Zhukov laid the matter out simply and without frills.
Reserve units were needed for the Western Front, and there were few forces available for any action against the Finns, let alone sufficient for an expedition of any kind.
The Marshal, offering Beria a proverbial olive branch, spoke plainly.
“Comrade Marshal Beria’s wish to punish the upstarts is wholly understandable, but we cannot… not now anyway. Surely we have more pressing matters to hand?”
The GKO members present grunted their understanding and agreement.
Eyeing Beria, Zhukov completed the rehabilitation of the NKVD leader.
“I share your wish, Comrade, but we must finish the job in Europe first. The Finns will keep, Comrades.”
None the less, the new stance ensured that some units, both regular army and NKVD, remained stationed to cover any signs of belligerence or treachery from the Finns.
Besides, the Red Army was clearly short of supplies and quality assets, and any Russian with a memory knew that the Finns were no pushover.
The following day, the Swedish Government announced the establishment of minefields on the borders of international waters, and assured all nations, regardless of their allegiance, that Swedish national boundaries would be rigorously policed.
Two days later, Monday 12th January illustrated the end result of the ‘new’ Swedish stance, as they attacked and sunk an unknown submarine inside their territorial waters.
Saturday 18th January saw British newspapers record the sad loss of HMS Rorqual, N74, a Grampus class mine laying submarine. Of her crew of sixty souls, only fourteen had been saved, and the dejected survivors were publically displayed by the triumphant Swedes as they were taken away to be interned for the rest of the present hostilities.
In truth, only a handful of people knew that the obsolete Rorqual had been scuttled, and that her skeleton crew of fourteen were all volunteers, selected from men declared unfit for active service.
To all intents and purposes, it looked like Sweden’s borders were not to be messed with, no matter which flag you rallied behind.
Which was the plan.
Lieutenant General V.T. Obukov and his deputy, Major General Viktor Klimentievich Golov, sat drinking pepper vodka as they vied for supremacy over a battlefield of sixty-four black and white squares.
After a hasty knock, the bunker curtain was dragged aside and a flustered Major stepped in, closely followed by a smaller anonymous figure.
Obukov was deep in concentration and, in any case, Golov was technically the officer of the day, so he stayed focussed on his approaching finesse.
Golov, however, had the benefit of seeing the newcomer and was already thinking about making the young Major’s life a misery in short order.
“Mayor Barodin, you have a report?”
“Comrade Mayor General Golov. This person arrived at our rear picket and asked to be brought before the commanding General.”
Obukov had half an ear cocked to the conversation, but had just spotted a possible problem with his intended strategy, so decided the board still had priority.
Golov rose to his feet, his impressive height falling millimetres short of the bunker’s wooden ceiling joists.
Major Barodin was a new arrival with 3rd Guards, and had yet to impress either of the general officers with his abilities, which made him fair game.
“So, any fucking Boris or Bogdan who turns up with a request to see the Comrade General gets your fucking personal escort here, eh?”
“No, Comrade Mayor General.”
Exaggerating his lean, he eyed the newcomer and reverted back to eye contact with the hapless Barodin.
“And yet, here we are, or rather, here you are, with some shitty civilian in tow, both of you stood in our bunker, Comrade Mayor. Now, unless you want to find yourself with a platoon command fighting those SS bastards in Alsace, I suggest you fucking sort yourself out man!”
The nondescript arrival passed Barodin the paperwork for the second time that night, and the Major passed it on like it was red-hot, which, in a sense, it was.
Golov read it.
A wide-eyed and disbelieving Golov re-read it.
He held the paper out to Obukov, obscuring his commander’s view of the board and breaking his train of thought.
“Comrade General.”
“For fuck’s sake, Viktor! I’m trying to concentr…”
Obukov’s eyes widened as his eyes took in certain words that leapt off the paper.
“For fuck’s sake!”
There was little that Golov could meaningfully add.
“You are dismissed, Mayor. And nothing is to be said about this matter, clear?”
“Yes, Comrade Mayor General.”
“Remember that, Comrade Barodin.”
“Yes, Comrade Mayor General.”
Barodin saluted and made his hasty retreat, happy to be away from something way beyond his pay grade and understanding.
The three were alone in the bunker, and the silence was oppressive.
Obukov examined the document once more and handed it to the newcomer.
“Your credentials are impeccable. How may we be of assistance, Comrade…”
He left the question hanging, although he knew exactly who was stood in front of him.
With a flick of his eyes, he encouraged Golov to an ice-breaking move.
His CoS picked up the bottle and a spare glass.
“Vodka, Comrade?”
“Thank you, but no thank you, Comrade.”
The new arrival removed the nondescript ushanka and military greatcoat in which she had travelled from Hamburg, revealing the uniform of a Major General of the GRU, and one with the Hero Award at that.
The arrival of an unfamiliar Major General was never a welcome thing for troops of any nation, as bad things tended to visit themselves on men of all ranks, but such an arrival was even less welcome when unannounced and unexpected.
Even for a Lieutenant General commanding a Mechanised Corps, such an arrival was filled with danger, especially in the Red Army, where such surprises often brought orders to report back to Moscow, and the almost inevitable unsavoury end that such returns entailed.
Gesturing the GRU officer towards a spare chair, one that was close to the small fire, Golov stuck his head out of the bunker door and growled at the young Lieutenant positioned at a small desk.
“Harruddhin. Tea… and some of that German cake. Bring it yourself. Not an orderly.”
Obukov used the wait to discover more about the Army’s true strategic position, rather than rely on what senior officers were spoon-fed by higher command. Nazarbayeva was as candid as she could be, which reinforced Obukov’s view that the war was going to hell in a handcart, and that all he had heard about the GRU woman was true.
Lieutenant Harruddhin, unhappy at doing orderly’s work, entered the bunker with a tray containing captured English tea and liberated German stöllen.
Golov was about to give the nervous young officer a piece of his mind and some advice on rumour spreading, but Obukov beat him to it.
“Thank you, Leytenant. You may go and consider yourself off-duty now. You will do well to remember that the Mayor General is here on important secret business, business that will remain secret… and unspoken of. Am I clear, Comrade Harrudhin?”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
The Lieutenant’s retreat was about as speedy as it could be, without the indignity of breaking into a run.
“Thank you for that, Comrade General.”
Obukov waved the piece of paper gently and then offered it back to Nazarbayeva.
“I am assuming that, your clandestine appearance apart, anyone with complete freedom of movement and action, authorised by the Comrade General Secretary, may wish for some… err… anonymity?”