“Yellow bastards,” Stalin sneered. “The NKVD has been busy liquidating all of the Japanese in our territories.”
“Just what they deserve,” Voroshilov said loudly. “They had their chance to embrace communism and they blew it.”
It was more than Molotov could stand. “If I may, I would like to rest,” he said. Voroshilov made a comment about spending time with his wife, which Molotov ignored.
“You may leave,” Stalin said. “When you have rested, come again tomorrow morning. I wish to discuss the peace offer we will make to the Allies.”
Molotov wished that his wife was present, the one little piece of satisfaction he allowed himself as his car reached his living quarters, but he knew that it was impossible. After Beria died, he’d sent her to his Dacha outside Moscow; she would be far safer there.
The guard saluted him as he entered. “You have a guest,” he whispered. “An NKVD guy. He had all of the papers and everything.”
Molotov shrugged. The NKVD went everywhere. “I’ll see him inside,” he said, and pushed open the door to his flat. A light was on in the second room, so he slipped inside and entered the living room… and stopped dead.
“You!”
Trotsky smiled up at him from his position on the comfortable sofa, which had been looted from the Winter Palace in Leningrad. “Do come in, dear chap,” he said, using a faint British accent. “It’s simply freezing here.”
Molotov allowed his shock to appear on his face. “What the hell are you doing here?” He asked sharply, and reached for the hidden alarm button. “Why are you here?”
“Oh, don’t bother about that,” Trotsky said. “I took the precaution of deactivating your alarm button, and the NKVD bugs in the room. I wanted our conversation to be undisturbed.”
Molotov, never a heavy drinker, stumbled over to the wine cabinet and poured himself a glass of vodka. He didn’t offer Trotsky any. “What are you doing here?” He repeated. “How did you get in here?”
“Oh, if you have the right papers, you can do anything here,” Trotsky said. “So, Comrade; how is the man of steel?”
Molotov scowled at him. “He still runs the country,” he said. “I remember when you fled the country in fear for your life.”
“And I was right,” Trotsky said, almost sadly. “Of course, I would never have learned about the failure of communism, or of the possibilities inherent at the moment for making Russia far more powerful – and secure – than the Rodina has ever been before.”
“Communism is not a failure,” Molotov began. “In fact, we have managed…”
“To get yourself into a war with a nuclear-armed opponent and the most powerful nation on the Earth,” Trotsky said sharply. “Comrade, I won’t lie to you. In a week, perhaps more, perhaps less, the most powerful army in the world will start advancing into your territory. The further that army travels, the less… room for manoeuvre we’ll have at the peace conference, after the war. We might end up with another treaty like the one that Lenin signed. I’m sure you remember that.”
“I was there,” Molotov snapped. Trotsky smiled. “There’s just one small problem,” he said. “Comrade Stalin refuses to recognise reality.”
Trotsky nodded slowly. “The problem with Stalin,” he said, “is that he was – is – from a very different background than most of those in the Party. He had an attitude towards problems and power bases that made compromise impossible, and he was clever and cunning to boot.” He sighed. “I will tell you something else,” he said. “I intend to remove Stalin’s regime.”
“And then… what?” Molotov asked. “What will you do then?”
“Russia has to become democratic,” Trotsky said. “In the long run, that is all that will save us from constant defeats and disasters.” He smiled at Molotov. “That process could be painless, or at least less painful, if you cooperate with me.”
Molotov hesitated. “Betray Stalin?”
“He has betrayed all of Russia,” Trotsky said. “You know that as well as I do. Help me, and I promise you a position in the new government.” He grinned. “Choose well, you see, because even if I die, the revolution will happen anyway.”
“I understand your point,” Molotov said, more than a little annoyed. “If Stalin finds out, I will die.”
“You’ll die anyway when you try to balance your duty to Russia with your duties to him one time too many,” Trotsky said coldly. “He will have you killed one day, merely for being too clever. Choose.”
Molotov looked up at him. “I agree,” he said slowly. “Now… what do you want me to do?”
Chapter Forty-Four: Final Orders
Space Station Hamilton
Low Earth Orbit
23rd June 1942
Russia – even without the other Soviet Socialist Republics – was vast. Even with technology literally seventy years ahead of the Russian technology, and an understanding of the technology’s capabilities that even the Germans couldn’t have grasped in time, piercing together the factors of the Russian economy – figuring out what went where – was difficult.
Commander Caroline Salamander stared down at the display, watching as yet another satellite made a pass over Russian territory, marking and cataloguing the factories as they were revealed. Often, a factory was well hidden, designed to be immune from conventional attack. Stalin had moved factories into the Urals even before the Transition, just to prevent a German or Japanese attack from destroying them, and the sudden war with the British had only convinced him to move faster.
She shook her head, ignoring the strange sensation that gave her in zero-gee. She’d lost people before, from when she was in the Royal Navy, but losing a man that way had hurt. It was lucky for the Ministry of Space that Hanover seemed disinclined to take the loss of a single pilot as a sign to close down operations for years, but she knew that there would always be people who would scream at a single death.
“Look at what we’ve achieved, you bastards,” she snarled, and turned back to the display. She had two hundred boulders, created from compressed lunar rock, floating in orbit, attached to the MSVs. She’d never be able to achieve a battleship-style rate of fire, or the kind of attacks that Pournelle had written about, but the boulders would be very devastating indeed to anything under their footprint.
The display of Russian factories changed. Some targets, she knew, had already been designated for missiles launched from submarines, or long-ranged American bombers based in Sweden and Turkey. Other targets were well out of range; she would be targeting them in particular. A massive tank factory, in the Urals, would be one of her prime targets, along with rail junctions and stations, and some bridges.
She scowled. She’d proposed launching the attack at once, with the boulders she had ready for launch, but the PJHQ had overruled that. They’d been worried about the Soviets launching a pre-emptive attack against American and British positions in Germany, even through they were supposed to have inferior tanks to the Allies. Of course, the Russians almost certainly had the numbers advantage.
“Bastards,” she muttered, designating a major tank yard in Northern Ukraine, or what would have been the Ukraine in her time. In this time, it was a very restive SSR; one determined to overthrow Stalin. She knew that SAS units were active in the Ukraine, causing trouble for Stalin and assisting the local population.
I just hope that doesn’t come around to bite us like Afghanistan did for the Americans, she thought grimly, before completing her task and transmitting the targets into the computers, which began calculating the easiest way of launching all of the boulders in the shortest possible time.