“It’s a siting report from the Senbyomakiyama station, Comrade Admiral. I have sent a copy to your office for verification. The numbers seem a little off, but the observer is a member of your navy, and seems adamant.”
That the man in question was also an agent of the NKVD was left unsaid.
“When, where, and how many ships, Comrade Marshal Beria?”
A huge sigh escaped Stalin’s lips, and he raised his hand to prevent Beria from saying any more, continuing to skip read loud enough for the other two to follow.
“Yesterday… between Tsushima and the Korean coast… heading northeast… and… this… this figure is accurate, Comrade Marshal?”
“I believe so, Comrade General Secretary. The report is not specific, but the officer in question is extremely reliable and not easily rattled. I have no problem believing his figures.”
Which was as committed as Beria ever got.
“Then we have a fleet of over three hundred vessels, from merchant vessels to aircraft carriers, sailing in the direction of the Sea of Japan.”
He rounded on Isakov.
“First Mozambique!”
He smashed the folder down hard, making both men jump.
“Now Tsushima!”
The second folder followed the first.
“Do they really have those assets, Comrade Admiral?”
Isakov needed no thinking time.
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary, they do.”
“Then I suggest you get your Pacific Fleet to do something about these bastards!”
He rammed his finger into the report from Senbyomakiyama, just to emphasis his point.
Stalin turned swiftly to the NKVD boss.
“Move more of your assets to the eastern borders immediately, Lavrentiy. Get us more information from whatever source you can. Work with the GRU. We need hard facts.”
He leant forward and picked up the telephone again.
“Get me Marshal Vasilevsky immediately.”
Late that evening, an urgent report passed across Beria’s desk and into Stalin’s hands, one that confirmed the arrival of the vehicles and men of the 4th Australian Armoured Brigade in Southern Iran.
The following day, further large scale movements of Soviet forces began, sending additional forces to the newly established Caspian Front, and more on the longer journey eastwards, to Siberia, and the shores of the Pacific.
So, whilst thousands of Soviet soldiers moved south and east, taking with them valuable equipment and supplies, the reports on their deployment filtered back across No Man’s Land, or were garnered from the indiscreet whispers and gripes of overworked logistics officers.
They arrived before incredulous eyes, presenting themselves to the men who had developed and sold the ‘big’ idea.
They, in turn, proverbially rubbed their hands in glee, almost needing to pinch themselves that the deceptions seemed to have worked as they did.
All in all, it was a stunning coup for Allied Intelligence, and a maskirovka of epic proportions.
It had required a show of strength, and that was delivered by a host of warships and merchant shipping, all to demonstrate real power, although, for Iran, the vessels carried only a naval infantry division, an Australian armoured brigade, and a few reduced size headquarters units, all of questionable fighting value.
The Pacific fleet contained more substance, with the alternative of putting their army and marine units ashore in a number of places.
In the event that the ruses were discovered them they would have, if nothing else, caused the Red Army to consumed large quantities of its POL reserves.
And there was always the option of changing the two ruses into something more substantial at a later date.
But for now, the Red Army sent much-needed units south to meet the threat posed by Montgomery’s force, and east to counter the seeming invasion of Siberia.
So, whilst Soviet attention was split, all Allied eyes turned back to Europe, and to the area of operations for ‘Awakening Giant’
Pain was still ever-present, but with the combination of his body’s resistance and painkillers of all descriptions, Yarishlov managed to get through each hour with hope preserved.
The skin grafts were agony, but he had contributed so very little of his own flesh to cover the huge burns, with most of the material coming from the corpses of other unfortunates, whose skin was harvested and refrigerated, for use by those whose capacity to donate from their own undamaged flesh sites was far outweighed by the damage they had sustained.
By such means did Yarishlov receive treatment that started to repair the deadly work done by the burning T-54.
The baths, the operations, the dressings, the times when his raw flesh was left deliberately exposed, the awful moments before his painkillers were due, and the effects of the previous doses had long worn off; each brought their own particular brand of hurt.
At his insistence, Yarishlov’s dress uniform was placed on a stand in full sight of his bed.
It was there to remind him of his goal… to motivate him to conquer the challenges ahead.
Having just had his analgesia, the pain was removed and he studied the uniform, drawing inspiration from it and, as always, his eyes lingered on the Hero Award.
Testing his fingers, he constantly thanked his creator that they had not been badly damaged, he became aware of the approach of a visitor, and was delighted to see it was Kriks.
“Stefan!”
“Polkovnik!”
He went to embrace his commander and friend, but hesitated, not knowing where to hold and where to avoid.
“It’s difficult to find somewhere. Here, take my hand.”
Yarishlov extended his right hand, the bandages hiding the loss of his little finger and part of the fourth.
Having shaken hands, Kriks leant forward and kissed his friend on both cheeks in the Russian way.
“It’s good to see you, Sir.”
Yarishlov laughed.
“Forget that crap, old friend. For the Motherland’s sake, call me Arkady.”
“That will come hard, but I will try… ah… Arkady.”
“So how are the boys?”
“Out of the line at the moment, which is how I got away to see you.”
“And?”
The pain was now evident on Kriks’ face too.
“In a fight on the ground, we were always ahead. You know the boys… you trained them, Polkovnik. But their aircraft have become worse, if that’s at all possible.”
“Losses?”
“Most of our losses were in the battle you were wounded in, and an engagement three days afterwards. We launched a counter-attack and ran into dug-in enemy tanks and anti-tanks guns. We held our own, even made advances, but their aircraft came and we lost many of our vehicles.”
Yarishlov asked again.
“Losses?”
“Half of our boys are in the ground or in a similar position to yourself, Comrade.”
Yarishlov grimaced with the pain of his thoughts.
“We’re out of the line and getting some replacements. Some of the new lads are promising, but they’re all raw, and… well…” Kriks looked around, checking who was in earshot, before leaning forward and whispering the rest of his response, “… the Army seems like it’s fishing in the bottom of the pond now.”
Yarishlov managed what counted for a grin.
“Last time you said that, we were facing Hitler Youth and Volkssturm. Those bastards did alright.”
He moved in even closer.
“The peasant spirit’s there, but little else. And it’s different for our soldiers now, remember? The Germanski were fighting for their homes and families. What are we fighting for, eh? You said yourself, the war is lost. And our boys are now fighting for what? We started this fucking mess, Comrade Polkovnik, and we’re fighting in Germany for soil we’ve shed blood on twice already.”