Ram's Horn: Jim Colling Adventure Series III

Ram’s Horn

Copyright © 2008 Robert McCurdy

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedicated, to everyone who has enjoyed my efforts at telling Jim Colling’s story, and who has been looking forward to finding out what happens to him after Rat Line.

And once again, to my wife, Margie, who remains my best critic.

Prologue

July, 1949

In theory, Gyori Abramov knew what to expect, but his senses were not prepared for the miniature sun created by the nuclear explosion. He felt a twinge of embarrassment at having not been able to control the sudden reflexive reaction that left him feeling as if he had jumped out of his skin. Most of his professional life had been spent exploring how to release the energy locked within the atomic nucleus, and he knew he should not have been startled by the success of his efforts.

Abramov had seen the American newsreels, of course, showing mountainous mushroom clouds of rising smoke. But the clear white wave of light had not, and perhaps could not, be accurately portrayed by the camera. He was momentarily both stunned and fascinated, spots dancing before his eyes, despite the dark lenses of the protective goggles. Within moments, his ears were assaulted by the wall of sound that followed on the heels of the flash, and he felt himself taking a step backward, despite the thick pane of glass that covered the concrete observation bunker’s narrow window.

When the shock wave had passed, and as his vision cleared, he recognized that his fellow scientists were dancing up and down, clapping one another on the back, speaking loudly to compensate for their momentary loss of hearing, congratulating one another. Success meant that The Great Leader would be pleased, and that honors and rewards were sure to follow. Abrameff noticed that Director and First Scientist Kurchatov was not present, and guessed that the head of the laboratory had already taken upon himself the honor of relaying the news of their success to Moscow.

Marakov, the MVD general who oversaw security for the research facility, was watching the celebration with an uncharacteristic grin on his face. The State Security Service officer had never disguised his opinion that the staff of Laboratory Number Two was pampered with living quarters and food about which the average Soviet citizen could only dream. Abramov doubted that Marakov’s disposition would improve should Moscow, as expected, grant even more privileges to the white-coated men that were milling around in the bunker.

Abramov was always nervous in Marakov’s presence, causing a slight trembling to overtake him whenever the MVD officer paid particular attention to his existence, even if that notice consisted only of an icy glance. In addition to the general’s overtly intimidating behavior, the physicist had heard the man voice his opinion about Jews on more than one occasion. Marakov often reminisced how his father and grandfather had known how to deal with Jews, organizing a Pogrom every once in awhile to keep the Yids in their place. Many of the researchers and technicians were Jewish, and Abramov was not the only one who was wary of the MVD officer.

Despite the successful detonation of the nuclear weapon, one nagging concern that Abramov could not shake off was that their success in developing the bomb could just as well be the undoing of himself and his fellow Jewish scientists. Stalin was known for being capricious, and there was no telling what might result from some sudden change in his mood, especially if he came to believe that the loyalty of the large research staff would be improved by eliminating some of its Jewish complement.

Abramov had not shared his thoughts with his friends, even though recent events seemed to increase the likelihood that he would be proven correct. A newcomer to the facility had brought news that The Great Leader had recently charged his physicians with treason. Stalin’s paranoia was being fed by whispers from Beria, his chief of state security, pointing out that the doctors were all Jews, and hence part of a Zionist plot to poison him.

Marakov was still smiling and joking with his aides, and it was likely that the MVD officer would be receiving another medal or two to add to the impressive array that already filled the breast of his dress uniform jacket. If the general were truly fortunate, he would be transferred to Moscow from this remote posting to Kazakstan, and given a dacha outside the city. But then, mused Abramov, his replacement might be equally anti-Semitic and dangerous, or worse...if that were possible.

Small glasses of vodka were being served, and Abramov took one from the tray that was thrust towards him. Instead of tipping it up and draining it as everyone else seemed to be doing, Abramov delayed, wanting to keep his mind clear. It was difficult to say whether it was the full tumbler in his hand, or his quiet demeanor amidst the tumult, that attracted the attention of a fellow Jewish physicist, David Siymon, who pushed his way to Abramov’s side. You do not drink, Gyori? This is a great day! Now our Motherland is for certain a match for the Americans.

True, David, it is a great day, said Abramov. No doubt we shall all be rewarded for our efforts.

True enough, my friend. I shall ask for a larger flat, with a third child on the way, even our two-bedroom place is too small.

Abramov replied, You shall have mine. I have expected, since Velya’s death, that I would be told to give up our quarters to someone with the need for more space.

I forget, Gyori, that you still grieve, said Siymon, consolation evident in his tone of voice, And I understand why you remain quiet on such a wonderful day. They will find you an ample place, I am certain.

I can think of no one more deserving than yourself, David, my friend. I will mention this to Karpov in the morning.

But what will you seek for yourself, Gyori? asked Siymon.

I have thought of this, that if things went well with the test, that I would ask for time for a holiday on the Black Sea. Velya and I went there long ago, before the war.

One of the other scientists appeared at Siymon’s elbow, announcing that busses were waiting to return everyone to the research complex from the test range, and that a celebration was being organized in the dining hall. As his colleagues filed from the bunker, Abramov was the last to leave. Before doing so, he placed his still-untouched vodka on a tray filled with empty glasses.

Satisfied that everyone else would be preoccupied with the loud celebration in the dining hall, Abramov went to the office he shared with two other physicists. If and when Karpov, the station director, granted his request for leave to visit the resort on the Crimean coast that he had selected, the files that he intended to take with him had to be complete.

He sat down and typed a summary of his observations about the nuclear test that he had just witnessed. A carbon copy of his work was added to the thick folder of documents that the physicist kept hidden in the back of a filing cabinet. He had concealed the file among the folders that contained information that was now obsolete, long since superceded by later research or information supplied by the MVD’s sources inside the atomic bomb projects of the United States and Great Britain.

Gathering the materials had been difficult. No single member of the staff was supposed to know about the work done by others. Only Kurchatov, the head of the project, and a handful in the Kremlin were authorized to have access to everything. But Abramov had been with the laboratory from the beginning, when they had been housed in a farm house outside Moscow, and he had been willing to step in whenever an additional pair of hands, a willingness to work long hours, or a fresh outlook, was needed. He had also taken advantage of the rapport that existed between himself and his fellow Jewish scientists. The relationship had afforded him the ability to actively participate in discussion and work outside his own narrow field. The general disdain in which Jews were held by the Soviet leadership created a kind of isolation that served to cement a confidential relationship in which even Party members who were Jewish could be counted on to keep their counsel.

Abramov was certain that the information he had compiled was enough to permit any reasonably well-equipped facility to construct an atomic bomb, so long as uranium could be obtained. What was important was to get the file to the right people.

Aside from being certain of his ultimate objective, and that he must achieve his immediate goal of obtaining permission to go on holiday on the Black Sea, he had no clear plan of what intermediate steps he would have to take; or be able to take, for that matter.

The Crimean rest spa he had chosen had been reopened soon after the Germans were driven out, one of the few places in the Soviet Union with access to a sea shore where one might enjoy a swim. On the other side of the Black Sea was Turkey, and he imagined that once he were at the water’s edge, it might be possible to find a way to cross. He mentally rehearsed what he would say when he asked Karpov for approval to go on holiday.

He was aware that if his intentions were to be found out, his life was forfeit. But with Velya gone, he was indifferent to his own death, and with the help of the cyanide capsule that had been issued to him when he was assigned to Laboratory Number Two, he was confident that it would be painless. His only regret was that if he were arrested, the file would not be delivered to those who would need it most.

Chapter 1

May, 1948

Fourteen Months Earlier

The person that Jim Colling had least expected to see on the eve of his wedding was Elizabeth Hamilton. She had been waiting for him in the outpatient dispensary when he returned from lunch in the mess hall of the 511th General Hospital. Fortunately, Colling’s superior officer, Lieutenant Maldron, had taken the afternoon off to play golf with some of her fellow nurses at one of the courses that the Army maintained in the Munich area. This fortunately meant that he would not have to contend with the awkward presence of someone else at a reunion with Elizabeth, if it could be called that.

Nevertheless, here she was, standing in front of him, as lovely as ever. She was wearing a stylish navy blue suit, white gloves and a small fashionable hat that Colling knew she would have selected in order to set off her blonde good looks.

Her first words to him when he walked in on her had been, Hi, Jim. Remember me?

Colling had hesitated, contemplating how he should respond. For a long time, he had felt nothing but bitterness over the manner in which Elizabeth had chosen to end their relationship. He had finally come to accept the fact that she probably never reciprocated the feelings that he had once felt for her. It had taken months before he was able to recognize that nothing that he had done was the cause of her actions. She had led him on, and then had not had the honesty to make a clean break when she knew he was not what she wanted.

Now, seeing her again, Colling struggled to appear detached as he asked, Liz, what’re you doing in Germany? Last I knew, you were in the States.

Elizabeth smiled as she said, Just visiting. My husband had to meet with some people in Naples, and our flight had an overnight stop here in Munich. I heard you were going to get married, and thought I’d drop by and say hello.

Well, Liz, it’s good to see you again, said Colling, conscious that he was mouthing a meaningless, clichéd greeting that was a substitute for honesty. I hadn’t heard that you’d gotten married yourself. Congratulations.

There was a pause, which Colling attributed to the insincerity of his response. He was searching for something else to say that would be non-committal when Elizabeth said, I heard that your future bride is German.

You heard right. Her name is Veronika. You must have been talking to Quarles.

Who else, Jim? Andrew keeps me posted, said Elizabeth, with a smile.

Her response could not have been more irritating to Colling. Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Quarles was an Army intelligence officer for whom Colling and Elizabeth had performed some services during the three years that Colling had been in Germany. Elizabeth always seemed to use Quarles’ first name when speaking of him, hinting at an intimacy. Her doing so caused Colling to suspect that she did so either not caring, or not recognizing, the discomfort it caused Colling.

It was through Elizabeth that Colling had become acquainted with Quarles. He had met Elizabeth in the fall of 1945, when she was a Red Cross volunteer, and he a young private soldier, recently-arrived in Occupied Germany. Colling had been taken with her at first sight, and she had seemed interested in him. In retrospect, Colling suspected that her interest was based on her discovering that he was able to speak both German and Polish fluently.

It had not been long before she talked him into going with her to Soviet-occupied Poland to rescue what she had described as one of her relatives. Colling’s infatuation with Elizabeth had overcome his better judgment, and he had done as she asked, even going so far as to pass himself off as an American second lieutenant, at the risk of being court-martialed for impersonating an officer.

Things had not gone as Elizabeth had planned, and it had taken months for them to escape from behind the Iron Curtain. Afterwards, he had learned that she had been working for Quarles all along as an intelligence operative, and that her so-called relatives were actually scientists whom the United States government wanted for work on the development of nuclear weapons.

Colling had naively believed that once the rescue mission was concluded, he and Elizabeth would continue to be involved with one-another, and that once he was discharged from the Army, that marriage would follow. She had not said nor done anything to indicate that his expectations might be overly-ambitious, or that she might have had other plans.

He had returned to the infantry battalion in which he was serving, and she had been assigned elsewhere. But as time passed, her letters had come with less and less frequency, until they ceased altogether, and Colling had resigned himself to the realization that their relationship no longer existed, if it ever had.

But just as Colling came to believe he had reconciled himself to the end of their relationship, he was shocked to read that she had been killed in a jeep accident. When he attempted to discover the details of her death, he began to suspect that the crash had been fabricated, leading him to confront Quarles with his suspicions. The intelligence officer had reluctantly disclosed that Elizabeth had been arrested by the Soviets while on another mission in Poland.

Quarles had tried to dissuade him, but Colling had set out on his own to rescue Elizabeth, and had, against the odds, succeeded. During weeks of flight across Poland, evading their Soviet pursuers, their intimacy had been reestablished. He had come to believe that she did love him, and he had gone so far as to openly discuss marriage with her.

After reaching safety in the British Zone of Germany, they were separated for a second time. Colling went back to his military assignment, while Elizabeth returned to the States. As before, she stopped writing after a time, and Colling had to re-experience another round of angry self-recrimination and convince himself once again that their relationship was never meant to be.

In the months that followed, he had met and fallen in love with Veronika Schönenberg, whom he would marry in just four days.

Colling maintained his composure as he asked Elizabeth, You still doing work for Quarles?

Not for awhile. I did some interview and analysis for Army intelligence in Fort Belvoir, after we got back from Poland. Andrew didn’t want me coming back to Europe until the dust settled. How about you?

Colling wondered if Quarles had confined his discussion of his recent activities with Elizabeth to his wedding plans, and relying on the likelihood that the intelligence officer would have been discreet regarding official matters, replied, A couple of things. Not too important.

Andrew did say that the Reds have got a price on your head.

I suppose so, said Colling, They tend to hold a grudge. But you know that. The Reds still believe you’re dead?

I hope so. No sign yet that they figured out I’m not. You going to work for Andrew when your enlistment’s up? That happens next month, doesn’t it?

Colling replied, He offered me a commission, tried to get me to stay, but I told him I’m headed back to Wisconsin. I want to finish college at Madison, then go back to Bel Cors and help my dad run his drugstore.

Elizabeth’s expression was positively feline as she asked, And what does little Veronika have to say about that? Andrew says she’s strictly upper-class, rich family, very cosmopolitan. How’s she going to like living in a little place like Bel Cors, let alone spend a couple of years in dreary student housing while you spend all your time studying?

What irritated Colling more than her reference to little Veronika, was the fact that Elizabeth had voiced thoughts that had plagued Colling ever since he had asked Veronika to marry him. His voice rose as said, First, don’t call her little Veronika. Second, she knows what she’s getting into. We’ll get along just fine.

Sorry, Jim. I didn’t mean to get your dander up, replied Elizabeth, still smiling. Maybe I’m just a little bit jealous. The sly smile broadened as she took a step closer and softly asked, Is she as good as we were together, Jim?

Colling was taken aback by the audacity of the question, and sarcastically responded with a question of his own, What’s your husband’s name, Liz? Is it as good with him as it was between us?

Her laugh was unexpected. His name is Harold Woodward Stone, and he’s fifteen years older than I am. And Jim, at the risk of over-inflating your masculine ego, nobody can top you.

Elizabeth’s comment was so unexpected that Colling was momentarily taken aback. Deciding that it would be best to avoid the subject of their previous love-making, he asked, Why did you come here, Liz? Certainly, it can’t be that you just wanted to tell me you missed me.

On the contrary, Jim, I have missed you. But you’re right, I do have another reason for wanting to talk to you. My husband is involved in some business dealings in the Middle East. There are a lot of refugees from Europe, and someone like you, who can speak Polish, as well as German, would be a big help to us.

The only type of refugees that Colling could think of that would fit Elizabeth’s description were ex-concentration inmates headed for the new State of Israel that was supposed to be created within the next week or so.

These ‘refugees’ wouldn’t happen to be Jews, would they? he asked.

Elizabeth paused, studying him for a moment, I didn’t know you had anything against Jews, Jim.

I don’t, but why beat around the bush? Everyone knows that Jews are flocking to what used to be Palestine. The Brits have been trying to keep them out since the war ended, but now that they’re going to have a country of their own, the doors will be open. I don’t see how I can be of any help, even if I wanted to.

There’s all kinds of things going on, Jim. I can’t talk about them, but someone with your experience would be useful.

Liz, I’m about to get married. The Arabs have been promising that when the British leave, and Israel becomes a reality, that they’re going to wipe them out. Why the hell would I want to get myself in the middle of that?

You may be in the middle of another war right here, Jim. The Russians are acting up, demanding we get out of Berlin, and that could blow up into a full-fledged war.

Colling had traveled to Berlin for Quarles a few months previously, and had seen for himself how the Soviets harassed and obstructed American military convoys that had to cross the Russian Zone to reach the city. He was unable to argue with the point Elizabeth was making. Based on what he had observed, it was altogether possible that the Red Army tanks could soon be rolling into the American and British Zones. A year earlier, he would have wagered that America’s unilateral possession of the atomic bomb would make Stalin pause before invading the West, but now he was not so certain.

Unable to contradict what Elizabeth had said, Colling replied, In two weeks, Liz, I should be in the States. A week after that, I’m out of the Army. If the Reds can hold off for just a little bit, I won’t have to worry about it.

You’re right, Jim. But if it comes to a war, things will get very ugly, and they’ll have you back in uniform in a flash.

Maybe so, said Colling, But it’ll be an American war, and not something going on at the far end of the Mediterranean. I’ll take my chances with what I know, thanks.

Elizabeth was no longer smiling as she said, Andrew says you enjoy a challenge. The British are holding some people that we would like to have freed....

Before she could finish, Colling interrupted, shaking his head, Oh, no. Uh-uh! You want me to go up against the Brits? I was willing to get you and some others away from the Russians, but anybody imprisoned by the Brits probably deserves it. Besides, if they’re in jail in Palestine, the Brits are leaving in a couple of weeks, and they’ll be turned loose anyway. Forget it.

There could be some money in it for you, Jim.

Colling smiled derisively, There isn’t enough to make me change my mind, Liz. Like I said, forget it.

The sound of someone knocking on the dispensary’s doorframe caused Colling to turn around. A soldier wearing fatigues was holding up one hand, wrapped in a bloody make-shift bandage. Sir, they sent me here to have this looked at.

Colling was wearing a white medic’s jacket over a tailor-made khaki uniform, so that his rank insignia was not visible, and it was obvious that the man had assumed that Colling was an officer.

No need to call me ‘sir,’ said Colling, I’m a tech-four, all I’ve got are three stripes on my sleeves.

Sorry, sir...I mean, Sarge.

Colling ushered the injured man to a chair and asked him what had happened.

Got my hand caught in a fan belt in a deuce-and-a-half that I was working on.

When Colling removed the towel that had been used to wrap the wound, he found a four-inch long laceration at the base of the index finger. Blood was oozing, indicating that blood vessels were probably intact, but whether there was injury to muscle was impossible to determine. Complicating things was the layer of dirty black grease covering the soldier’s hand.

What’s your name? asked Colling.

Jensen, Sarge. George Jensen...Private George Jensen, sir...I mean, Sarge.

Colling was wiping the grease away as gently as possible, What outfit?

Four-twenty-third, Sarge. Motor transport.

Well, Jensen, I’m going to try and clean up your hand. To get the grease off, I have to use gasoline, but just enough to get it cleaned off. It looks like you need stitches. If a nurse was here, she could okay me sewing you up, but she isn’t, so once we get this cut cleaned up, I’m going to have to take you over to the Casualty Ward and have one of the docs look at you.

Colling was conscious that Elizabeth was watching him, and as he looked under the sink for the small bottle of gasoline that was kept for cases like Jensen’s, Colling asked, Jensen, you speak Polish?

No sir, I mean, Sarge.

Colling used a sterile pad dampened with a small amount of gasoline to swab around the laceration. As he did so, he spoke to Elizabeth in Polish, It seems we have nothing more to say. I cannot do as you ask.

Elizabeth responded in the same language, So it seems. I wish you happiness in your marriage.

I trust you will not be present in the church?

No. The airplane departs in the morning.

That is good. May the Saints go with you and your husband.

And with you may it be the same, said Elizabeth, and before Colling realized it, she had stepped close and given him a quick kiss on the cheek. She was at the door when she turned and spoke English, Good luck to you, Private Jensen. Jim...I mean, the sergeant, will take good care of you, and she was gone.

Your girlfriend is real good-looking, commented Jensen.

Not my girlfriend, Jensen. That was Ginger Rogers’ sister, Beverly. She’s here with Ginger on a USO tour. I met both of ‘em in Hollywood when I was in pictures, before I got drafted.

Jensen was wide-eyed, Gosh, Sarge, I didn’t know Ginger Rogers was Polish.

Yep. Not many people know that the family name is ‘Rogerski.’

As Colling pushed Jensen in a wheelchair to the Casualty Ward, the soldier kept up a steady stream of questions about Ginger Rogers, which Colling refused to answer with the excuse that the motion picture star valued her privacy. Colling turned him over to one of the doctors, who could not conceal his pleasure at the fact that Colling had saved him from having to remove motor pool grease and grime before the wound could be sutured.

It was Friday, and except for handing out bottles of aspirin to two NCO’s who came complaining of headaches, the remainder of the afternoon in the outpatient dispensary was quiet. As he cleaned and restocked the clinic’s shelves and filed medical records, Colling’s thoughts were on Elizabeth’s visit, and he found himself comparing her to the woman he would be marrying in just four days.

In contrast to Elizabeth’s blonde hair, Veronika’s was dark, almost black. While Colling could never be sure of Elizabeth, he was always certain that Veronika meant what she said. And while there had been an immediate mutual attraction between himself and Elizabeth, his first encounter with Veronika had not been as propitious.

They had met as a result of Colling’s accepting the task of finding housing for Colonel Barrowsmith, his commanding officer at the 511th. One of Colling’s German contacts had informed him that a large house in the Nymphenberg suburb of Munich might be available. When he had arrived at what turned out to be a mansion, the young woman who answered the door did not hide her adverse opinion regarding American soldiers. Colling learned that he was speaking with Fräulein Veronika Schönenberg, whose parents were the owners. Her impression of him seemed to improve when he was able to arrange for the colonel and his wife to rent her parents’ house for more than the Schönenbergs were being forced to accept from the UN relief agency to house refugees.

Meeting Veronika had coincided with Colling’s finally reconciling himself to the end of any relationship with Elizabeth. He had found himself unable to stop thinking about the attractive Fräulein Schönenberg, and he decided to actively pursue her. Eventually, as their relationship became more serious, he came to realize the depth of his feelings for her, and she had agreed when he asked her to marry him.

The wedding was to take place on Tuesday. Mike Hardesty, the other tech-four with whom Colling shared his quarters, had consented to stand with him as best man. The church ceremony would follow the civil proceedings at the marriage bureau office. Colling had purchased the ring from a little jewelry shop near the center of the city, and his best uniform was cleaned and pressed. Veronika and her mother, under the directorial assistance of Mrs. Barrowsmith, seemed to be spending every waking minute with preparations. It appeared to Colling that Mrs. Barrowsmith was taking particular pleasure in having assumed such a responsibility, undoubtedly because she and Colonel Barrowsmith had raised only sons.

Colling’s travel orders to the States had come through a few days earlier, directing him to report to Wilhelmshaven on May 26, where he would board the troopship Walter Templeton for New York. With only two weeks between the wedding and his departure, government transportation for Veronika would not be available for 60 to 90 days. Rather than Veronika remaining in Germany, Colling had purchased a ticket for her on one of the new TWA Constellations, so that she would arrive at LaGuardia on June 8, one day after he was due to be discharged. Through some family friends of the Schönenbergs who lived in New York City, reservations had been made at the Plaza for Veronika, where Colling would join her before they took the train to Wisconsin.

Colling had not received his separation orders, and Master Sergeant Gayle, the hospital’s senior NCO, had informed him that he should receive them on ship-board. Gayle speculated that Colling would muster out either at Fort Hamilton, in New York City, or be bussed to Fort Dix, in New Jersey, for discharge.

The money for Veronika’s airline ticket and the hotel accommodations had come from the more than $18,000 in cash that Colling had accumulated during his stay in Germany. Much of it had come from Quarles for expenses and compensation for the confidential work that he had done for the intelligence officer. A fair amount, however, had been derived from Colling’s dealings in war souvenirs, tailored uniforms, and small loans to his fellow soldiers, as well as other transactions that ranged from questionable to clearly illegal. In addition, Colling had not drawn all of his pay every month, and his soldier’s account had a balance of a few hundred dollars which he would receive with his final pay and travel voucher to Milwaukee, where he had been sworn into the Army in 1945.

Despite having a summary court martial on his record for being absent without leave during the months spent in Poland to rescue Elizabeth, Colling had quickly regained the rank of tech-four that he had held before the infraction, and Colonel Barrowsmith had assured him that he would receive an honorable discharge. That meant that Colling’s eligibility for educational benefits under the GI Bill seemed to be secure, allowing him to look forward to receiving financial support during his final two years of college.

Colling heard the recorded bugle call sounding Retreat coming from the hospital’s loudspeakers, signaling the end of the Army work day. He took one final look around the dispensary before locking up and heading to the parking lot. The Army had recently decided that enlisted personnel in Germany could be authorized to keep and operate their own motor vehicles, and Colling was driving Veronika’s KdF Wagen. He had been doing so for some weeks, although until the regulation came through that made what was common practice