Trotsky scowled. He didn’t know where that base was. He wasn’t certain if Natasha knew. “They won’t care,” he said. “They won’t care about the Poles” – he’d led the campaign against them in 1921 – “and they won’t care about the black-asses in Iran.”
“They might care about Romania,” Natasha said. “Look, I know what you mean, and I do understand. However, we have very little choice, until the war ends, we have to play the cards we have.”
Trotsky nodded reluctantly. “They’re being well fed for the first time in ages,” he said. “Perhaps they’ll start thinking about something else.”
Chapter Seventeen: Red Storm Rising
Red Army Headquarters
Nr Abadan, Iran
7th May 1941
Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov, General of the Armies and Hero of the Soviet Union, shifted uncomfortably inside his uniform in the blazing heat. It had been one reason why he’d been pushing for the invasion to begin; his men became far less effective as the heat rose for summer. According to his history files, the Red Army would have launched a similar campaign – with the aid of the British – later in the year, but he was suspecting that that would have been a disaster. The files grew vague once the Great Patriotic War began.
Zhukov scowled. The NKVD, the Army Commissioners, the GRU and Stalin himself, all of them had vetted the information that had been provided to lower-ranking people – and even a General was low-ranking compared to them. He knew better than to grumble openly – the NKVD had spies everywhere – but it was annoying. His laptop, one of thirteen within the USSR, would have been far more effective if it had been left with all the files it had once held.
At least I got into the history books, he thought. The NKVD had smuggled a handful from America to Russia, including one written by Zhukov himself. How Stalin had laughed before passing it on with a few pages torn from the end. Still, the months of delay had allowed them to consolidate their position and strengthen their logistics – which had been the reason given to the Red Army for the delay.
“Comrade General?”
Zhukov nodded politely at Commissioner Petrovich. The Political Commissioner – a tall vampire-like man with pale skin and a mouth like a slapped arse – was unhappy. He’d been unhappy ever since the Politburo – which meant Stalin – had removed most of the Commissioners powers. It was no longer within his abilities to tell Zhukov to attack or to retreat, only to give the men their political indoctrination.
“Is the attack finally ready?” Petrovich asked. His voice worked its way up and down the scale. He’d been just as bored as Zhukov, and he’d had less to do. There was no need to indoctrinate the Iranians, not when Comrade Stalin had decreed their enslavement and extermination.
Zhukov nodded. He’d argued against that policy as much as he had dared; the Iranian resistance was growing stronger, even with the hordes of Russian soldiers that were moving in daily as the Red Army grew stronger and stronger. Russia had almost limitless numbers of untrained men, suitable only as occupation troops, and they were enjoying Iran, particularly the Iranian women.
“We’ll move as soon as dawn breaks,” he said. He would have preferred to move at night, but even the improved Red Army didn’t possess the amount of equipment necessary to make that work without making a complete fuck-up of it. “The scouts are out now.”
“The dunes are alive with the sound of shooting,” Petrovich said. Zhukov looked at him; he would have never figured Petrovich for a romantic. “Won’t they know we’re coming?”
Just for a while, Zhukov would have liked one of the Commissioners who’d fought in the Civil War, ones who had really understood warfare. Petrovich knew very little beyond Communism – and he would never make a theorist.
“Perhaps,” he said finally. There was no such thing as a ‘front’ in the desert war; the British had their bases and the Russians had theirs, and there was a giant strip of No Man’s Land in between. Every day or so, there would be a skirmish; ground troops on patrol running into each other, tribesmen clashing with one side or the other, spies and sabotage teams… and even the occasional air battle between both sides aircraft. Zhukov scowled again; the British had won all of those so far.
“They won’t know that much is happening,” he said finally. “They have very good reconnaissance, but we have successfully hidden some of the main force of tanks, and we have massive patrols around our bases. At dawn, when I give the signal, the advance will begin.”
Petrovich nodded. He’d given his approval to the plan, but both men knew that it had been purely formal. In effect, the entire South Iranian Front was to advance to Basra and Kuwait, taking the ancient city and securing Iran, before plunging a dagger into Iraq. If the Germans joined in, a joint attack could be mounted against Baghdad, ending the Iraqi Government. Iraq wasn’t the easiest place to attack – and the British had had experience of fighting there before from their perspective – but Zhukov had learnt three things from the war. The first was that the British had limited resources and they were reluctant to use them too much. The second was that they were scared of causing civilian casualties; hardly a concern of either of their opponents. Finally, they had superiority in many fields, but superior numbers and an unflinching refusal to be bullied into making mistakes could offset them to some degree.
“Yes, Comrade General,” he said finally. “Are you going to make a speech to the troops?”
Zhukov shook his head. “That’s the responsibility of the sergeants and their captains,” he said. “We have to develop some small-unit initiative; the British act faster than we do.”
“I suppose,” Petrovich said, who didn’t think much of the concept of giving anyone additional authority. “They might make the wrong decisions.”
Zhukov smiled. “You remember when they blanketed our radios?” He asked, referring to the Battle for Abadan, the local oil centre in Iran. Unlike the Germans, the Russians used few enough radios… and when the British had jammed them, the entire attack had almost collapsed. “I would sooner have them firing at the enemy than milling around waiting for orders.”
Petrovich nodded. Nearly three thousand infantrymen and thirty tanks had been lost when they’d just stopped and waited for orders. The British aircraft had struck them on the ground.
Zhukov checked his watch. “Only two hours, Comrade Commissioner,” he said. “Better get some sleep. Once it begins, the attack won’t stop for tea and biscuits.”
It was what the RAF called a target-rich environment. Countless tanks and lorries, all built to clumsy Russian specifications, were moving along the desert, along roads that were almost none-existent or off the roads altogether. Sergeant Adams noted their presence from his hiding place, far too close to the Russian base for comfort.
Not very subtle, the Russians, he thought, as yet another patrol tramped past his hiding place. The little cave was very comfortable – he could even listen to music – and there were plenty of sensors scattered around, monitoring the Russians. A transmitter, concealed in a rock, relayed his reports and the sensor recordings.
“Stupid tank,” he muttered, as a stream of weird tanks glided past, puffing up smoke. The T-28 carried no less than three turrets, spinning independently to give it a complete coverage of the firing region. It would be a nightmare to attack with Contemporary technology – indeed; the online database reported that it had given the Finns nightmares. A dull roar split the air as a massive flight of aircraft darkened the sky, roaring over Basra and Kuwait. The dull pounding of long-range fire could be heard, pounding the defence lines of the cities.