Axis of Evil

Chapter Thirty-Three: The Brutal Friendship

The Kremlin

Moscow, Russia

5^th June 1941

As he did every time he entered Stalin’s personal rooms, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov wondered if he would ever be allowed to leave. These days, the Kremlin was guarded by elite NKVD troops, commanded by the brave, loyal – and grossly incompetent – Kliment Voroshilov. They worshipped Stalin and would have had no hesitation in shooting anyone Comrade Stalin disapproved of.

Stalin’s face was dark, and Molotov’s nerves almost failed him. Only the certain knowledge that running would be worse than futile kept him in his place. There was no offer of tea, or anything else.

“Look at this,” Stalin snapped, passing over a piece of paper. Molotov cast his eyes across it; no wonder Stalin was mad. The message was stark, simple, and from the pen of a man that Stalin had ordered killed. In the aftermath of the Transition, the NKVD had lost track of him, until now…

“I thought that he was dead,” Molotov said carefully. “Even so… can he threaten the Dictatorship of the Workers and Peasants?”

“The NKVD found hundreds of those scattered around the subways,” Stalin said. His face darkened still further. “Trotsky is in Moscow!”

“And he’s got some powerful support,” Molotov said. “We chased him out before; he would not have returned without some support from outside.”

“The British, of course,” Stalin said. “And, of course, the Americans, who are pressing the Germans hard.”

Molotov swallowed. That had been what he’d come to discuss with Stalin. “Hitler’s bootlicker” – he paused to allow Stalin an appreciative chuckle – “has been in touch with us. In fact, he flew directly to Moscow, which alone shows how urgent it is.”

He waited for Stalin to nod slowly. Whatever Stalin’s internal concerns, he was still a devious political manipulator. “Hitler would hardly have his… Champaign salesman make a house call unless it was urgent,” Stalin said finally. “What does dear old Adolf want?”

Molotov hid his reaction as best as he could. He’d never trusted Hitler, even before learning how the German would have launched a massive invasion of the Soviet Union… less than seventeen days in the alternate future. Stalin, of course, had been willing to believe Hitler’s professions of new genuine friendship… while preparing the defences, just in case. Unfortunately, many of the best divisions were tied up in the Middle East, along with the remaining best commanders.

He scowled inwardly. The NKVD had reported on German troop movements near Poland, more than were permitted in the treaty and certainly more than were required to complete the extermination of the Polish people. Molotov had believed that history was going to try to right itself… and that Hitler would challenge the Soviet Union again. Stalin, however, had been deaf to his concerns.

“Hitler needs us as an ally,” Stalin had said, and dismissed his concerns.

“Comrade,” Molotov said, “the Germans want us to launch an offensive in the north.”

“To aid them in defeating the Americans,” Stalin said. His heavy brow furrowed. “That would mean war with America to add to our current problem.”

Molotov nodded, adjusting his spectacles. “The Americans have been reluctant to challenge us at the moment,” he said. “However, the Swedes are moving towards them, just to avoid German domination.”

“Or ours,” Stalin said. He could say such unpleasant truths. “Interesting point; certainly any attempt to ally with the Americans is against the treaty we signed with them, is it not?”

“Yes, Comrade,” Molotov said. “Of course, they will claim that the treaty was signed at gunpoint.”

“Which it was,” Stalin chuckled. “We don’t want the Americans beating the Germans too quickly, do we?”

Molotov blinked. “Comrade?”

“The Americans will be facing the best of the German military machine,” Stalin said smoothly. He smiled darkly. “The longer they’re pointed at the Germans, the more time we have to learn about the future.”

“And the more technology we can extort from them,” Molotov agreed.

“Exactly,” Stalin said. “The Americans will certainly be receiving a great deal of British technology; wonder machines, computers, those super-bombs, those aircraft… and we need to catch up as quickly as we can. They’re starting to fly rockets to space, and we haven’t yet managed to get a single rocket off the ground!”

“We are working on it,” Molotov protested. “The Germans have been quite cooperative, for once.”

“True, Comrade,” Stalin said, falling into his lecture mode. “We have to think about the future, Comrade, a future where we will face the Capitalists on the economic battlefield… and be destroyed. They now know that we are weak, Comrade; will they pause, or will they clamp their jaws around our throat?”

Molotov thought of the thousands of T-34 and JS-2 tanks rolling off the assembly lines, and of the MIG jets that were in an advanced stage of development, and of the hordes of normal propeller aircraft… and knew that Stalin was right. What did sheer numbers matter, compared to the blast of nuclear weapons and advanced tanks that the British could deploy? The NKVD had managed to have a close look at the Firefly tank – and they believed that it was more capable than the T-34.

“They paused in the original timeline,” Molotov said finally.

Stalin snorted. “In that timeline, they were scared of us and drained from the war,” he said. “In this… new future, they will not be scared, and they won’t be drained, not with the advantages that they could deploy against us. The Americans will have the Bomb… when?”

“1944, by our most pessimistic estimate,” Molotov said. “We should have ours the year afterwards…”

“A year too late,” Stalin snapped. “That crippled president will have none of the British scruples; he will use the weapons to dictate to us. No, Comrade; we have to play for the long term… so we will not force a war with America.”

Molotov relaxed slightly. “Then we will not press the Swedes?”

“Oh, them,” Stalin said. He stared up at the map, lovingly detailed, that sat against one wall. “I think we’ll prepare to move in,” he said. “If they don’t join the Americans, then fine; we’ll let them keep their independence, but if they draw too close to the Americans… we’ll storm over the border and take them by force.”

It was the best he could hope for, Molotov knew. He’d half-feared, half-expected, that Stalin would have ordered the Red Army into Norway. The spectre of cruise missiles ripping up their fragile supply lines, of re-supplied Finns launching more and more attacks from their forest bases, of the entire supply line simply disintegrating… had been on his mind. Stalin, however, seemed to be considering everything at this point… except one thing.

“Comrade, what about the supplies of war materials?” Molotov asked. “We are sending millions of tons of materials to the Germans, including some materials they need for their war effort. Should we keep sending it?”

Stalin smiled. “I think we should see how much more information and machine tools the Germans are willing to send us, before we have supply difficulties,” he said. “Now, it’s almost time for the meeting.”

‘Meeting’ was too strong a word; there were only three people present, apart from Stalin himself. Beria, Molotov, and General Zhukov, who had been flown back from the front on Stalin’s orders. Between them, they were the most powerful men in Russia… and all of them were nothing, without Stalin. Molotov shuddered; he’d half-expected to have been shot at dawn for his career after Stalin finally went to the fires of hell.

He glanced around the room. Beria, as always, seemed calm and composed; Molotov suspected that he’d been having fun with some of the teenage girls of Moscow. Stalin had laughed when a handful of people had dared to complain, but he’d refused to rebuke Beria, who was one of a handful of people who might be dangerous to him personally.

Molotov smiled; Stalin might just have run out of patience with his executioner, now that Trotsky was back. If he really was, of course; Molotov wasn’t sure if he believed it. It would be just like the old bastard – and even he wasn’t sure whom he meant – to have arranged matters just to scare people.

Zhukov, on the other hand, seemed impatient. The beefy general admired Stalin enough not to begrudge the time away from the front, but part of him knew that his subordinates would be messing the war up – or, worse, getting it better and impressing Stalin – and so he was desperate to return.

“Comrade General?” Stalin invited. Zhukov stood up and emplaced a map upon the table, running his hands over the Middle East as he spoke. Red and Green lines ran through Iraq; black lines ran through Palestine and Jordan.

“We have finally taken Basra and Baghdad,” he said, indicating the two cities. “The cost was higher than we expected, but we finally hold the centre of Iraq, which cannot help, but demoralise our opponents. Our noble allies, as it happens, have borne the brunt of British attacks in Jordan, so we haven’t faced a major counterattack. However, our allies report that the British are regrouping in Kuwait and will presumably counterattack as soon as they can.”

“One hopes that the German problems in Norway will keep them busy for a while,” Molotov said. “Give you time to strength your positions.”

Stalin nodded. “We don’t want any more offensives,” he said, and of course, what Comrade Stalin wanted, Comrade Stalin got. “For the moment, you have to hold your positions.”

“Yes, Comrade,” Zhukov said. He didn’t seem pleased by the decision. “What about the probing raids eastwards?”

“Oh, keep those going,” Stalin said blithely. “We may as well do what we can to keep the British busy elsewhere.”

The woman who called herself Natasha Yar – a joke that none of the Contemporary Russians would ever get – had been born in Russia, before moving with her parents to Britain when she was young. They’d returned twice to Russia, in 2010 and 2012, and she’d been struck by the sheer… zest of the streets, once the economy had begun to take off again. Western fashions, most of them copied without regard for copyright, decorated the streets; cars and bars were everywhere.

In contrast, Moscow of 1941 was a dark and grim place. Everyone moved in fear, guarding their words with care, even with the new food supplies. Natasha scowled to herself; Stalin had shown a flicker of real genius when he allowed people to start their own farms again. Moscow had more food than it had ever had before, and the regime was almost popular. ‘Almost’ – people still remembered how thousands of people disappeared every night.

Natasha scurried down a side street, pretending to be a simple old woman, trading what she could from the farms. Ironically, that conferred a degree of immunity upon her; Stalin had ordered the NKVD to break up the crime syndicates before they could ever form. The few that remained had hidden themselves carefully, scared of the power of the state. Still, there was a thriving black market… one that provided an opportunity.

She slipped into her flat and nodded politely to the man watching her from the door, pretending to ogle the young women who walked past. Her SAS escort was the first line of defence; there were others. If the NKVD broke their location, they would pay for it. The entire building had been carefully rigged to defeat an attack.

“Good evening,” the cook said. She was young; a young MI6 agent who had specialised in Russia. As far as the forged identity papers cared, she was Natasha’s granddaughter, living with her entire family. Natasha kept her in the flat, not just because it was the expected action of a Russian grandmother; Irina wasn’t quite perfect in her role.

“Russian,” Natasha snapped, aiming a Russian slap at the young girl. She ducked; a real Russian would not have. “Russian only!”

“Yes, grandma,” Irina said. At least she had the submissive pose down pat. “We had a message today, and Sergi has managed to get into one of the factories.”

“That’s good news,” Natasha said. Her faux son had been ordered to try to obtain a position within one of the massive factories in Moscow; his hidden communication devices would allow them to talk to him, even if he was conscripted. “What about the gentleman?”

“Oh, he’s still rabble-rousing,” Irina said. The gentleman, Leon Trotsky, had been attempting to visit old allies who had been placed outside Stalin’s power structure. Building cells of allies within Moscow was a slow process, even with the leaflets taunting the NKVD. “Don’t you want to know what HQ said?”

Natasha nodded. “What did they say?”

“They’re sending in more people to the drop zone,” Irina said. “They’ll have new supplies; they want us to start bugging the Kremlin.”

Natasha chuckled. British bugs were undetectable by anything the NKVD had; she was confident that they could have bugged Stalin in the bath. The only problem had been the tiny amount of bugs that they had been able to bring with them into Russia. Now that they had a secured base, they could proceed.

“They also want us to become more ambitious in recruiting new agents,” Irina said. “Apparently, the Americans have invaded Norway, and they want the Communists distracted.”

“The news reported massive British tank losses,” Natasha said. “Who would have thought it; Pravda doesn’t live up to its name.” She chuckled. “We’re working on it,” she said. “The problem, of course, is recruiting people willing to risk everything to challenge Stalin.”

Irina waved a hand around the room, taking in the entire city. “You’d think that thousands would be willing,” she said.

“You’re too young,” Natasha said, not tenderly. “Now, do try to look as if I’ve beaten you, dear girl. We have to look real, remember?”

Irina rubbed her behind playfully. “There is such a thing as trying too hard,” she said.

SS Moskva

Nr France

5^th June 1941

It was one of the curious legal fictions that made war so difficult to fight when there were more than two nations around. The SS Moskva, a large freighter, was crewed by Russians and operated by the Russian Merchant Marine, but it was flying a Portuguese flag, simply to avoid being blown out of the water by the Royal Navy. It’s long voyages, from Archangel to Lisbon to America, kept it busy, transporting the handful of Russian exports and collecting some imports from America.

The Portuguese position on the matter was that the Moskva could sail where it liked, a position mandated by the presence of German allies in Spain. The British position was that they had the right to search the Moskva on general principles, and if it was smuggling anything they objected to they had the right to confiscate the ship. So far, despite several searches, the Royal Navy hadn’t found anything… much to the relief of the neutral Portuguese.

Captain Yuri Padorin lifted a single eyebrow as the lookout shouted a warning. They were far too close to France for safety – even though the Germans were allies of the motherland – but it was the only way to avoid the dangers of British torpedoes. The trans-Atlantic run was across empty ocean, but at least the British knew what they were and generally ignored them – after having made them run on the longest direct course.

“Captain, boats coming in,” the lookout shouted. Padorin glared into the semi-darkness; Moskva was brightly lit, as required by neutrality rules. The strange boats weren’t flying any flags… and he felt a sudden trickle of fear.

“Ahoy, Moskva,” a man shouted, in accented Russian. “Coming aboard!”

“Come about,” Padorin ordered. “Allow them to board.”

The boats closed in and he cursed suddenly, each of them was carrying a squadron of black-garbed storm troopers. As the SS men scrambled up the side of the ship, Padorin found himself held at gunpoint by the leader.

“I am Obersturmbannfuehrer Kortig,” the leader said. “You and your crew have been selected for a mission.”

Padorin glared wordlessly at him as the SS men rounded up the crew. Some of the Germans had clearly prepared for the mission; they were taking control of the ship very quickly. His crew were forced to kneel on the deck, their hands bound and tied to the side of the ship.

“This is piracy,” he managed to say, finally. “Our nations are allies.”

“Yes, and you have been selected for the mission,” the SS officer said. “You have a choice; you can obey lawful orders, or you will be handed over to the NKVD.

The French port had been worked over by the British RAF, several times, but there was enough left to allow the Russian ship to dock. Obersturmbannfuehrer Kortig watched as the crew – apart from a handful of people – were moved into shore barracks, where they would later be terminated.

Subhumans, he thought, as the Slavic features of the Russian captain grew longer and longer, watching what was being brought onboard his vessel. Apart from the required components for the special weapon, the Moskva was being loaded to the gunnels with high explosive, enough to make the vessel sink lower in the water. The bigger the blast, the better, he’d been told, and as a faithful follower of the Fuhrer, Obersturmbannfuehrer Kortig accepted his fate.

He chuckled, once. He was quite certain that the Americans would not prove quite so accepting of the costs of the war… once it had touched their motherland.