He shook his head. With the collapse of the western front, it wouldn’t be long before Moscow itself was besieged by American or British forces, which were already skirting the radioactive regions of Poland and punching into Belarus. Their aircraft ranged further and further east, and as for whatever they’d done to the factories…
His radio, the little device that Trotsky had given him, buzzed. “It’s time,” Trotsky said. Molotov nodded to himself; he’d embraced the risk when Trotsky had contacted him, and re-embraced it when he hadn’t reported the entire incident to Stalin. “Are you ready?”
Molotov nodded. The little device that Trotsky had given him was still on his person, a neat little assassination tool that would pass unnoticed by the NKVD. “Yes, Comrade,” he said, and savoured the irony. Perhaps Trotsky would have his chance to build a democratic – capitalist – Russia, perhaps not. If Molotov had a high position, perhaps some elements would survive.
“Then move now,” Trotsky said. “Your time for getting through the streets is running out.”
“Understood,” Molotov said. He gulped; even now, defying Stalin seemed dangerous. Day by day, the regions that Stalin controlled were shrinking, or held down by thousands of NKVD soldiers under constant attack. Productivity was down to almost nothing; sooner or later they would run out of bullets. “I’ll call my driver at once.”
Hiding the radio – it was disguised as a simple pen, one that was – naturally – inferior to a capitalist product – Molotov called for his driver. He was supposed to be on station at all times, but with all the unrest… it would not have surprised Molotov if his driver had deserted. A lot of the lower-ranking Communist Party officials were lying low, hoping that they would be ignored in the chaos.
“Yes, sir,” the driver said, appearing from the room. “What is your command, sir?”
Molotov smiled to himself. The driver was either loyal, or an NKVD plant. Either way, it didn’t matter at the moment. “Drive me to the Kremlin, at once,” he said. “I must see the Great Stalin at once.”
Trotsky had been a genuine military commander. Unlike Molotov, he had been very involved in plotting the coup that had placed what would become the Communist Party in power, and he had commanded the force that had fought the Soviet-Polish War of 1919-21. Planning a coup was simple; you just had to decapitate the opposing regime and any possible successors.
Natasha Yar blinked at him as he finished talking to Molotov. He nodded to himself; recruiting Molotov had been a stroke of genius, he was certain. The last thing Russia needed was a situation when the coup was carried out with British and American tanks closing in on Moscow. That… would give the Allies too much control over Russia, too much influence over the population.
“Are you certain that this will work?” She snapped. Trotsky, who’d seen her break the neck of an NKVD officer, knew better than to believe that she was the simple babushka she appeared. Her thick robes concealed body armour and enough weapons to hold off an entire NKVD force.
“Fairly certain,” Trotsky said. There were only four main combat squadrons under their command, Russian émigrés from the first revolution and their children, trained very quickly by the British and led by a handful of SAS officers. That… limited the amount that they could do very quickly, even though there were only three main targets in Moscow; the Kremlin and Red Square, Radio Moscow’s big transmitters and the new NKVD barracks, built outside the city. “Have you given the orders?”
“Yes, I have,” Natasha said. “Irina and Sergi are on their way.”
Trotsky nodded. “Then its time,” he said. “Send the signal.”
The NKVD had learned very quickly that they could no longer relay on fear to keep the population in line. The first attacks, directed against individual agents and the Moscow police, had provoked retaliation, and then the second attacks had been even more brutal. The entire terrorist campaign had been incredibly frustrating for Beria, before he died, and the NKVD was on the verge of collapse.
Stalin had ordered them to send more forces to Moscow, knowing that whoever controlled Moscow had a good chance of holding the rest of Russia, and ordered them moved into the barracks outside the city. Marshal Kliment Voroshilov, the commander of the 1st Guards, had ordered them to patrol the city, even under attack. The NKVD had been under constant attack ever since, and they had even lost a handful of tanks. Recovering one that had been overrun by the underground had been a relief; they had enough problems with Molotov Cocktails without facing tanks as well.
The NKVD driver took the tank back to the barracks, noticing that it needed some repairs, and left it in the tank park. The tank was indeed moving sluggishly; it had been fitted with a concealed FAE bomb. When Trotsky sent the signal, the FAE bomb exploded, sending a massive wave of fire blasting across the NKVD tank farm. When Voroshilov would call for their services, the stunned survivors would be in no shape to help anyone, not even themselves.
Molotov heard the shouting even as his black car entered Red Square. An obviously scared NKVD officer checked his papers, passing over half of the checks he was supposed to make, just to remain out of sight. He glanced behind him and gasped; nearly the entire population of Moscow was on the streets, shouting slogans that would shock Stalin, who would almost certainly be on the verge of having Voroshilov open fire on the crowds.
“Down with Stalin,” they shouted, a massive chant that echoed around the buildings, cowing the NKVD guards. Firing on Poles was one thing – everyone knew that the Polish people were eternal enemies of the Russian Rodina – but to fire on so many of their own people? They’d been reminded of their own mortality; they knew that nemesis was at hand.
“Down with Stalin… Down with Stalin…”
Molotov moved as fast as he could. The NKVD guards seemed almost pleased to see him; Stalin hadn’t issued any orders at all. “Take me to Marshal Kliment Voroshilov,” he commanded, using the Marshal’s full name to avoid confusion. “At once.”
The guard who was supposed to escort him directly to Stalin didn’t argue. “This way, Comrade,” he said, and led him into a small room in the Kremlin. Marshal Kliment Voroshilov looked up at Molotov as he entered.
“Ah, Molotov,” he said. “You do know that they were throwing your cocktails around earlier?”
Molotov glared at him. “Don’t try to be suave,” he snapped. “It doesn’t suit you.” Voroshilov scowled at him. “What are you going to do?”
Voroshilov picked up a machine pistol. “Do?” He asked. “I’m just calling for reinforcements, and then we’re going to blast that rabble away from the Kremlin.”
“No,” Molotov said. His tone was flat. “Voroshilov, that’s the entire population, more or less, and they’re armed. You start a fight and it will end with us being hung over the statues of Comrade Stalin.” A thought struck him. “Where is Comrade Stalin?”
“He’s gone into the underground tunnels,” Voroshilov said. His tone was full of glee. “He’ll meet up with the 1st Guards outside the city and…”
Molotov cursed. He’d thought that Stalin would have stood it out until the end. Clearly the dictator had decided that using the link to the Moscow Underground, which had been sealed ever since the unrest had broken out, was safer than staying around to fight. God only knew where he might have gone…