Whichever of the three interpreted her look as defiance and anger had their view confirmed by the hard edge to her voice.
“Comrade Minister, the GRU files on Makarenko contained specific information on an operation from 6th August 1945, in which my son was killed. As a mother, I was seeking information on the death of my child, Vladimir. As it was a personal matter, I went to my office early, in order not to interfere with my schedule. The file would not normally have come to my attention, but for my personal interest.”
Her gaze switched to Stalin, whose own expression remained totally neutral in the face of the GRU officer’s angry delivery.
“Had it not been for that personal interest, I fear the discrepancy would not have been revealed until it was too late. Comrade General Secretary, I give thanks that you were preserved and are unharmed. I also accept a shortcoming by my department in interpretation. I do not accept any accusations regarding any complicity in this event, or doubting my loyalty to the state or party!”
Bulganin went to speak but Stalin’s right hand shot out, silencing him with a single curt gesture.
Another match made its noisy journey down the desk and the pipe burst back into life.
The silence was broken solely by the steady puffing, as the General Secretary held the gaze of the woman in front of him.
She saw his eyes suddenly soften as his inner voices whispered in his ear.
‘Balls of steel, this Tatiana. You’ve always said so!’
An unexpected laugh made everyone look at the dictator.
“Comrade Molotov asks only questions that need to be asked, Comrade General.”
He indicated the spread of files before continuing.
“There have been errors here, by your department… and others… and we’ll soon know the full story. Comrades Molotov and Bulganin will be heading an enquiry, with which you’ll cooperate fully.”
“Of course, Comrade General Secretary.”
“Comrade Nazarbayeva, you are a good and loyal servant of the Motherland and the Party, of that I have no doubt, and again, I thank you for your intervention.”
He placed the pipe on the desk and waved a fatherly finger at his GRU commander.
“But you must understand how this could look,” he softened further, “Both for you and Marshall Beria.”
She nodded as the anger and resentment faded into nothingness.
“You, the woman and mother, have sacrificed two sons in this war… I know this. Such a woman is not a traitor. Such a mother would not turn her back on what her children died for. I know this too.”
He looked at both Bulganin and Molotov before continuing.
“Just cooperate with the enquiry, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Comrade Bulganin’s office will be in contact before you leave.”
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary. For my part, I will order a review of any similar cases to Makarenko’s.”
“We have already taken steps to ensure no repeats. Thank you, Comrade General, you may go.”
The door closed before another word was spoken.
“None the less, Lavrentiy, have her monitored day and night.”
Chapter 133 – THE PROTOTYPE
There are no extraordinary men, just extraordinary circumstances that ordinary men are forced to deal with.
It was only after the attack that the Captain had worked out the aircraft was a Saab17 of the Swedish Air Force.
They had instantly known that the aircraft was not benevolent, given the total absence of friendlies in the Baltic skies.
S-22 had just surfaced, forced up by an electrical problem that knocked out its motors. Well aware that he was fifteen kilometres off the Swedish coast, east of Simrishamn, Captain 3rd Rank Jabulov harried his engineering crew mercilessly, whilst ordering more defensive firepower to the bridge.
Without the time or ability to dive, S-22, a Stalinec class submarine of the Baltic Fleet, fired a few shots with her 45mm cannon and hand-held MGs, whilst manoeuvring on diesel power to avoid the falling bombs.
Whilst all four missed, the shock damage was considerable, as leaks were compounded by crew injuries, all set against a backdrop of frequent electrical outages.
Someone, it was suspected one of the MGs, had knocked the Saab down, and its fiery cartwheel into the sea was greeted with a number of relieved cheers.
With diesels hammering at full power, S-22 drove herself away on the surface.
Jabulov, a lifetime spent in Baltic waters, sought out a place where he could hide his stricken vessel from prying eyes whilst repairs were made.
He found what he was looking for in the Christianso group, and, ordering full speed on a course of 134 degrees, he returned to the job of ‘encouraging’ his crew to get S-22 back in shape to dive.
The men had come from different units, some on transfer, some plucked from hospitals where they were recuperating from wounds sustained in the awfulness that was the lot of the aircrew of the Red Air Force.
The first arrivals had been delivered by truck, picked up from the nearby railway station; men recently discharged from hospital in the main.
Next came three B-25J Mitchell bombers, the last survivors of the now disbanded 890th Bomber Aviation Regiment, touching down in short order on the main runway. The normal complement of eighteen men was swollen to thirty-four, as the three US lend-lease aircraft disgorged flight crew who had no aircraft of their own.
Over the next two days, more aircrew arrived, not only for the newly formed 901st Independent Special Aviation Regiment, but for other special formations based in and around the military airfield that also served as the test field for the Stakhanovo Flight Research Institute.
Presently unemployed, a large number of the 901st’s personnel had been attracted to the strange noises of an unknown aircraft type that made its way to the end of the main runway.
Despite the cold, over twenty men stood and speculated over the nature of the unknown machine.
Newly promoted Lieutenant-Colonel Sacha Istomin, Hero of the Soviet Union, only recently considered fit enough to return to flying duties, watched from the relative warmth of the control tower.
The glass-walled structure, normally staffed by a six man shift, was stuffed to the brim with over twenty additional personnel, all, with the exception of Istomin, present to witness the first full test flight of the newly modified MIG-9.
The tower commander, an ageing Captain, was clearly perturbed by the presence of so many high-ranking personages, including GKO member Georgy Malenkov, present in his role as head of aircraft production.
The senior radio operator requested permission for a flight of aircraft to land.
“No, no, no. Wave them off. Send them to an alternate airfield.”
The Serzhant operator talked into his mouthpiece, his voice growing in volume as the sound of the MIG-9’s reverse engineered BMW 003 turbojets built up, ready for take-off.
“Comrade Kapitan, Mangusta-Seven-One states he is ordered to land specifically at this field.”
No one noticed the slight reaction from Malenkov.
“Ordered? I have no flight plan logged for a Mangusta flight? Tell him to maintain holding pattern,” he consulted the vertical map, partially obscured by increasingly excited bodies, “Four, pattern four, over Bronnitsy.”
“Sir.”
The operator relayed the order as the female operator alongside him burst into life.
“Comrade Kapitan, Zvezdnyy-One requests permission for take-off.”
A nervous sound rose from the watchers, but was cut short by the commander’s voice.