“A critical level means what… in layman’s terms, Comrade?”
Stalin’s voice showed a strain previously undetected, hidden as it was, by white-hot anger.
“Comrade General Secretary… STAVKA stocks are presently at 8% of combat norms, to plus or minus 1%.”
“Go on, Comrade.”
Vasilevsky piped up quickly, and was as surprised as everyone else that Stalin didn’t stop him in his tracks.
“The situation is dire, Comrades. The worst the Red Army has faced since the Revolution. The resolution may be unpalatable, but I can see no alternative, unless the wisdom and acumen of this assembly can find a resolution not obvious to this old soldier.”
Stalin held up his hand, stopping Vasilevsky before he could swing back into his presentation.
“Comrade Zhukov? You’ve remained silent, but you will have an opinion… maybe even a solution?”
“Comrade General Secretary, I have an opinion only. An acceptable solution is not yet apparent to me. There are only ways of coping, in the short term, ways that would be heavy on our ordinary soldiers, who would have to carry out orders on foot, and unsupported by our powerful all-arms forces… orders that would cost many their lives. We have no fuel to attack. We have no fuel to manoeuvre. We have no fuel to…”
“Yes, yes, yes. Very good, we have no fuel. You, the Victor of Khalkin Gol, surely you can find a solution here?”
He exchanged looks with Vasilevsky, who had been elected as the sacrificial lamb, the one to put the dramatic and unpalatable solution to Stalin and the political leadership.
“Hah!”
Stalin misinterpreted the silent exchange between the two marshals, seeing it as weakness and a lack of courage to deliver the bottom line. He knew someone who would have the necessary ‘balls of steel’.
“It seems my military leadership lack the courage to inform us of their opinion. Perhaps you have the strength to tell us in their stead, Comrade Nazarbayeva?”
“It is not my place, Comrade General Secre…”
Stalin flew into an immediate rage, hammering his hand on the table to emphasise virtually every syllable.
“It is your place if I command it, woman!”
Nazarbayeva recoiled in horror.
Beria smiled as discreetly as he was able.
‘At last… at last!’
“Comrade General Secretary, as you order.”
The ‘Hero of the Soviet Union’ in her took control, and all of a sudden the beautiful woman set her jaw and changed into the soldier who had fought and killed in the Crimea many years before.
“The Red Army cannot attack. It cannot manoeuvre. It is, to all intents and purposes, immobile. There is no fuel for tanks, for lorries, for staff cars, for anything. Even fodder is in critically short supply but, as many of the horses have been eaten by hungry soldiers, that is less of a problem.”
She moved forward, standing closer to Stalin, on the cusp of a respectful distance, but closer than most normally dared to wander.
“GRU intelligence suggests an increasing German Army, probably taking over many of the duties of the Amerikanski, which in turn will relieve pressure on their President. It seems the green toads again relish the prospect of fighting us, now they are backed up by the industrial might of our capitalist enemies. I’m sure that the NKVD opinion will agree with ours.”
Beria suddenly found himself the centre of attention, and didn’t enjoy it at all.
“The NKVD reports are roughly in agreement with the GRU suggestion, Comrades.”
Attention switched back to Nazarbayeva.
“The Ukrainians have been subjugated, but the drought has hit the harvest hard, as has the fighting, and we stand on the edge of further supply problems, all of which will be undoubtedly increased by Allied air actions. Historically, we lose a huge proportion of all supplies long before they reach the front, but we have seen more problems occurring with inner distribution since enemy bombing raids started to spread further through the Rodina, despite the gallant work of the Red Air Force.”
Colonel General Repin, the Air Force deputy commander, nodded in acceptance of her words.
“Set against that inevitability, we will not be able to feed and provision our troops or our people.”
“Militarily, we cannot order our soldiers to move back without abandoning most of our equipment.”
Nazarbayeva had heard those words in Vasilevsky’s office the previous day, so they were easy to employ.
“Also, regardless of what we seem to see in the Allied press, I believe that their politicians will inevitably order use of the new bombs against the Rodina. I see it as inevitable that they will use their bombs on us, bombs to which we have no answer, and can offer no response of our own at this time… unless I am missing some exciting developments within our own programmes?”
Kurchatov fidgeted uneasily as most of the eyes in the room shifted to him.
His headshake was enough for Nazarbayeva to continue.
“So, we find ourselves with no ability to move our armies. No definite guarantee that we can supply our armies enough of the basics to give them a fighting chance against the Allies. Foodstuffs will be limited before the Allied aircraft increase our supply problems, not just for the military, but for the Rodina as a whole. Our industry and infrastructure continue to suffer at the hands of their bombing force. And then there is the question of these new weapons. Our own special weapons programme is unable to offer anything of value at this time, whereas theirs is available, and can transform large sections of the Motherland to ashes virtually at will. It seems clear to me what must be done here, Comrade General Secretary.”
She waited for a response, holding the leader’s gaze as his face changed colour and his eyes blazed.
“So, Comrade Nazarbayeva, your opinion as to what must be done is what exactly?”
Standing erect, ramrod stiff, and every inch the Soviet hero, Nazarbayeva delivered the damning words.
“Comrade General Secretary, I believe that you must seek peace, or lose the army, and the war; it is that simple.”
The collective intake of breath was audible.
Stalin moved forward, until she could smell the orange juices still clinging to his moustache.
“Say that again?”
“I believe you must make peace, Comr…”
Stalin moved with incredible and unexpected speed, landing a vicious slap across Nazarbayeva’s face, and sent her reeling back against Vasilevsky, who caught and steadied her.
“So… there we have it… and I thought you had steel… that you, above all others, had the backbone to succeed… to win against all odds.”
Nazarbayeva the soldier moved back to her previous position in front of the dictator and stood her ground.
Throughout the room, there was genuine horror and shock at what had happened.
Stalin’s eyes were still burning wildly, but Nazarbayeva gave him direct eye contact, despite the growing bruise across her left cheek and the gentle drip of blood from her nostril.
Even Beria had a grudging admiration for the courage that she displayed.
‘Balls of steel.’
“Comrade General Secretary, the Red Army is the instrument of the Party… of the State… and it must be protected, for without a functioning and strong army both could flounder.”
She instinctively wiped a run of blood from her chin, too late to stop a pair of red spots appearing on her shirt collar.
She pressed her index finger to the Hero Award on her jacket.
“This award was given to me because I refused to give in, at a time when all seemed lost. I understood then… and understand now…”