Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) Page 3

  None the less, the new jets were impressive, although those with experience would have noticed the gaps in formation left by the three that had failed to take off, one drastically so, smashing back into the runway and spreading its experienced regimental commander across the airfield.

  The captured V2s, now in their new Soviet green, red, and white livery, were also impressive, although virtually useless for anything but fooling civilians.

  Almost unnoticed, four large football-like shapes, huge bombs carried on Red Air Force vehicles, passed by, their arrival and departure overshadowed by more jets and the very latest in Soviet technological advances; the IS-IV heavy battle tank and ISU-152-45, once known as Obiekt 704, brought to fruition for the heavy tank and tank destroyer brigades in Europe.

  Almost unnoticed, the four mock-up representations of the pumpkin bomb found on the crashed B-29, left the square, and were immediately surrounded by a heavily armed contingent of NKVD troops.

  Almost unnoticed, but not quite...

  As the Marshal climbed the steps to the top of Lenin’s Mausoleum, his heart protested, reaching and exceeding its point of toleration before he reached the top.

  Zhukov, panting and eyes screwed up with pain, collapsed heavily.

  “So that’s that then. We’ve batted this around for months in anticipation of this moment, and we’re still doing it now.”

  Truman wasn’t scolding, just trying to draw a line under matters so they could progress.

  The conversations still went on around him.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen... please.”

  The four other men settled down in silence, looking at the chief executive in anticipation.

  “One final word... a sentence or two, no more. George?”

  The outsider, George C. Marshall, Chief of Staff of the US Army, spoke in considered fashion.

  “The scientists assure us of no consequences globally. It will save thousands of American boy’s lives. No brainer for me, Sir.”

  “Thank you. Jimmy?”

  Acting Secretary of State James S. Byrnes was slightly more animated.

  “Sir, I support delay. Offer them the Mikado, lessen the terms, and they will fold. Blockade and conventional bombing will stop them. Soviet support is of little consequence to them now.”

  “Thank you, Jimmy. James?”

  “I agree with Jimmy. We can still come back to this solution, but offer up the Mikado, and I see them collapsing. As stated, Soviet support counts for nothing now... in fact, I’ve been thinking that it might work in our favour.”

  “How so?”

  It was Marshall that posed the question and, surprisingly, it was Truman that answered it.

  “They’ve been raised up, and now they’re back down lower than a rattler’s belly.”

  Marshall nodded his understanding.

  “Thank you, James.”

  Forrestal, Secretary of the Navy, settled back into the comfortable couch.

  “Henry? This is your baby.”

  “I’d have it in the air right now, Sir. Yes, the Nips might fold, but then, they might not. They’ll fold once the weapon is deployed. Also, as I’ve said before, the use may be enough to guarantee this world’s future.”

  “Thank you, Henry.”

  Henry L. Stimson, Secretary of War, even though he had trotted out his position before, wanted to say so much more.

  He wanted to say that this weapon could make war obsolete, solely by its use, so awful as its use would be, therefore demonstrating that future wars could hold no advantages for aggressors.

  Actually, no advantages for anyone.

  He wanted to say that its use would end the Japanese war now; not in a year’s time, but now.

  He wanted to say that the forces freed up by this act would help defeat the Soviets all the quicker.

  He wanted, God, how he wanted to resign and walk away from the pressures of government, his body announcing its displeasure at his continued exposure on almost a daily basis.

  Most of all he wanted the whole goddamn war to be over, and that meant using more bombs; lots more.

  Thus far, the notion of deploying them on the Soviet Homeland had been avoided, sidestepped, even ignored.

  Military minds saw advantages in spades, and almost no problems, but the political considerations were many, from whose air space the bombers would fly over, where the bombers would be based, guarantees from scientists that there would be no repercussions to basic objections on moral grounds.

  But Stimson understood that to defeat the Soviets, they would have to demonstrate to them the idiocy of further aggression, and that was best done, at least initially, by exterminating an area of the Japanese home islands.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. Give me a moment.”

  Truman rose and moved to the window, taking in the view across the well-kept grass, noting the gardeners hard at work.

  ‘Not a care in the world.’

  He laughed perceptibly, but unintentionally.

  He stared hard at an old man deadheading a flower stand, and sent his silent message through his eyes.

  ‘Care to swap?’

  The work continued, his offer unheard.

  ‘Very wise, sir… very wise.’

  “Gentlemen...I’ve made my decision. The mission is a go.”

  In the Soviet army it takes more courage to retreat than advance.

  Joseph Stalin.

  Chapter 150 – THE DISBELIEF

  1007hrs, Thursday, 2nd May 1946, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.

  Vasilevsky took a moment to sip the water as the men around him took in the information he had laid before them.

  Normally, it would have been Stalin that led off, but today Bulganin spoke first.

  “So that’s that? We’ve stopped the Fascist bastards?”

  All eyes turned to the commander of the Red Banner Forces of Soviet Europe.

  “I can only repeat, Comrade. They have stopped advancing across the whole front. All their advances. There is nothing moving forward now. Our soldiers have performed magnificently… truly astounding… glorious… and yet…”

  “And yet, we look at a situation where we’ve ceded much ground that was won at the cost of many, many Soviet lives.”

  The attention swivelled immediately to Stalin as he interrupted Vasilevsky.

  “Yes, Comrade General Secretary.”

  Stalin resisted the urge for nicotine and pressed ahead, his voice raised in anger and frustration.

  “And yet you seem to portray this as some sort of victory? Some sort of magnificent undertaking by the Army? Something we can tell our Comrades is an achievement on a parallel with Kursk? Leningrad? What…even Stalingrad?”

  The sarcasm stung and the wound was deep.

  Vasilevsky stood his ground.

  “Comrade General Secretary… Comrades… I say to you that the Red Army and Air Force are performing miracles in the defence of our Motherland. The enemy is strong and well supported, with no shortages in any department. Our forces, whilst high on morale and fervour, are constantly short of the goods of war because of the logistical situation and the bombing.”

  His hand ran down the map he had used to break to them the loss of much of the German territorial gains.

  “Yes, we have lost much of what we gained, but we still have an Army… intact and capable. Our supply lines are shorter, which can only be an improvement.”

  Stalin raised his hand imperiously.

  “Tell me you’re not intending to retreat to the Urals to make the supply line easier, Comrade Vasilevsky?”

  A number of men laughed before Stalin’s icy stare cut them short and chilled their hearts.

  He had intended no humour.

  “No, Comrade General Secretary.”

  “No.”

  A silence descended on the room, one that was oppressive and dangerous.

  The Soviet leader succumbed to his craving and lit up a cigarette.

  “So, Comrade Marshal. Paint this rosy
picture for us. Tell us how well things are really going, eh?”

  There was danger in Stalin’s sarcasm, but the increasingly resilient Vasilevsky did not step back.

  “We have lost a tremendous number of men and a great deal of war materiel. Historically, our nation and army have shown themselves capable of sustaining such losses and still being able to function effectively.”

  Molotov went to say something, but Stalin’s unspoken warning stopped him on the in-breath.

  “The Allies are softer… not as soft as we once thought, Comrades, but definitely less resilient when it comes to hardship and national spirit.”

  Vasilevsky took another moment to moisten his mouth.

  “They have sustained huge losses too, spread across the range of nations arraigned against us.”

  He sought a document and nodded in thanks to the person who had provided it.

  “General Nazarbayeva’s department has already advised me that the Brazilians are seeking to withdraw to a support role, following public criticism of casualties at home.”

  A number of minds wondered why the woman hadn’t informed members of the GKO first and were decidedly unhappy, even though Vasilevsky’s briefing had taken priority over hers.

  “Similarly, I would expect public support in the main Allied countries to be wilting with every son or husband we put in the ground… or send home broken by war.”

  Stalin coughed uncontrollably.

  Vasilevsky pushed his water across the table, which Stalin waved away as he coughed more, and his displaced cigarette end burnt a penny-sized hole in a priceless Chinese rug.

  He recovered, wiping his face with a handkerchief that had been proffered up by he knew not who.

  “Comrade Marshal. Are you trying to tell us that, despite the loss of much of the Fascist lands, and a considerable portion of our army and air force, we have, in some way, gained an advantage?”

  “No, Comrade General Secretary. Militarily, we have been beaten back, but with resilience of heart and Communist will, we have stopped a well-supplied enemy ahead of his planned timetable. In essence, Comrades, whilst we have lost ground, the present result is a draw.”

  “A fucking draw? We do not draw… not with the Fascists… not with the Amerikanski… not with that drunken fuck Churchill…. we do not draw!”

  The echoes of Stalin’s words continued long after he had closed his mouth and his eyes burned more penny-sized holes through his commander in chief.

  “We did not draw against the fucking Nazis! We destroyed them!”

  “Comrade General Secretary, the situation now is different. This is not a small group of countries arraigned against us, controlled by a single madman, with limited resources and manpower at their disposal.”

  He turned his back on the ensemble to address the map.

  “We have lost ground… lost men… lost tanks and aircraft… the Baltic is lost… our Japanese allies stand on the brink of defeat… and yet…”

  He turned back.

  “…I believe that we have done great damage to their cause.”

  He held up Nazarbayeva’s report.

  “This shows a chink in their armour, a weakness, brought about by the casualties this nation received.”

  He nodded at Beria.

  “Who knows what information Comrade Marshal Beria might develop… or even… what mischief he and his men could cause in the home countries of our enemies. Agitate, cause political instability. These democracies are weak, and if the proletariat and workers rise up in protest… well, Comrades, you are the politicians here and will understand how best to exploit the damage our valiant soldiers and airmen have inflicted on the Allied armies.”

  It was as if a light was switched on and the room was bathed in its warm glow, as Stalin understood the situation with greater clarity than ever.

  “Yes… you may be right, in some respects… our comrades on the GRU and NKVD will find out as quickly as possible.”

  Stalin’s words translated into definite orders in the minds of both Beria and Nazarbayeva.

  “But that is for later. For now, tell us what you intend to do about that.”

  Vasilevsky inwardly relaxed, knowing that he had passed an important point and would not be relieved, or worse, this day.

  “Comrades, whether I am right or wrong, I intend to go with my gut feeling and attack our enemy… mainly one enemy… attack hard and without mercy, where I cannot attack, I will defend fanatically, using every resource at my disposal,” his voice almost slipped into a soft fairy tale tone as he slipped his eyes over the map, eyeing the points where he would implement his plan, “…With the intention of bringing him to his knees politically… to inflict awful loss upon him… savage him… kill him in huge numbers…”

  Vasilevsky suddenly remembered where he was and turned back to the GKO.

  “We will knock him out of the war by using his own political system against him. Kill their sons and husbands in such numbers that the will to fight will go and the political pressure to withdraw will be irresistible.”

  Stalin and his cronies were amazed at Vasilevsky’s presentation, seeing it appear to lapse into more of a political diatribe than a military presentation.

  “Which of the lackeys will we turn, Comrade Marshal?”

  Vasilevsky smiled at Molotov’s question.

  “Oh no, Comrade Molotov, you don’t understand. Not a lackey, but the leader. We will drive the Amerikanski out of the war.”

  By the end of all the presentations, the malaise had lifted from the GKO and a new spirit of optimism positively oozed from every pore.

  Beria and Nazarbayeva had definite orders to support Vasilevsky’s military plan, and Vasilevsky had confidently put his intentions over, intentions that were approved there and then.

  The ever-present supply and fuel issues were addressed, and positive sounds made, although there the military men present retained doubts that the promises would be met, given that none made in the last eight months had even been close to actual figures arriving at the front. Plus, the last vestiges of production from the Caucasian, Caspian oil fields, and from Ploesti, had come to an end, courtesy of the intense Allied bombing campaign.

  Never the less, the fuel was promised, and no one dared to question the figures in the face of such positive feelings.

  To back up the promise, an impeccably dressed professor was hustled into the meeting, just to deliver a small presentation on how to obtain fuel from other sources.

  Stalin and most of the GKO pretended to take in the science of the hydrogenation of coal, with the possibilities for future fuel uses.

  The presentation also covered octane levels and the need for high-octane fuels, especially for aircraft, which was received with a modicum of understanding.

  They nearly grasped the process of extracting synthetic fuel from coal, although the Fischer-Tropsch process was well over everyone’s head, except for the scientist summoned to try and explain it.

  They understood far better that the oilfields discovered in Tatarstan and Orsk now secretly pumped their products to the new refinery at Yamansarovo, a facility constructed in record time and, importantly, one as yet undetected by the Allies.

  Even though they were still months away from anything like decent production from Yamansarovo, it was a much happier group that went their separate ways as Thursday slipped quietly into Friday.

  1106 hrs, Friday 10th May 1946, one kilometre south of Gedser, Denmark.

  The Gedser-Warnemünde ferry had pulled out exactly on schedule, carrying a leavening of civilian traffic alongside the German military unit to be transported to the mainland that day.

  At 1106 precisely, the bow of the ferry briefly encountered one of the mines released during the destruction of L3 ‘Frunzenets’, the Soviet mine-laying submarine lost during the Spectrum operations months beforehand.

  All over the ship, men, women, and children were knocked off their feet by the shock that hammered through the structure.
The harmful waves of energy sought out weakness and opened up leaks from plates to shaft stuffing boxes.

  The whole front of the ferry opened like a whale’s mouth, scooping up the sea as the engines drove the vessel forward and under the water.

  Boats hastily put out from Gedser, but found little to rescue, and spent more time recovering the dead.

  Pionier-Bataillon 230 of the 169th Infanterie Division lost all but two dozen men, and only three of the party of children from the Nykøbing Katedralskole survived to return to their loved ones.

  The long dead crew of ‘Frunzenets’ had added over six hundred lives to their haul of victims.

  1956 hrs, Monday 13th May 1946, Mount Washington Hotel, Bretton Woods, New Hampshire, USA.

  Gently moving backwards and forwards in the comfortable rattan rocking chair, Olivia Francesca von Sandow checked out the other occupants of the hemicycle, a leavening of the rich and famous in American society, all enjoying the lavish surroundings and the strange pseudo anonymity offered by the presence of those of similar status.

  A recent arrival in Washington society, von Sandow was the deputy cultural attaché at the reopened German Embassy, and already one of the first names on the list of the ‘A’ party circuit.

  The reasons for that were not only her exquisite looks and fabulous figure, but also for her intellect and wit, a quadruple combination that made her irresistible to men of power.

  Which was why she was waiting patiently in the hemicycle, her hastily arranged leave from work in place, allowing her to meet ‘clandestinely’ with her latest lover.

  He arrived on cue, flourishing roses and chocolates.

  “Darling Olivia… you look wonderful, honey.”

  He kissed her firmly on the offered cheek and she accepted the offerings as if they were nectar from the Gods.

  “Humphrey, darling, so punctual… and thank you… they’re wonderful.”