“Now, what about production?” Stalin asked. “How long until we have jets, and space rockets, and atomic bombs?”
Molotov felt himself flinch; Stalin’s snake-smile grew wider. Sticky speaking, it wasn’t his responsibility, but the scientists had used him as their go-between for the months since the Transition. Stalin, having learnt of it, had added ‘Chief Scientist’ to Molotov’s titles – and expected him to know everything about science.
“Quite some time,” he admitted finally, having learnt the price of making false statements to Stalin.
“Hitler will be at our throats,” Stalin snapped. His face contorted with rage. “He’ll use the atomic bomb on us!”
“That’s not too likely,” Molotov said, and Stalin’s face purpled. “His science is almost as far behind the British as ours is. They must be facing the same difficulties as our own people.”
Stalin scowled. “Which are?”
Molotov kept his face impassive. They’d discussed the problems several times before. “We have to build a working reactor to make the… elements involved into elements that can explode, something very difficult,” he said. “There are several ways of doing this, but we don’t know which one is best, so we have to work through trial and error. Atomic science is something we don’t know much about, and the British have been careful to keep those secrets to themselves.
“Fortunately, we have supplies of the materials needed, uranium for example,” he continued. “We do have to build the massive facilities required for refining it into bomb-material, and then we have to produce the equipment needed to make the weapon detonate. All of that, Comrade, has to be accomplished under a cloak of secrecy, both from the fascists and the British, who will not want us to develop a nuclear weapon.”
Stalin stared at him for a moment longer than was comfortable. “We are expanding our own production of the material,” Molotov said. “With distributed sites in the Urals and Siberia, we will be able to produce a bomb in two years, perhaps less if we work at it.”
“See to it,” Stalin purred. “Now, about the other production?”
“Military rockets such as the Germans are developing are about a year away,” Molotov said. “We cannot use them to any tactical use; they are rather inaccurate. The scientists are working on refining their guidance system, but for the moment we’ll have to use them as city-hitting missiles, and they can’t carry enough explosive to really do damage.”
“We’ll have to merge them with the atomic bomb,” Stalin said thoughtfully. “Jets?”
Molotov smiled. “We will have our first fighter jet within six months, thanks to the technology transferrals from Germany,” he said. “The Red Air Force is convinced that they will make us equals to the British.”
“Excellent,” Stalin said. His moustache twitched alarmingly; Molotov knew that someone in the Red Air Force would pay eventually for what he was certain was a lie. “Now, Comrade… we have a parade to watch.”
Molotov scowled. Stalin’s new habit of appearing at windows to watch the military machines march past was distressingly Tsarist. Still, it was reassuring… to anyone who had not seen the British tanks in action.
The man looked down as the tanks rumbled by, showing off Soviet might to the citizens before being sent to the front with Germany. British Intelligence suggested that Stalin would be sending the new T-34s and the even newer JS-2s to the German border, just in case. A handful would make their way south, but the Soviets seemed to have decided to swamp the far more advanced British tanks with sheer numbers. He bowed his head, knowing that few would recognise him without his trademark moustache and famous dark hair, now greyed by British science. Still, this was Stalin’s Russia, and care had to be taken.
It had taken a chain of events out of a science-fiction novel and a scheme worthy of the worst spy novels, but Leon Trotsky had finally returned to Russia. The story of his escape from the NKVD hadn’t been published by any newspapers, and not just because it hadn’t had big tits. The crypto-communists – they called themselves socialists – who had rescued him had expected him to lead them to glory, but Trotsky knew better. Once he’d gotten over the shock of knowing that he would have died in August if they hadn’t rescued him, he’d plunged into researching the USSR under Stalin – and knew that it had to be destroyed.
The bastard has betrayed the Revolution, he thought again, as Stalin appeared at the window. Trotsky wished for a weapon, something that could be used on the Georgian, but his handlers had been very clear on the subject; Stalin was not to be harmed until everything else was ready. He lowered his gaze again and stood at attention as the crowds sang the National Anthem. It wasn’t the tune he remembered, but something new, something darker.
Sheep, he thought, as the crowd dispersed under the glares of the NKVD personnel. He headed back to his own flat, dodging old women with food and fuel, slipping through the streets he had once known perfectly. Stalin’s new economic policy, breaking up the collective farms and allowing limited free enterprise, seemed to be bearing fruit. Trotsky cursed, wondering where the idea had come from. If all the farms were producing food, there would be less incentive for the Russian peoples to riot.
The flat itself was one of a block of flats that had been erected in 1930 for one of the industrial plans. Trotsky remembered some of the plans they’d had, back before Lenin died… and left Stalin in power. Stalin’s focus these days was on his own power; the army would be strong, the NKVD would be strong… and the people could live and die for Comrade Stalin.
He pushed open the door, feeling a tingle run down his spine as the electrostatic field reacted with one of the small devices he’d been given, signalling that it was fine to come in. Soviet field craft was good, but MI6 had developed it to a fine art… and as long as the Russians didn’t develop computers, they would have no way of knowing that there were more than a few forged identity papers running around. The flat looked normal, and even if the NKVD launched a midnight raid, they would find nothing.
Trotsky walked up the stairs, noting how they were crumpling under the impact of lack of maintenance and tapped on the door. The silent man who opened it – Trotsky had never heard him speak once – looked him up and down, before standing aside and waving him into the flat. It was a large one, designed to hold an entire family, and provided plenty of room for the headquarters.
The bedroom had been designed for the husband and wife and perhaps some of their children. There was only one person in the room, an older woman dressed like a Babushka. She wore a shawl over her hair, her darkened skin made her seem frail. She’d been introduced to him as Natasha Yar, the only name he’d been given for the head of station. Naturally, the British Embassy of 1940 had been shut down when the war began; no one knew what had happened to the ambassador and his staff.
“Mr Trotsky,” Natasha said. He’d never been able to convince her to use his first name. Her Russian was perfect, she’d adapted far better to Stalin’s Russia than she had. It had been a nightmarish trip from Leningrad to Moscow, but it would have been a lot harder without her smoothing the way.
“The sheep were on the streets again,” Trotsky said. “Miss Yar, I don’t think that we’ll be able to trigger a revolt any time soon.”
“Perhaps,” Natasha said. “We have been recruiting some of the street children.”
Trotsky felt his blood run cold. The street children were considered criminals; if the NKVD caught them, they would not be gentle. “We have also been printing the new leaflets at the other base.”