Starke and the Gold of Aguinarva
Chapter 1
Kommandant Orlov swept away the warm, sticky sweat that dribbled down his wrinkled brow, cursing to himself as the burning Spanish sun blasted down, scorching his ageing body. How he hated Spain, with its heat, humidity and mosquitoes, how he longed for the day when he could return to the wonderful clean, white snow of Mother Russia.
His wearied mind wandered back to when he received this cursed assignment, bringing a wry smile to his face, as he remembered the seriousness of his conversation with Comrade Stalin, and his invitation to serve the Soviet Union on foreign soil. Orlov, of course, had displayed his sternest, and most determined face, anxious not to show any excitement at his leader's orders, for to show enthusiasm to Stalin was tantamount to saying 'Pick someone else and send me to Siberia!' Now, however, he regretted that early enthusiasm, for he was expected to count boxes onto a ship, and woe betide him if any went missing.
Being in Cartagena itself wasn’t that bad, as it gave him an opportunity to enjoy the well tended gardens of the city, all suitably contained within the traditional dry stone walls that so characterised the area. Time had, however, taken its toll upon the city, resulting in the majority of those gardens sporting fruit and vegetables rather than flowers; after all, there was a civil war just 200 miles away.
Unfortunately, even in Orlov's industrial mind, the beauty of those gardens only stretched across the outskirts of the city, for it was a city that was dominated by its port. As a result Cartagena was blessed with a series of extremely large, towering, bright red, proletarian cranes that sprawled across the dockyards, dominating the city skyline with their twisted arms. They were giants of industrial might, the strength that Cartagena was built upon, a city that depended upon those rising ironworks that were silhouetted high above the squat, whitewashed dwellings that were the meagre homes of the local Spanish peasants.
Once more Orlov could hear the dockworkers arguing over something, squabbling like a bunch of naughty school children on an outing, his suspicious mind irritated by the fact that he could not understand what was being said, his paranoia forcing him to believe that he was the subject of the discussion. He was, of course, totally wrong in his interpretation, as the three men involved were actually discussing whether bull fighting or football was a better sport to watch.
The three, exhaustingly long days of just watching the laboriously slow, and to his mind lazy, Spanish dockers, carrying their loads onto the large, rusting hulk of the Sovyetska Komossol was beginning to take his toll. The work itself was simple enough, all he had to do was slowly, and deliberately count the padlocked iron boxes that were being heaved up the slender wooden gangplank. He mind wandered constantly, as he considered whether those same dockworkers realised what they were doing. Then again, how could they possibly know that they were in the process of removing all the gold of the Spanish nation, and shipping it to the deep, dark vaults under the Kremlin. He chuckled quietly to himself, heartened by the fact that at the end of the day it would be his country that would eventually benefit from this laborious exercise.
He gazed dispassionately as the unfortunate workers strained to lift the last few crates from the final truck, blissfully unaware that they were carrying enough gold to keep a small nation going for years.
For this tiny moment Orlov just watched, wondering how these Spaniards could possibly be related to the Soviet dockers back home, surely his erstwhile comrades in Odessa did not behave like their Spanish counterparts; Stalin would have them shot if they did! His thoughts, however, were disturbed by Mendez-Aspe, the Spanish Republican Government's representative, who understood only too well what was going on, and watched in disgust at the unfolding events. The hefty Spaniard approached Orlov, grimacing at the sight of the Russian KGB man that stood directly across the gangplank, purposely scouring Orlov's wearied face with his black, beady and untrusting eyes.
“That’s the last of them by my reckoning…” declared Mendez-Aspe, his civil words tainted by the innate sourness that dominated his face, distorted by the shame of seeing his country's wealth, which had been so carefully stolen from the Americas, being taken in turn by a bunch of Asiatic conquistadors in the name of socialism.
“What’s your count?” returned Orlov, keeping to the job in hand, with his hardened, totalitarian manner, showing no sign of emotion in his voice.
“2900, just as it should be …yours?”
Orlov looked at his ink stained list, cross checking his figures, making sure that he had not miscalculated. No, there was no doubt about it, only fifty six trucks had unloaded, which meant that one hundred bars of gold were missing. That, he quickly realised, was a massive problem. To begin with there was the question of what should he do now? His mind whirled in dilemma, he could ask for the ship to be unloaded and recounted, but the dockers would probably lynch him. Once more he crossed checked his numbers, unfortunately they stubbornly remained at 2800. He could always show the deficit on the paperwork? Then again, Stalin would have him shot, he trusted nobody to start with and this would be like a Spanish red rag to a Soviet bull. Should he say nothing? A wiser course, he thought to himself, if he was right then the Captain would get the blame, and if the final truck full of gold arrived before he returned to Madrid, he would say nothing and become a very wealthy man! Yes, let the Captain's family be called traitors and Trotskyites! Let him be the one to get tortured and shot! Orlov’s conspirital mind cleared in an instant, with any guilt pushed so far into the back of his head that it could never surface again. Guilt was for weaklings, and Orlov was anything but weak, as survival in the KGB was impossible for anyone who dared to have feelings. Orlov, however, did not do 'emotion', which gave him the freedom to allow a wry grin to refill his tanned, wrinkled, moustached face.
“2900 Crates! Lets get this paperwork signed then it’s out of our hands!” he grandly announced, taking Mendez–Aspe totally by surprise, as Orlov had treated him with nothing but a simple, undisguised combination of scorn, contempt and distain throughout the previous three days work.
Twenty minutes later the papers were signed, the poor, unsuspecting Captain had accepted them and Orlov calmly headed out of the docks to find a nice young Señorita to play with. His work here was complete and any blame was now passed smoothly and calmly on to the unfortunate, and ultimately innocent Skipper, who was unknowingly setting sail to the Black Sea port of Odessa.
* * *
Flying Officer Starke grinned like the proverbial Cheshire cat as he pushed the nose of his Spitfire forward, rapidly diving through the thickening clouds, intent on strafing the cold, grey English Channel below. He calmly glanced at his altimeter, watching it spin anti clockwise at an alarming rate. Starke, however, was never worried, for as always he was acutely aware of his cut off point, where the choice between climbing or death had to be taken. As usual, he took the aircraft to its limit, dragging the stick backwards at the very last possible moment, raising the aircraft's speeding nose to reveal the cloud speckled sky above him, as the downdraft of his Spitfire disturbing the waves below, the Spitfire was now climbing upwards at 320 miles per hour leaving the cold, iron grey channel far below him.
Starke had always loved flying, and everything associated with taking to the air. It was an affliction had been induced as a child on his native Tyneside, where he spent an inordinate amount of time at the cinema, watching the newsreels for no other reason than seeing the Schneider Trophy wins by the Supermarine Factory. That was way back in 1927, and to be allowed to fly the ultimate descendent of those wonderful aircraft in the form of the RAF’s brand new fighter was a dream come true. His day dream, however, was brutally broken by the cackling in his ears, as Air Traffic Control, or ATC as they were known in the Force, sought to get his attention.
“Red Leader, Red Leader, acknowledge your position…” declared the ATC annoyingly, in an instant spoiling Starke's fun.
“Angels 5000, Bearing 2900, 5 miles south of Beachy Head,” he dutifully responded, although why he should have to answer to somebody who wasn’t even a trained pilot he did not know.
“Roger that Red Leader. Return to Base, your presence is required. “
“Why?” responded Starke, “What have I done now?”
“No idea Red Leader, I’m just passing on the message.”
“On my way, do I have a clear run?”
“You do, you’re the only one up at the moment. Do you have a bearing?”
“Affirmative.” Who did that ATC think he was, grumbled Starke to himself. Do I have a bearing…of course I do, I’m the only one that knows where I am!
The green-grey Spitfire swooped serenely north as Starke eased the stick forwards and towards his right leg, bringing the Spitfire down through the clouds to almost treetop level, he was heading for home but that wasn’t going to spoil his fun.
* * *
The wrinkled, smiling face of Jack Walters greeted Starke as his Merlin engine slowed to a halt. Jack always smiled when he saw his charge return intact, as he cherished working on the Spitfire almost as much as Starke did flying it, always reminding Starke that it was his aircraft and that the young Flying Officer was only having a 'lend' of it for a couple of hours.
“What’s going on Jack?” said Starke, hoping that his ageing ground crew chief would know something, which to be fair, he normally did.
“No idea Boss,” chirped Jack, “all I know is that a Staff car came on Station and that old Winnie is in with him now.”
“Thanks for nothing!” grinned Starke as he turned as he climbed onto the Spitfires metal wing.
“All part of the service Boss!” retorted Jack, with a familiarity that was borne out of mutual respect.
Squadron Leader James Bartholomew Winship always claimed to be a First World War veteran, who was more inclined towards a Sopwith Camel than a top of the range Spitfire. Of course, he was no such thing, having entered the service on his twenty third birthday in 1923, but he was old enough to have fought, and his stories were always fun. His heart, however, was in the right place, and he understood the need for technical superiority if his pilots were to have any chance of surviving in the next war, and he was always willing to listen to any new idea that might save the life of any of his men. He had not expected any visitors that morning, least of all a visit from a high ranking officer! Fortunately, he had been in the process of inspecting the Guardhouse when the Officer had arrived, so if nothing else he had appeared efficient.
Starke bounded towards the only brick building on the Station, heading directly for Winnie’s office, his flying gear causing him to stomp around like some demented walrus caught in the desert. His six foot frame carried him rapidly across the grass covered aerodrome, the last remnants of early morning dew wetting the toes of his flying boots as they swept through the miniature forest beneath him. Without so much as a pause, he forced his way through the office door, totally oblivious to the desperate attempts of the poor Airman, who tried in vain to defend the oak filled entrance into the office.
“You asked to see me Sir!” declared Starke as he entered the room, suddenly aware that there was an Officer that he did not recognise behind the desk and, more importantly, that the man's arms were alarmingly decorated with the narrow black and blue bands that declared he was a Vice Air Marshal.
“And you are?”
Starke froze, suddenly aware that he was breaking a thousand protocols by entering the way he had, so quickly re-gathering his wits he ram-rodded to attention. He focussed his attention on the Officer before him, noting that the jowls of his cheeks complimented his portly body. The man was clean shaven, which Starke thought was a mistake, as it emphasised the fatness of his face, detracting from the military air that an Officer of his rank was supposed to exude. He tried to read the face in front of him, and then hoped that he would never have to play poker against such a man, as his corpulent face was giving nothing away.
“Starke Sir, Flying Officer Starke”
A burst of laughter from behind him made him realise that he had been set up; he recognised the guffaw in an instant, which was not surprising as he had heard it blasted out virtually every night in the Officers Mess, but who was the man behind the desk?
“Sorry Starke!” cried Winnie, still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, “I just couldn’t resist it, what! Meet an old friend of mine, Vice Air Marshal Goodwin, who I believe would like a little word with you.”
“Relax Starke,” responded Goodwin, well aware of the effect that the top brass had on the rest of the RAF, “and sit down I need to ask you something.”
Starke slipped into the soft leather chair facing the Vice Air Marshal, feeling the contrast in texture, as it enveloped his limbs, and he mentally compared it to the hardness that characterised his Spitfire, his preference was clear, he would take his Spitfire every time!
“Why did you join the RAF Starke?” enquired Goodwin.
“To fly and protect my country Sir.” he responded, with the standard, dutiful answer.
“Even though we are at peace?”
“Especially when we’re at peace. We need to be ready to fight if we’re to keep it that way.”
“I thought as much,” grinned Goodwin,”so how do you feel about active service?”
“Perk of the job Sir.”
“Good, so how would you like to do some?”
“Show me where to go Sir.”
“Even if it meant not being able to tell anybody where you have been?”
Starke shrugged, indicating that he was not bothered in the least by this.
“Even if it means that if you get caught we will deny all knowledge of your existence?”
Now he was intrigued, what could Goodwin be hinting at?
“Even then Sir!” he dutifully replied, staring directly into Goodwin's eyes, hoping for some glint of information that never came.
“Winnie tells me you’re his top pilot...”
“So he should Sir,” agreed Starke, the answer was arrogant, but the manner that he delivered it was not, Starke knew he was good, and was not afraid to tell the world about it, otherwise, what would be the point of being good? His response, however, had little effect other than raising a smile on Winnie's face.
“...and that you can fly anything.”
“Yes Sir, if it has wings then I can handle it!” responded Starke confidently.
“Good, good.” smiled Goodwin, before changing the direction of his questioning. “What do you know about gold?”
“Yellow stuff that everybody wants and very few bodies get.”
“A simple definition but a true one,” commented Goodwin, “and what about Spain?”
“Spain?”
“Yes Starke, the Vice Air Marshal said Spain” commented Winnie.
“The last I heard they were shooting at each other for fun, along with the Eyeties, Krauts and Ruskies.”
“Very good!” exclaimed Goodwin, “nice to know our flyers read the papers!”
“So what has this to do with gold Sir?”
“Three years ago the real Spanish Government shipped all the gold they had to Russia, something to do with keeping it from …” Goodwin paused, staring into space, trying to remember what he was going to say, the strain causing his brow to involuntarily wrinkle, “…Good God Winship, what’s that Deigo’s name?”
“Franco Sir”
“That’s it! Franco, damn silly name for a General that, how are you supposed to rally the troops with that sort of name?”
“And?” queried Starke, nonplussed by Goodwin’s forgetfulness.
“Sorry young man, I digress, bloody awful with names!” laughed Goodwin, fully aware that nobody could complain at his lack of memory, “anyway, around about £2,000,000 worth went missing!”
“£2,000,000!”
“Yes, and that’s in Sterling, not any of that funny money that they use, £2,000,000 in solid gold.”
“That’s a lot of gold. So where do I fit in?”
“To put it simply, we want you to fly to Spain, load it up and bring it back.”
“Fair enough, but Spain’s a big country and my Spitfire doesn’t have the range or capacity for such a mission.”
“Which is why you're going to switch to Blenheims.”
“WHAT! I spend all those years training to be a fighter pilot and you want to stick me into some new transport plane!” cried Starke, climbing involuntarily from his seat.
“Calm down Starke!” ordered Winnie, with a sternness in his voice that totally surprised Starke. Maybe there was more to Winnie than Starke had previously realised.
“It’s alright Group Captain, I can understand where he is coming from, used to be a fighter pilot myself once” Goodwin looked at Starke, staring into his eyes, ”listen to me, the Blenheim is the fastest fighter–bomber on the planet, it isn’t even officially in service yet. I need someone who can fly it to its utmost, I need the best, and everyone I have asked have sent me in one direction and that is to you. Remember, you will be the very first to take the kite into active service, and we need her back in one piece. Do you understand?”
“Yes Sir.” responded a subdued Starke, still unconvinced about his change in role. ”So nobody else can do it?”
“Good, and no, nobody else. We tried to get Bigglesworth, but he was too busy with another mission.”
“Bigglesworth? The name rings a bell. However, I have two questions Sir…”
“Yes...”
“Will I be returning to Spitfires after the mission?”
“You can take your pick for the rest of your career, young man.”
“Good.”
“You said two questions?”
“Hmm, how do I know where the gold is?”
“We have someone on the inside who will lead you straight to it!”
“In that case I’ll do it,” agreed Starke cautiously, “but I want to select my own crew.”
“Good man! Select the crew? Consider it yours!” agreed a rapturous Goodwin, “Oh, I almost forgot to mention that the Spanish Rebels, the Italians and the Germans are also after the gold.”
“More the merrier Sir, more the merrier!”
“And there may be some Ruskies too. Anyway, well done Starke, report to RAF Bodingham at 1000hrs tomorrow.”
“Sir!” Starke saluted and headed for the door.
“Starke! Don’t mention where you are going to anyone, this mission is Ultra Top Secret!” added Goodwin as Starke headed out the door.
“Mum’s the word Sir.”
“Nothing is the word Starke, NOTHING!"
Starke marched out of Winnie’s office, his head spinning, not only with the information he had just been given, but also with trying to remember everything that he had to pack. At last, he thought, things are starting to get interesting!
What happens next? Want to know more?
Contact me and I'll tell you how you can find out (17 Chapters)!
