“You would suggest blasting our own land for a thousand years?” Molotov demanded. “The Great Stalin would not approve.”
“Hardly a thousand years,” Himmler said calmly. “Fifty years, at most, and think of all the Poles dying of radiation poisoning.”
A trip to America had introduced Molotov to the concept of an own goal. He shuddered; Stalin would love the idea, but there would be Red Army units caught within the blast, or the fallout zone. He scowled; Stalin would be more than happy to trade a city for convincing the Allies that he possessed more nuclear warheads and the ability to deploy them.
“I will have to discuss that with Comrade Stalin,” he said. “Until then, I hope that you enjoy your latest rations of food from the workers and peasants.”
“Thank you,” Himmler said. He didn’t offer to shake hands. “I hope that you will convoy my message to Stalin as soon as possible.”
“Mein Fuhrer, is that wise?” Hauptsturmfuehrer Thierbach asked. Himmler studied him; Thierbach had been the treacherous Roth’s aide before being assigned to assisting the Waffen-SS to move to its new quarters. Losing Roth had hurt; knowing that it had happened because of his own miscalculations only made it worse.
He shook his head absently. “Wise is a relative term,” he said dryly. He dismissed the urge to preen. “We have to remain useful to them; do you think that Stalin would hesitate for a moment from destroying us all if he didn’t think that we would be useful.”
“That’s why you insisted on us sticking together and keeping our canned foods,” Thierbach said absently. “Just so that we have a reserve.”
Himmler nodded. “The cost of smashing us, and the losses in scientific knowledge, seeing that we can destroy the science cities simply by overloading the reactors, has to be high enough to deter Stalin. At the same time, we have to be useful enough so that he doesn’t decide to remove us.”
He scowled. Roth would have understood at once. “We’re very vulnerable here,” he said. “We have to offer them the bomb.”
Thierbach narrowed his eyes. “What’s to stop them from using the bomb on us?” He asked. Himmler blinked; the idiot had come up with a good point. “The bomb could destroy us without a fight.”
“The bomb remains under our control,” Himmler said. And one of us will detonate it, he thought silently. He smiled. “Now, call Kruger on the secured lines, the ones we taught them how to make, and use our own coding machine.”
“Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer,” Thierbach said. “I shall attend to it at once.”
The Kremlin
Moscow, Russia
23rd June 1942
Molotov had almost been relived at the delays on the transport network. The underground in Russia itself was growing bolder – and the resistance movements elsewhere even more so. The entire Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was becoming less united and less socialist by the day; in places the NKVD only travelled with a very heavily armed guard.
Molotov sighed. Stalin had been convinced that the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics could bear the brunt of the war – after all, it had managed during the last history, the last time the war had been fought – but this war was different. With the exception of Vladivostok, Russian territory hadn’t been invaded, German troops weren’t terrorising the population – and two years of indecisive war was taking its toll. Stalin knew, far better than most, what three years of brutal slaughter had done to the Tsars – and it would do the same to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics if he allowed it.
The train had finally reached Moscow and he’d been escorted into a Red Square that was far more of a fortress than ever. Heavily-armed patrols marched through the streets, trying to stop the underground members who grew bolder every day. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was on the verge of collapse – the remaining SSRs were considering a revolt – and Stalin did nothing.
“Report,” he snapped at the guard, as he led him into Stalin’s room. The guard shook his head, pushing open the door and waving him in, before leaving as fast as he could. The room was in semi-darkness; Stalin’s great form could be seen near the fire, along with another man.
“Comrade Molotov,” the man said. Molotov recognised him as Marshal Kliment Voroshilov, Stalin’s commander of his personal guard. By now, it was a powerful elite force in its own right – ever since Beria had died; it had been drawing on more and more resources, defending Moscow against an internal threat.
“Marshal,” Molotov said. There was little love between the two men, even though Molotov felt a certain wry awe for a man who’d once contradicted Stalin to his face and survived. The manner in which he’d done it had been amusing too.
“Come now,” Stalin said. “We are all Comrades here. Now, how are my pet fascists?”
Molotov shuddered, a reaction that did not go unnoticed by Stalin. “They’re dangerous,” he said, and meant it. He outlined Himmler’s proposal for the use of the nuclear warhead. “We should destroy them now,” he concluded. “They’re too dangerous.”
“They cannot cause trouble,” Voroshilov assured him. His only positive quality was that he was doggedly loyal to Stalin. His incompetence was legendary, but as a man who had remained loyal until the end of his days, Stalin trusted him. “At worst, they could tear up Belarus, but the Stalin Line would stop them, if nothing else.”
Voroshilov waved a hand at the map. A line of tactical icons lay along what had once been the Soviet-German border; a second line lay along the Stalin Line itself. Millions of men, thousands of tanks… in the exact same situation as the Tsar’s army had faced in 1917, when it had broken like a twig when the Germans came.
They even had a force made up of women, Molotov thought, and smiled.
“Iosif Vissarionovich, they are building nuclear weapons,” he said. “In cities on our soil, they are creating hell-weapons, weapons which will be under their control, not ours. They might just demand that we surrender to them…”
Stalin laughed. “These are not the Czechs,” he said, and Molotov knew he’d lost. “The Czechs just wanted to go home. These people… will be shot out of hand if they try to return to Germany; they are dependent upon us.”
“And besides, the NKVD will escort them everywhere,” Voroshilov said. He laughed a peasant’s earthy laugh. “They’ll be watched as they shit themselves in the bogs…”
“Thank you,” Molotov said tartly. “Comrade, this is a powerful and well-armed force.”
Stalin smiled. “Yes, they have tanks, tanks perhaps as good as the ones in the Red Army,” he said. “They have no aircraft; they have no sources of supply. They can fire shells all they like, sooner or later they will run out of shells.”
“And then we crush them,” Voroshilov said. “We will take their scientists for ourselves; they can produce or die.”
Molotov nodded, keeping his face firm. He couldn’t hide anything from Stalin, but he wanted to spare himself the burden of Voroshilov seeing his face changing. “I’m certain that you’re right,” he said. “Has there been any news on the attempt to throw the Americans back into the sea?”
“It failed, thanks to the incompetence of General Iosif Apanasenko,” Voroshilov said quickly. “The city is running out of supplies quickly now, and the Japanese have definitely started to help the Americans.”