“Lavrenty Pavlovich believes that he is on the verge of a breakthrough,” Stalin said, breaking into his thoughts with ease. “The discontented elements would be rounded up with ease, once he gets all the people into place. Then… we will have a peaceful Russia again.”
Molotov didn’t shake his head, but he knew that Beria was lying. One of his people worked in the new NKVD headquarters – the third they’d had since Trotsky had begun his campaign – and he’d reported that Beria was becoming more and more desperate than ever. In fact, he half-suspected that Beria was attempting to negotiate with Trotsky, although even Molotov couldn’t begin to imagine what he thought he could offer Trotsky, who’d publicly promised to hang Beria when the revolution came. The NKVD had no clues, no time, and its morale was dropping sharply.
A distant explosion echoed through the room. Stalin didn’t move; he seemed to have fallen into a rapt contemplation of Trotsky’s execution when he had caught. Molotov hesitated; should he slip out or stay? A second explosion, more distant than the first, announced yet another strike at Stalin’s regime. He sighed, very quietly.
“We will proceed at once with strikes against the continental United States,” Stalin said suddenly. Molotov jumped. “We have mass produced the long-range missiles, some of which will be hurled at America and tipped with high explosive. They will help to remind the Americans that we can hurt them.”
“The Germans have suggested other targets, based upon their satellite images,” Molotov said. “If we put the American soldiers in England out of action, we will be able to slow down their invasion of Europe.” He scowled; he knew that the missiles were almost certainly grossly unreliable. “They might be forced to give us another year to prepare our weapons and defences.”
“Indeed,” Stalin said. “Comrade Voroshilov informs me that the Stalin Line is fully ready for any challenge from the west.”
Molotov scowled. Not only was Voroshilov incompetent, he was also a liar. With all of the unrest in the western USSR, the Stalin Line might be stabbed in the back. Even with the massive fortifications around cities and industrial plants, the entire defence rested upon the tacit cooperation of the citizens.
“We will do as you suggest and add our missiles to those hitting Britain,” he said. “Perhaps a few could be hurled at America as well.” He smiled. “Comrade, we’ll come out of this stronger and the Revolution will be triumphant.”
Whose revolution? Molotov thought, but he was wise enough not to ask aloud. Stalin would not have been amused. He might even have decided to have Molotov executed in front of him. Thoughtfully, absently, Molotov began to consider other options, for his own personal survival, if nothing else.
Chapter Thirty-Three: Sunset
HIMS Musashi
Sea of Japan, Japan
16th May 1942
Admiral Yamamoto took personal command of the battleship himself as she slid out of the harbour, setting her course for Tokyo Bay. Only the certain knowledge that Musashi could have been destroyed at any moment by British missiles saved him from fretting; it had been a long time since he’d dared to order anything larger than a destroyer onto the seas. He scowled inwardly; what he was about to do could be considered treason, and certainly would be considered so by the militarists who controlled Japan.
He knew once again the bitterness of despair. There had been no warning, none at all, that the war was about to expand, not even a hint that the junta was going to launch an attack on the American fleet. It had failed, and the Americans had declared war… and Japan was doomed. It had been doomed before, he knew, but somehow having the Americans against him made it all final.
He took his seat in the mighty battleship’s map room before any of the young officers saw the tears dripping from his eyes. It had all seemed so reasonable, so long ago, to start the war and end it quickly – but that had been before the cream of the navy had been destroyed and the army broken at Singapore and Australia. The junta pointed to the vast tracts of Burma and China they held – ironically, they had come very close to success against the Chinese now that the Russians had betrayed their Chinese allies – but Yamamoto knew that it was illusion. The British had left the forces in Burma alone, but they only had to launch an attack, and it would be theirs. As for China…
He shuddered. Competing warlords, now that Mao and Chiang Kai-Shek were dead, were tearing the country apart, spreading the Japanese diseases still further into China. He had once hoped that Japan would bring peace with honour to China, but that had been before Nanking, before the decision to fight to the end. Perhaps, with enough time, the army’s colony in Manchuria would have grown rich and powerful, but Yamamoto knew that there wasn’t enough time for that.
He wandered onto the deck, wondering how the sailors felt. They hated the army; in the end, it had been easy to convince them to fight against the army, and the Naval Infantry had been more than willing to fight. Their transports followed Musashi, bobbing about on the ocean, and some of them had been sent ahead. Seizing the docks was important – and the Naval Infantry had been charged with their defence.
Idiots, Yamamoto thought, thinking about the junta. It would have been so much easier for them if they had considered the possibility of peace, even to the point of offering a truce. But it had been the one thing that Japanese culture could not have allowed; even in hindsight – Yurina had introduced him to something called alternate history – there was no way of changing events in the mind. How could there have been?
He sighed, feeling the cold spray against his small body. From Japan’s emergence as a modern state, to the first major war against a European power, to the end of the first Great War, Japan had been treated as a second-rate power at best. Denied resource-rich colonies, they had been at the mercy of those who faced – and lost to – Adolf Hitler. Roosevelt’s outright blackmail, which no one had understood was forcing the Japanese into a corner, had brought Japan to the stark choice of war, or eternal submission.
Would it have been different? He asked himself, again and again, and knew that it would never have been different. The choice remained the same, with or without the future Britain; submit or fight. And now… the Japanese faced extermination; thousands were starving to death even as Yamamoto finally moved to end the war. For millions, his action would be too late, for millions more; his actions would be the only thing that saved them from death, be it slow or quick.
Deep within his mighty heart, Admiral Yamamoto confirmed his decision – and hardened his heart for what lay ahead.
HMS Ark Royal
Sea of Japan
16th May 1942
“Sir, the Musashi is on its way,” the duty officer said. “It looks as if Yamamoto is keeping his word.”
Admiral Turtledove nodded. The Ark Royal, the Illustrious and the two converted tankers had slipped into the Sea of Japan, surrounded and protected by forty surface ships and seven nuclear submarines. Two more shadowed Musashi; if Yamamoto was planning a strike against the British, he wouldn’t live to regret it.