“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?”