Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (17 page)

The meeting had opened with a briefing on the military situation in Europe, which had stabilised beyond hope.

The Allied armies constantly pushed and jostled, but there was no power, no great plan to their efforts. Almost as if it were fighting just to keep matters going whilst some other issue was resolved.

The Allied Air Forces were a constant thorn, but reducing the size of depots, moving more by night than day, and increasing AA defences, had all had an effect.

However, there was no disguising railway lines and huge bridges, so the infrastructure still suffered on a daily basis.

The increasing use of sunken bridges had helped greatly, but the supplies reaching the front line were still just about half of what would be needed if everything took off again.

None the less, the Military briefing, given by Malinin, was positive and upbeat.

The situation in the Far East was another matter, and some good units were to be sacrificed, as it was impossible to bring them back into Soviet-controlled territory before they would be overwhelmed by the victorious Chinese and Allied mainland troops.

However, connections with the Communist Chinese ensured that the rivalries of old would flare up again, and maintain confusion and instability in the region.

Handing over a much of their heavy equipment as possible, the Soviet units hoped to save as many of their qualified soldiers as possible.

The pledging of total support from numerous Japanese units who simply refused to surrender, increased the forces available to the Far Eastern Command.

The briefing ended with a victory, albeit an airborne one.

Soviet fighters had successfully intercepted a force of US bombers, en route from their bases in China to bomb something in the hinterland of the USSR.

Heavy losses, claimed to be over 25% of the enemy aircraft, were claimed by jubilant Red Air Force pilots, and, for the first time in memory, an enemy bomber force withdrew without reaching its intended target.

There was no hint of any US-led seaborne invasion, nor much possibility of anything of note of an offensive nature being constructed on the mainland borders of the Eastern USSR. Which meant that Soviet forces in the area could recover and make their own plans to tie in with the aims of Vasilevsky’s targeting of US forces.

The increased feelings of optimism were bolstered further, by reports of events in the Ukraine, where nationalist resistance was weakening, assisted by the spread of hunger, as supplies dwindled and the agriculture suffered, frequently falling victim to the torch or similar deliberate destruction.

The projections of a poor harvest would be made more certain by positive interaction from the reformed POW units.

The Ukraine was becoming less of a problem, hour by hour.

And then there was the political instability in the Allied ranks. Plus, the Italian government agitating and criticising, the low-key condemnation of the Soviet incursion into their territory now completely forgotten in open hostility to the Allied presence in their lands, all thanks to a few well-placed sympathisers in their government.

Beria was beaming for ear to ear.

Stalin was as happy as a man could be.

The NKVD report lay unopened in front of the General Secretary, Beria being so anxious to pass on the latest news that he had recited it virtually word for word, pausing only to slake his thirst with tea.

The report was a gift from the god that neither believed in.

Mayhem, pure and simple, was assaulting the political leaderships of the united Allied nations, a group that, according to the reports emanating from agents, as well as free press sources, was becoming less united with every passing hour.

In an unlike-Beria fashion, the NKVD Marshal had not claimed the glory all for himself, conceding that there was a very real desire to sue for peace, stop using atomic weapons, and bring the soldiers home, even in the nations that had only a nominal role in the fighting.

Stalin could only imagine the pressures mounting on the politicians.

He chuckled.

He laughed.

He was unaware that the NKVD report deliberately understated the larger movement in America, the one that sought full and immediate prosecution of war with use of the bombs and everything that entailed.

Reaching out, he picked up a written report from Vasilevsky, one that had landed on his desk that very morning, the commander in chief’s own addition to Malinin’s presentation.

He wasn’t so stupid as to offer it to Beria, he merely showed the front cover.

“I take it you’ve read this, Lavrentiy?”

“Yes indeed, Comrade General Secretary. Combined with Malinin’s briefing, my own report, I think we can say that the political plan was done what we expected, can we not?”

Stalin nodded his agreement, and substituted the folder for his tea.

“So, now that Vasilevsky is in a position to enact his plan, I think the GKO should approve the immediate implementation of it.”

It wasn’t a question, and Beria never even thought to offer agreement or opposition.

A silence descended.

Beria, wallowing in excellent work by his agitators and agents, felt smug and knew he had gained ground in the eyes of his master.

Stalin merely imagined a face.

A thin face with a high forehead…

… glasses…

…thin lips…

…Truman’s face…

“How he must be wriggling now, eh?”

Beria was startled out of his silence and looked at Stalin in query.

“I said, how that Amerikanski bastard Truman must be wriggling now, eh?”

“They’ll sue for peace… it’s inevitable… their democracy is their weakness… always has been, Comrade General Secretary. Their nations are weak… all of them, weak… but, even if they found someone with political resolve… they could never overcome this issue in their heartland…”

“Exactly, Lavrentiy, exactly… and that’s exactly why we will win… because we have the will!”

Stalin checked the time, and found he had less than he thought.

“Right, Comrade Marshal. Let us proceed to meet with the GKO, have the Vasilevsky plan initiated, press on with our efforts in their countries, and push ahead with Raduga as quickly as we can.”

He stood and pounded the desk with his hand.

“For the first time since those green toads stood at the gates of Moscow, and we drove them back, I know we will bring the world into a new Soviet era. It is inevitable, Comrade Marshal! Inevitable!”

The subsequent meeting of the GKO was buoyed beyond measure, the confidence of his Party leader enthusing each man, but also making him malleable to any proposition.

When the meeting broke up, the Soviet Union was set on a course that had the potential to divide the world for decades to come, and one that was aimed at destroying the major power bases of the United States and United Kingdom.

None who left the meeting room felt other than a new world era was about to start.

However, more than one had secretly thought that now was the time to seek an armistice, and secure all that had been gained, whilst the enemy was weak and confused by their inner wranglings,

Of course, none had dared to say so.

The tragedy of life is in what dies inside a man whilst he lives - the death of genuine feeling, the death of inspired response, the awareness that makes it possible to feel the pain, or the glory, of other men in yourself.

Norman Cousins

The Makaryev Monastery had been many things in its life.

Founded in the Fifteenth century, it had been a Monastery at its inception.

Fortified and secure, it became a centre for commerce, something that only terminated when it was burnt to the ground in 1816.

Brought back to life as a convent in 1882, it enjoyed some peaceful years until, 1929, the Bolsheviks ousted the nuns and converted the premises to an orphanage.

Passing through a number of interested parties, the premises were again taken over by the government, and became an important military hospital during the Patriotic War.

Much of the premises were turned over to the Lysovko College of Veterinary Medicine, retaining one complete wing for specialist treatment of one of war’s most horrible injuries.

Burns.

He was still controlled by it… almost defined by it.

It was the ever-present focus of his mind.

No matter what wonders fell before his gaze, or what sweet sounds entered his ears, or tastes fell on his tongue, it was all-powerful.

It could be temporarily controlled or, more accurately, displaced in his mind and body by the soporific effects of the substances they gave him.

‘Bless them.’

The doctors and nurses, sometimes the latter in tears, tended to his ruined body, washed him, fed him, and injected his raw flesh with all manner of medicines and analgesics, and had, by some miracle, dragged him back into the land of the living.

A land where living was defined by ‘it’.

Pain.

‘It’ was pain.

He had been wounded before, even burned before, but never to this extent, and never endured the unendurable pain that visited itself upon him hour by hour, day by day.

He tried to use his mind to control it, seize hold of IT, the ruling force, subjugate IT, deal with IT, control IT…

… but IT was in charge and refused to take a back seat.

“Polkovnik? Polkovnik? It’s time.”

He shifted slightly and felt his skin crackle and stretch, the burns protesting at the smallest movement.

He groaned, his only outward concession to the agonies of existence that he endured every waking minute.

“Polkovnik, it’s the doctor here. We’ve got to bath you today.”

Yarishlov opened his eyes in momentary terror.

The previous bath had been to soak the bandages and dressings away from his tortured flesh.

In his world of pain, it ranked second to the actual moment in Pomerania, when he had started to burn inside his tank.

He could not bring himself to speak, but rather made himself less ware of the Doctor’s presence, and focussed on the jab in his right arm, and the pulling in his other arm as the fluid bottles were changed.

At no time did he consider ending it all, not that he could have done in any case.

Yarishlov’s purpose, his driving force, his obsession was pure and simple… to wear his uniform again.

The nurses cleared the way as the other occupants of the burns ward watched on, none of them as badly hurt as the much-decorated Colonel of Tank Troops.

Yarishlov was a hero in every sense of the word, feted by the Soviet state and Communist Party, and to see him laid low by such hideous wounds, was awful to behold.

Two of them, old soldiers who had served in the dangerous early days of WW2, threw up salutes as best they could, their own offerings of honour bringing pain to each individual, but both had heard of Yarishlov and neither would accept less.

The warm water lay waiting for him, and Yarishlov steeled himself, as the process had no painless sections in which he could invest and recover.

Hands gently grasped his sheets and he felt himself raised up slightly, the bed no longer taking his weight.

Whilst there was pain, it was lessened by the analgesia he had just been given and, unbeknown to him, the start of the body’s best efforts at repair.

The warm liquid embraced him, not too cold and not too hot, and he was lowered beneath the water level, until the cooling fluid reached his neck.

The pain was lulled and calmed as one of the nurses used a piece of towelling to drizzle more liquid over his head, both over the burned area and the shaved section, bringing immediate relief to Yarishlov.

The team worked around him, ensuring every part was immersed or drizzled with water, and Yarishlov’s sense of well-being increased.

That feeling went in a microsecond and the extremes of pain returned to claim him.

A scream immediately burst from his lips in response to an attempt to remove a dressing that had fused with his recovering flesh.

“NO! Not yet, Nurse! Leave it to soak longer… much longer. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Leave it all until then.”

Yarishlov heard the horrified apology of the young nurse, but had already decided to settle back and enjoy the ten minutes the Doctor had offered, and use it to prepare himself to endure the agony that was to come.