Painter could see his death approaching, and he tried hard to steady his nerves and make the telling shot.
‘The head, the fucking head, go for the fucking head!’
It was not the best decision, as such shots require better judgement and a cooler head.
He fired and missed.
“Banzai!”
Painter screamed.
“Nooo!”
Tanji’s sword stabbed brutally as he summoned his last reserve of strength.
He drove the katana point first into Painter’s windpipe, penetrating the spinal cord beyond.
Death was instantaneous, whereas Lieutenant Tanji, totally spent by his final effort, took a few more minutes to travel to his ancestors.
The few survivors were quickly bound, except for the two wounded Chinese officers, who were bayoneted to death. The senior NCO made the decision to fall back after the tanks and armoured car, leaving only the dead behind.
The soldiers of Rainbow faded away into the woods, where they dug in and waited for further orders.
Whilst the mish-mash of the 20th Armored and 343rd Infantry Regiment had completed its mission and halted the Japanese advance, the price it paid was far in excess of what it could afford.
Had they known it, perhaps it would have been of some solace to the survivors that they had badly damaged the Rainbow Brigade, and whilst the American war machine could guarantee to bring replacement men and vehicles to the fight, few such opportunities were available to the Japanese.
Chapter 123 – THE DACHA
For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.
The first one had been built to order for Stalin, and was designed by the architect Merzhanov.
During World War Two, Stalin and his entourage had done much of the planning for the victory of the Fascists within its wooden walls.
An additional storey was added in 1943, and a lift installed for additional access.
The rest of the hierarchy of the Communist state quickly realized that having their own dacha at Kuntsevo would provide them with opportunities of access unavailable anywhere else, and so other buildings sprang up, carefully designed to afford the full creature comforts, but not to eclipse that of the leader.
It would have been difficult in any case, as Stalin’s dacha was set inside a double fence system, protected by an array of anti-aircraft guns, and topped off with a three hundred man NKVD security details.
The dacha had been a hive of activity all day, as reports and briefings went on from breakfast until late afternoon.
The full extent of the Baltic fiasco was now laid open for all to see, and yet still the General Secretary had not spilt blood on the matter.
Nazarbayeva had briefed the whole GKO, starting with the loss of her prized RAF asset, whose nonsense message bore every break in code form possible, as well as his distress tag.
She brought proof, undeniable proof, that the new Army group was a fake, a maskirovka, the same trick the Allies had played on the Nazis in France during 1944.
Beria let her speak, knowing full well that she was wrong.
In truth, she had been right, but Comrade Philby had come through, his latest report indicating that the formation would be ‘accidentally’ revealed as false and, when the Soviet High Command had swallowed the bait, it would be properly constituted in secret.
It was a thing of beauty as far as Beria was concerned.
His pleasure in the duplicity of his former allies only overtaken by his complete joy for the embarrassment he inflicted upon Nazarbayeva.
It was but the first move in a day that would see Stalin’s birthday made special for him in so many ways.
Nazarbayeva had seemed to take it in her stride but he knew… he knew that he had hurt her pride badly.
The GRU General continued with an assessment of Allied casualties during the failed offensives, one that, in Beria’s opinion, overstated by nearly 10%.
When he questioned the woman he found that she still had teeth, and that his own information was incomplete.
Nazarbayeva finished with an upbeat assessment of the balance of forces, with a GRU assessment that Allied ground forces were incapable of launching any substantial action in the prevalent weather conditions and, in any case, had supply difficulties and personnel problems of their own.
The Soviet Academic who presented the forecast for Europe, both in the short term and over an extended period, rumbled and coughed his way through his presentation, but was undoubtedly a man who knew his business.
“So, Comrade Academician, you are telling us that the temperatures could be as low as minus fifty in places?”
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary.”
Stalin quickly continued.
“And that this weather could extend well past the end of January?”
“That is our middle estimate, Comrade General Secretary.”
Such a happening would give the Red Army time to rebuild its supply base and rest the exhausted units on the German front.
Of course, the same would apply to their adversaries,
The rest of the day moved between reports on production, transport, and manpower availability, and came to a natural end at 3pm exactly.
The evening was set aside for a celebration of the Leader’s birthday, and most of those present left to prepare.
Nazarbayeva was on her way out when Molotov, directed by Stalin, caught her arm and told her to remain.
Gestured to a chair, she sat with Bulganin, small talking about classical music and the ballet, whilst Beria and Molotov listened to the hushed whispers of Malenkov. Stalin pleasured himself with his pipe until the room was brought to order by an urgent knocking.
In walked six men, some of whom Nazarbayeva knew, some of whom she didn’t, particularly those from Japan, and one ‘Hero’ she thought she should know by name. The faces were lighting up her memory, but the lost names avoided detection for now.
The matter was soon made irrelevant in any case.
Admiral of the Fleet Hovhannes Isakov did the introductions, starting with the head of Naval Planning, Rear-Admiral Lev Batuzov.
Next in line was a civilian, one she had seen before.
“Comrade General Secretary, Director Kurchatov.”
‘The head of our Atomic programme?’
“May I introduce Director Nishina, director of His Imperial Majesty’s Nuclear Weapon research programme.”
‘What?’
“Leytenant General Takeo Yasuda, director of the Imperial Japanese Air Force’s Scientific and Technological development team.”
Many thoughts whirled in Nazarbayev’s mind, but none were particularly clear until the final introduction, the man in naval uniform whom she really knew she should recognize.
“Comrade General Secretary, Kapitan third rank Mikhail Kalinin.”
The medals hanging from the submarine commander spoke more eloquently than words.
His presence clarified matters for Nazarbayeva, her mind coming to an inescapable solution in an instant.
‘We are building a bomb for a submarine.’
A gentle kock on the door broke her concentration, and also rubbished her thoughts.
The door opened and admitted an Army general.
“Comrade General Secretary, my apologies. Comrade Marshal Beria asked me to obtain some production figures, and I knew you’d want the most up to date I could obtain.”