated fighter pilot in the USSR. Nedved looked across the room and saw the stout, short figure of Stalin outlined by the glare from the window. He took two paces into the office and came to attention. Colonel Alexi Nedved reporting as ordered, Sir, he snapped.

Stand at ease, rumbled the Premier. I had you sent here to give you my personal instructions concerning the mission that you will undertake.

Stalin moved from the window and seated himself at his desk. He contemplated the young colonel standing in front of him for a few moments before he began. "Comrade Nedved, as you know the Nazi Divisions are nearing Moscow. I am not sure that our army can save the city, and so I have made a decision that can affect the very future of the homeland.

I have decided to send the USSR’s stored gold deposits to the United States for safekeeping. Our country cannot risk allowing our treasury to fall into the hands of the Nazis. Your superiors have selected you to be the officer in charge of the operation.

Colonel Nedved was shaken by Stalin’s words. My God! he thought. The responsibility was overwhelming! The Soviet Union was a poor, devastated country, fighting a desperate war of survival with an implacable enemy.

Nedved knew that the war had stripped his country of most of the little money it had. And now he was to have the responsibility of taking what was left to safety.

Suddenly, a chill of fear crept over the Colonel, for he realized

that if he failed, the man at the desk in a fit of rage would have little compunction in having him killed or even wiping out his family as an example to others.

He looked down at the feared leader of Russia and stammered, Sir, I do not deserve such an honor.

Stalin held up his hand and growled, Enough of your humility. I have no time for such distractions. You have been highly recommended by your superiors. You will be my personal representative aboard the American planes that have been sent by President Roosevelt to accomplish the mission.

Stalin paused as he lit an English cigarette, staring with piercing eyes at the colonel, "Four new American B-17s have arrived and are being loaded with our gold as we speak.

"You will accompany the flight to the United States and see that the gold is turned over to our representative when you arrive in Seattle, Washington. Our country’s future is in your hands, Colonel. Don’t fail me!

General Chemin will brief you on the details of the mission at the airfield. You are dismissed!

Colonel Nerved snapped a salute, did a quick about-face and left the office.

The Premier turned around in his swivel chair and stared out the window through a blue cloud of cigarette smoke. He thought back to the time several weeks ago when he had made the decision to transfer the gold. The war effort had nearly bankrupted the country. To lose to the Germans what small reserves they had left would be a financial disaster and put him in an extremely weak position when dealing with his enemies in the Party and with the Allies.

More to the point, it appeared that the Nazis were sure to capture Moscow. If the capital fell, it might mean the total defeat of the USSR. The surrender of his country would mean his own death, unless a provident leader provided for himselfwith safety and wealth in another country. He was glad that Stalin’s gold was to be out of harm’s way.

Stalin had sent his personal envoy to Washington, DC three weeks before to see President Roosevelt in person ostensibly to demand more Lend-Lease equipment, but privately to make the request to transport the gold. He knew that Roosevelt disliked him personally but was a man of honor and would insure that the USSR’s gold would be safe and would be returned to Russia after the war.

Roosevelt had responded by sending four of the new B-17s, three to each carry twelve thousand kilos of gold and one spare aircraft carrying repair parts. The B-17’s were a new model developed by the Boeing Company in Seattle, Washington. The flight had crossed the Bering Straight near Nome, Alaska, and had flown into Russia, finally arriving the night before.

The route was the same as that used by ferry pilots bringing replacement aircraft under America’s Lend-Lease Program into the Soviet Union from the United States. There was a network of airfields for refueling and repairs afforded to the B-17’s already set up that was used by the ferry pilots. This had reduced the planning time for the mission and permitted the quick dispatch of the aircraft.

A number of the members of Stalin’s inner circle of advisors had been against sending their reserves out of the country. However, with the Nazi Panzers smashing everything in their path, he knew that he had no other choice. Now, the die had been cast and fate would either protect the mission or bring failure.

Later that afternoon at an airfield on the northeast side of the city, four white, unmarked B-17s taxied out to the end of the runway. The approaching German Army had been shelling Moscow day and night and the rounds were falling all around the airfield. The flight commander, Major Bob Olsen, in the lead bomber made one last check down the long, patched strip of concrete that stretched out in front of the nose of the ship. There had been numerous bombing raids by the German Air Force in the past as well as the incoming artillery rounds. The strip had been cratered in several spots which had reduced the useable length of the runway. However, the repair crews had filled most of the holes with crushed rock and had laid pierced steel planking strips over the surface of the repairs. It would be a bumpy, short takeoff run for the heavily laden ships, but they’d make it OK, Olsen figured, as the cold Russian air would assist the aircraft in getting airborne—if they could avoid being hit by exploding artillery shells.

Standing on the brakes, the Major checked the carburetor heat used to warm the fuel/air mixture, gave the engines full mixture and pushed the throttles to full detent. The RPM built to the redline as the four big radial engines roared to full power and Olsen released the brakes. Unchained, the big bomber surged forward, vibrating and bouncing over the rough surface, picking up speed as it started down the runway.

Suddenly, a number of rounds fell in front and to the side of the charging aircraft. As they detonated, several pieces of shrapnel sliced through the thin sides of the B-17 while chunks of concrete rattled along the fuselage. Colonel Alexi Nedved was seated in the center of the aircraft near the waist gunners’ positions. He instinctively ducked as the razor sharp pieces of steel shredded the sheet-metal above his head. God damn! he muttered. Here I’ve got over twenty combat victories in the air and I’m about to be killed sitting on my ass in the back of a plane as a passenger.

The other three aircraft in the flight taxied into position and quickly followed their leader down the runway. Each was lucky and avoided being struck by the incoming artillery. As the B-17s’ tires broke ground, they each pulled up their landing gear to allow them to accelerate faster. All four aircraft climbed into the coming dusk of the Russian night.

The flight picked up their escort of twenty Russian fighters over the airfield. As the four aircraft gathered into a diamond formation, they made a slow climbing right turn to the east on their heading for the Bering Straight, forty-five hundred miles away.

On the port side of the formation, Captain Steve Crawford, the aircraft commander of the B-17 called the Texas Belle, spoke into his intercom over the roar of the four engines: Okay guys, keep your eyes peeled for any enemy fighters. We ain’t out of trouble yet. We can relax in a few hours when we’re clear of the combat zone. But for now, keep your eyes open. Everyone can clear their guns.

There was a distant rattle of12 mm and .50 caliber machine guns as the gunners fired short bursts on their air-cooled weapons to ensure they were operating properly.

As the big aircraft continued to climb, he looked over at his co-pilot, Lieutenant Andy Baker, in the right seat. I’m glad we got away from that fucking artillery. I felt like a sitting duck waiting at the end of the runway. What the Hell do you make of this mission anyway, Andy? he asked.

Baker was short and skinny, barely making the height requirements to become a pilot. He made up for his size by his skill as an aviator. Checking the mixtures and the carb heat for each engine, Baker looked up and responded, Beats the shit out of me, Boss. All those boxes they tied down in the bomb bay are unmarked. They must be plenty heavy too, because those soldiers who loaded them were bustin’ their asses carrying them aboard.

Corporal Al James, the radio operator, broke in on their discussion. Captain, I got some hot coffee back here if you’d like some.

Thanks, Sparks, replied Crawford, send us up a couple of cups. Don’t forget, we must maintain radio silence for the whole flight.

Captain Crawford, a tall thin man with an intelligent face, was from Rockford, Illinois. As a no nonsense officer, he was a flight instructor in the new B-17s. He thought back to the briefing that he’d received from flight commander Major Olsen before they had departed for Moscow from the airfield at Fort Lewis. They were being sent on a top secret mission into Russia in unmarked B-17s to bring out some kind of special equipment that the Russians had developed. The U.S. had not entered the European war as yet and President Roosevelt did not want the four aircraft identified as being operated by Americans if they were attacked by the Germans.

After observing how battered Moscow was from the German air and artillery attacks, Crawford didn’t see how the Russians would have anything that the old U.S. ofA. could use, let alone send back to the States.

Andy Baker keyed his intercom, Hey Potter, what’s our heading for the first leg?

Lieutenant Mike Potter, the navigator, was a bald, heavy-set man with a round face. He was a friendly individual, who was always being ribbed by the crew on the difficulty he had in squeezing through the hatch of the aircraft. Looking down at his charts he responded, Forty-five degrees magnetic, Andy.

Make sure you figured for magnetic variation on the heading, Mike, rejoined Baker.

God damn, I ain’t a glorified taxi driver, like you Baker. I had to take training an’ pass tests to become a navigator, not sit on my ass behind a control column, snapped back Potter.

Enough, you guys, broke in Crawford. "Let’s keep our attention outside and watch for fighters. I don’t want any surprises. In a couple of hours we’ll be out of the combat zone and we can relax. Everyone switch to oxygen now, as we’re just breaking through 11,000 feet.

What’s the name of that first refueling field?

It’s called Muzhi, crackled the voice of the navigator. It’s just across the Urals on the east side of the mountains. It’s at 3,600 feet so we’d better watch our density altitude for takeoff.

Thanks, Mike.

Crawford leveled out the aircraft at 18,000 feet with the rest of the formation and turned the controls over to his co-pilot. The Russian fighter escort had taken up position around them as they rumbled eastward, affording a degree of protection from German fighters. However, Crawford had little hope that the outdated Russian Yak aircraft would be of any real help if they ran up against the ME-109 fighters of the Luffwaffa.

Over the intercom of the lead B-17 an excited voice blared out, Bandits at twelve o’clock high!

Half of the Russian Yak fighters broke off from the formation and flew to engage the oncoming German fighters. The other ten ships closed in on the four B-17s. There was a furious air-to-air battle between the Yaks and Me-109s. One German fighter was knocked down, while eight of the Yaks fell easy prey to the far superior 109s.

The three German aircraft attempted to engage the four lumbering B-17’s, but the remaining Russian Yaks gave up their lives, allowing the American bombers to escape. Six of the Yaks went down in flames, but not before they knocked down one of the Nazi fighters. One of the German aircraft ran out of ammunition and broke off toward the south, while the remaining 109 made a try for the bombers.

The B-17s had tightened up their formation as the German fighter approached. in the Texas Belle, Tech Sergeant Billy Manning was the port waist gunner. As the sleek, gray killer roared toward the formation, he opened fire with the .50 caliber heavy machine gun. The big gun slammed back and forth in his hands, spraying a fan of empty cartridges back over his shoulder that rattled against the inside of the fuselage as the weapon erupted in a blaze of fire. Every fourth round was a tracer and the stream of bullets snaked out toward the incoming German fighter in a flaming line of death.

The path of the fighter and the tracers seemed to cross, and as they did, chunks of metal were shredded from the on-rushing killer. At the same time the gray and white Me-109 opened fire with its cannon and took the Texas Belle in the fuselage just aft of the flight deck. Lieutenant Potter and the radio man Corporal James, whose stations were just back of the flight deck, ducked down as the Germans’ rounds slammed into the big bomber, leaving a row of jagged holes just above their heads.

God damn! cried James over the intercom, he just nailed our ass!

The other American bombers joined in and laid down a shield of overlapping .50 caliber and 12 mm tracers that shredded the gray fighter before it could break off its attack and get away. Suddenly, the right wing of the 109 separated from the stricken craft, spinning end over end toward the ground far below. At the same instant, smoke and fire blossomed from the engine cowl and the stricken fighter was blasted from the sky in a giant fireball which sent flaming debris in all directions.

The intercoms on the 17s crackled with the voices of the victorious gunners. God damn great shootin’! We nailed that son-of-a-bitch! Great goin’, guys!

Captain Crawford checked his controls as he peered out through his windscreen watching for any additional German fighters. He called back to his men on the intercom, Great shooting, guys! That will teach those bastards! We took some hits though. Check the ship over to see if there’s any significant damage.

He checked the controls a second time, but everything seemed to be OK. The crew reported back that there was only minor sheet-metal damage behind the radio compartment.

He relaxed a little and thought how good it would be to be back in the States after the hectic times of the last three weeks. He had been an instructor pilot on 17s at Renolds Training Field outside Dallas, Texas. The orders from Washington had swept up the best men in the training squadron to be crew members