The Long Hard Road

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Honoured Dead

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

7^th June 1942

There had been no attempt by the Ministry of Space to cover up the first space-related death, indeed, the BBC had been more than willing to turn the brave astronaut into a hero, which Victor Abernathy deserved. The streak of light across the sky that had announced his death had been turned into a national sensation by the BBC, and a day of mourning and a collection for his family had been proposed. Abernathy had been unmarried, but he’d left an entire family behind, one that would be devastated.

“The funeral will be in a week,” he said, staring out of the window into the rain. Not a man often given to fancy, Hanover was half-convinced that the rain itself had come in mourning for Abernathy’s death. “He will receive a state funeral.”

“Thank you, sir,” Major Dashwood said. “His crewmates will appreciate it.”

Hanover nodded. “We can hold off the funeral so that all of them can attend,” he said seriously. “He was in the RAF; several dozen pilots and ground crew had already petitioned their commanders, asking permission to attend. His MP was very insistent upon it.”

“Bastard wants to ride his coattails back into Parliament,” Dashwood muttered. “Sir, what else has Parliament said?”

“They’re worried about a second attack,” Hanover said. “I confess that I share their concerns. What precautions have you taken against them trying again?”

Dashwood took a moment to gather his thoughts. “We cannot order anyone to do the same stunt again,” he said. “We have started two separate defences; we have brought over all of the remaining missiles, which will be used to hit anything that looks like its going to enter orbit, and we have started to launch more into space. Sooner or later, they’ll have to run out of missiles.”

“We’ll run out of space stations a damn sight sooner,” Hanover snapped. “What about the second precaution?”

“We have attached extra fuel tanks and boosters to the MSVs, which can be used as independent automated units if necessary,” Dashwood said. “If they manage to put another object in orbit, we’ll shove it back down into the atmosphere.”

Hanover was unconvinced. “I hope that you’re right,” he said. “Unfortunately, Parliament will probably insist on an official enquiry, which could distract everyone from the real issues at hand. When will the Thor weapons be ready?”

“In around two weeks,” Dashwood said. “Unfortunately…”

Hanover’s eyes glinted dangerously. “Yes?”

“We were originally planning to deploy them from Hamilton,” Dashwood said. “If the Germans have figured out how to shoot the station down…”

Hanover nodded. It was a valid concern. “We were never that concerned with precision anyway,” he said. “The targets we have in mind won’t be moving.”

Dashwood nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “However, can we have a delay, long enough to get enough missiles into orbit.”

Hanover scowled. “After all this work, it would be irony indeed if the Ministry of Space was unable to play the decisive role in the war,” he said. “However, I understand your concerns and I trust your judgement.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dashwood said, and left the room. Hanover watched him go, his eyes hidden in shadow. Shaking his head, he returned to the details about the desperate need to resupply the Dutch with food; the Germans having not been too concerned about feeding them.

He scowled. It was taking a toll on British and American logistics, which meant that the Germans would have more time to prepare for the coming offensive. Everything depended on which side managed to get their attacked launched in time… and Hanover was seriously worried that it might be the German attack that kicked off first.

RAF Lyneham

Wiltshire, United Kingdom

7^th June 1942

Kristy Stewart waited impatiently for the doctor to finish checking her over. She examined her naked body in the mirror as the female doctor poked and prodded at her; the bruises were fading rapidly. Her thighs and buttocks remained sore, but she could move again, and her experiences were a fading memory.

“The more we do to you, the less you believe we’re doing it,” Mengele had said, and she had long since realised that that was true. Her body was healing rapidly, thanks to the wonders of modern medicine, except one thing. The internal scarring had been bad, bad enough to prevent her from ever having children again.

“I never liked the little bastards anyway,” she’d said, making light of it, and she’d known that she’d never met a man she wanted to settle down with, but it hurt somehow, deep inside.

“You’re healing very well,” the doctor said, breaking into her thoughts. Stewart smiled at her; the Chinese woman had been more than willing to discuss her time in Germany with her. “Apart from the… well, you know.”

Stewart smiled absently. Everyone had been very apologetic about it, as if it had been their fault. “It’s fine, really,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

Sally Kim, the doctor, straightened up. Her figure was tall and boyishly slim, with only small breasts. Her long dark hair hung down her back, causing Stewart to smile. Her own blonde hair was short; Mengele’s goons had cut her long hair off her head.

“I must repeat my concerns about your… stability,” Sally said finally. Her voice was concerned; it was just what Stewart didn’t need. “You have been through a very traumatic experience and…”

“And I need to see justice done,” Stewart said. “Think of it as being in a rape courtroom, only on a far grander scale.”

“And now you’re being silly,” Sally said. Stewart felt a flicker of pure rage burning through her. “You are not healthy…”

Something of Stewart’s feelings must have shown on her face, for Sally took a step backwards. “You just certified me as healthy,” Stewart snapped. “I have a job to do…”

“Everyone in the country has seen those… images of you,” Sally said. Stewart nearly slapped her. “Please, Kristy; you don’t have to go back to work…”

“Excuse me,” an intern said. Stewart glared at him and he looked away from her body. Homosexual he might be, she still didn’t want a man looking at her naked body. “There is a man from the MOD here to see you.” He snorted. “He’s waiting in your quarters.”

“Thank you,” Stewart said, reaching for her dressing gown. “Sally, thank you for everything.”

“You’re welcome,” Sally said automatically. “I must repeat.”

“Thank you,” Stewart snapped. She swept out of the room, heading directly for her room. The RAF had been generous to the small number of civilians in confinement on the base; they had all the comforts of a luxury hotel. She waved to Jasmine Horton, a fellow sufferer, before entering her quarters.

“Good afternoon, Miss Stewart,” the man said. It took her a moment to place him; they’d met before she’d gone to Germany. Steve… Stirling, she remembered; that had been his name. “I trust that you are feeling better?”

Stewart nodded grimly. Violence or the threat of violence wouldn’t work with the man who’d once informed her that she went to Germany at her own risk. She studied him with convert interest; he now wore the uniform of a Major, with his blonde hair darker than before.

“I have been better,” she said. “I assume that you know what I want?”

“I read your request,” Stirling said. “Are you quite serious?”

Stewart felt a second flicker of burning rage, tearing away at her mind. “Yes,” she said. “I want to be embedded with the army as it heads into Germany.”

“For God’s sake, why?” Stirling asked sharply. “You have suffered quite badly in Germany, and your reputation is up shit creek.”

“Which is why I have to do it,” Stewart said, although it was only part of the answer. “If you can’t issue me with the necessary permission, tell me who to fucking lobby!”

Her raised voice concerned Stirling; she could see it in his eyes. If she could have borne it, she would have tried to seduce him, but she knew that it would be a long time before she could ever have sex again. Her body ached at the thought.

“Me,” Stirling said. “When your request arrived through the base commander, it was decided that I would interview you and make the final decision. I should inform you that embedded journalists do run the risk of being captured by the enemy.”

Stewart felt all of her reporter’s instincts come to life. “You’ve already had people unaccounted for?”

“Some have gone missing,” Stirling answered thoughtfully. “Some might have been killed and their bodies lost, others might have been captured. We don’t know and we may never know for certain.” He looked up at her. “The BBC might refuse to employ you,” he said. “If they do… well, we can’t do much about it.”

Stewart glared at him. “You can’t order them to take me?”

Stirling snorted. “Do you want to set a precedent for government control of the media?” He asked. “Even if we had that kind of control, I don’t know if anyone would want to use it.”

“You’re too naive,” Stewart snapped. “If Baron Edmund gives his permission, will I receive the official pass?”

Stirling looked at her for a long moment, his blue eyes trying to look into her soul. “Very well,” he said finally. “If they agree to take you on, then you can go.” He scowled. “Personally, I think you’re crazy.”

“Thanks,” Stewart said. “When I come back, let’s do lunch.”

“If you come back,” Stirling said, and his gaze was troubled. “If you come back, then we can talk further.”

Before Stewart could ask him what he was talking about, he left, leaving her alone in her quarters. Smiling to herself, she picked up the phone and asked for an outside line. She knew enough about Baron Edmund to make him agree to her terms.

I didn’t used to be so ruthless, she realised, as the phone rang. She smiled and decided that it suited her.

The Kremlin

Moscow, Russia

7^th June 1942

Stalin smiled up at Molotov, his broken teeth glinting by the light of his heavy cigar. “The fascists are suffering heavily, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich,” he said. His smile broadened. “In fact, they are so desperate that they have agreed to some of my additional terms.”

He outlined the deal he’d struck with the Germans. In exchange for permitting the 2^nd Shock Army, one of the newest formations, to enter Germany and fight beside the Germans, the Germans would transport some of the future technology to Russia… and open their stockpiles of nerve gas to Russian inspection. Nerve gas had been under development in Russia as well, but the Germans had moved far ahead of them.

“Indeed, Comrade Borov believes that we will be able to duplicate their chemical warheads,” Stalin said. He chuckled. “The fascists will fight hard to buy us the time to prepare the final line of defence. If it should happen to devastate Germany in the process, well…”

He leered openly and Molotov allowed himself a chuckle. It was genuinely clever; the Soviets would supply the Germans and milk their produce, while preparing their own super-weapons. It would only be a matter of time before the joint atomic program produced results, and most of the bombs would be going off in Germany.

“Comrade – Iosif Vissarionovich – I must admit that I’m concerned about using gas on their troops,” Molotov said. “The British have threatened to use their nuclear warheads to punish the use of such weapons against their troops and the Americans have stockpiles of gas of their own.”

“And, doubtless, an atomic bomb in the pipeline,” Stalin said. He grinned. “It will not matter, comrade, for we will not deploy the weapons from our own territory, but from forward bases in Poland. The fascists will get the blame.”

He chortled and Molotov joined in. “The British will then have to face the problem of crossing an atomic firewall that they have created themselves,” Stalin said. “In the meantime, we are studying all of the lessons from the British attack into the Netherlands. That won’t be a success against us, Comrade.”

Molotov kept his face still. The American stranglehold on Vladivostok was growing tighter by the day, even with the new American commitments in Europe. Japan’s surrender had changed the balance of power in China, enough to made Vladivostok untenable in the long run… unless the Soviet Union deployed its own nuclear warhead.

“And we have other cards to play,” Stalin continued. “Our fraternal brothers in France, for one thing.”

Molotov considered. The French Communist Party, it was true, hadn’t taken a significant role in the Vichy Government, which Petain had repaid by ignoring its growth in a France increasingly worried about the future. Stalin had sent weapons and advisors, which Himmler had turned a blind eye to at first, and then used the Soviets to help keep the French in line. He smiled; the French might not have the guts to use political assassination and purges as a political tool, and in consequence their politics made the Soviet Union’s seem genteel.

“We will assist them to overthrow the Government of France, which is fascist-dominated,” Stalin said calmly. “Himmler has already agreed to this, although he has warned that it is unlikely that the government will be accepted by the Allies.”

Molotov opened his mouth to agree, but Stalin spoke over him. “It hardly matters in any case,” the dictator said. “The French have always been for the French, so if some of the more hot-headed on the subject of French independence meet their ends fighting Petain, well, its better for the future of world communism.”

Molotov nodded. One of the reasons for the failure of communism, with its intrinsic appeal, to spread further was that most communist parties looked to the Soviet Union for guidance – and very rapidly became pawns of Stalin’s power games, rather than genuinely believing in the cause of world communism. It had been the factor that had lost the Spanish Civil War, the factor that had caused inestimable harm during the first Winter War.

He studied the map thoughtfully. “If this trouble were to erupt in France once Berlin fell, then the capitalists would be delayed,” he said. “They would have to decide what to do about the problem, and then they would have to take action.”

“Precisely,” Stalin said. He leered cheerfully. “They would face the choice of overthrowing a communist government that was seeking peace terms on behalf of France, and incidentally knocking both Spain and perhaps Italy out of the war, or allowing a communist nation to take power in their ranks.”

Molotov frowned. “They are unlikely to view the French with much regard for their fighting skills,” he said. “Vichy’s forces have been given only equipment from 1939 and 1940 – certainly nothing that can take our forces on.”

“All to the good,” Stalin said. He studied the map. “The communists will seek to ally with the capitalists, and then they will use their influence to convince them to make peace with us. Should they be rejected by the Allies, as you predict… the allies will have to crush them before coming east to here, and time will not be on their side. Winter will slow them, stop them, and by 1943 we will have our own atomic bombs.”

He smiled, and then waved a stubby finger at the map. “If a single bomb were to go off in the Netherlands, the entire Allied position would be destroyed.”

“We don’t have a bomb to use for that,” Molotov said. “I wish we did, but the project is proceeding slower than we would like.”

Stalin smiled. “The future will be communist,” he said. “We will control the future.”

The black car drove through the streets of Moscow, escorted by three NKVD armoured cars and several of the new motorcycles. As it passed through the streets, the people lowered their eyes, trying to avoid making eye contract with the man who sat inside the car, smoking a tiny cigarette. In all aspects save one it was a royal procession; the man in the car had no trace of nobility, natural or assumed.

From his perch on top of the tower block, Sergi Puskin looked down, concealing his weapon behind his coat. He’d come to the tower block several times in the last week, each time sketching the Kremlin for an art class at his technical school. He’d been hoping to become an artist, but he’d been conscripted into learning engineering, just to boost Russian science forward. Until he’d discovered the underground, resistance had seemed futile, even to him.

Bastard, he thought, as he pulled out his weapon. The long thin tube had been manufactured in a nation called Ghana, which he’d never heard of, and fired explosive armour-piercing missiles. He’d wondered why the weapons were not used against tanks; his contact had explained that standard armour was very capable of handing them, but the car would have almost no defence. The ultra-compressed explosive, he’d been informed, would detonate inside the car; thicker armour would have the pellets detonating on the surface instead of punching through.

He pulled on a pair of strange glasses and triggered the sighting beam. A beam of coherent light, invisible to all, save him, lanced down and tracked the car and its escorts as they drove past the tower block. A single press of the trigger sent a burst of pellets on their way… and the effects were remarkable. The pellets themselves left no trail… but the black car seemed to flicker with the fires inside, and ground to a halt.

“Should have been a bigger blast,” he muttered. He knew that the underground had more spectacular weapons, but he’d been forbidden to bring any of them, or any gun. If the NKVD caught him, he knew that he would be safer trying to lie to them than trying to resist.

Smiling, he jumped into the shaft and slid down to the second floor, which he had hired as his assigned place of residence. Quickly removing his overcoat and stuffing it in the nearest bin, he entered his flat and took up his sketchbook. He doodled idly, planning one day to draw an image of the scene.

I’ll call it the death of Lavrenty Pavlovich Beria, he thought, as a diagram for a new improved tank took shape under his pen. The school was very insistent that they learned how to design tanks. That should really impress girls later…