Gorky Park
Bench #287
August 16th, 1946
The leaves are starting to turn colors, and the air is full of the smells of fall. Two lone figures sit on the bench, engaged in animated conversation. It is clear from their manner that this conversation is not intended to be overheard. Not far away plain-clothes agents of the NKVD stand watch, keeping roving eyes and ears out of range.
One of the debaters is a big man, with big features. You would have no trouble seeing the former heavyweight boxer he once was. He is not a figure who blends in well in a crowd. He is also not the type of person that you can ignore. Yet, his advice is being ignored.
By contrast the other is a weasel of a man. Small close-set eyes and fast movements, with extreme hand gestures that distract most people from listening to what he has to say. Over the years he has climbed his way through the Communist Party leadership. What he lacks in physical stature, he more than compensates for in political prowess. He is not a man who can be easily intimidated anymore.
Both men are wary of each other, like the boxer that one once was and the political animal that the other has become, and whose skills he has mastered. To most ears the conversation would not make much sense, yet the outcome would have major consequences for the outcome of the Third World War. In the end, both are just making educated guesses. It is a roll of the dice, as to whom history will judge in what role; one will be known as a military genius and the other, one of the greatest fools of all time.
If the dice rolls one way, the point of view of the Boxer will look as if he possessed a crystal ball; if the dice rolls the other way, his name will be lost to the vagaries of history, and his logic will never see the light of day. The same is true for the Weasel. If his number is rolled he will be hailed as the greatest military mind of the Third World War. If his number fails to be rolled, he will be looked at as the Maurice Gamelin of this war: A General who used old ideas, to fight a new war.
But what are these new realities? Whose vision will turn out to be brilliant? Whose will turn out to have the same effect as General Gamelin’s? If the right choices are made, recent developments by Sergo Peshkov and his team will win the war for Stalin. If the wrong choices are made, it doesn’t matter how many breakthroughs or new weapons systems are developed.
The Boxer lives in a world of simple rules and logic. You need certain basic necessities to run a modern military. The Weasel lives in a world of politics, where ideas matter more than logic; where the human mind is more important than any physical reality. If you think you are defeated, then you are.
Both viewpoints have won wars in the past. And both have also lost wars in the past. Once again, a choice must be made.
Transcaucasia Front Headquarters
Tblisi, Georgian S.S.R.
August 18th, 1946
An imposing figure; Marshal Maslennikov, in full-dress uniform, storms around his office in a fit of rage, emptying desktops of their contents with a sweep of his arm. Papers flew through the air seeming to flee his wrath. Objects slammed against the walls, some breaking, leaving shards of once-priceless porcelain and ceramic littering the floor. His aide is the only reluctant witness, to what can only be called a tantrum and tries to stay out of the way. The Marshal utters not a word or a sound as he systematically destroys his office in an orgy of violence.
Finally he regains control of himself and just stands in the middle of the destroyed room breathing heavily, yet not moving, nor saying a word. He stands stock-still for four minutes by his aide’s watch. Slowly he takes out a comb, and combs his hair meticulously back into place. His eyes seem to come back into focus, as if coming back from the dark place to which they had gone, and he finally regains enough control to speak.
“Tell Zhukov that I will of course, obey his orders, but stress my strongest objection to his transferring the majority of our air assets to the Channel Front. Stress again the reports of increased movement of NATO and American units to the islands of Rhodes, Crete and Cyprus. Stress again the increased movement of supplies to Northern Africa. Stress again the complete absence of American heavy bombers in Europe and the lack of information as to their locations and dispositions; stress again that under my command and protection are fully 70% of the oil production facilities of the Motherland. Stress again that NATO has many bases within range of these facilities. Stress again my total and unfaltering objection to this order. Stress again…”
“I sent Popenchenko to convince that weasel, Fedoseyev. He assured me that my views were well-known. How can they be so blind to the threat? How can they be so stupid…?”
The Marshal‘s aide finally senses the time is right and speaks for the first time since the tirade started ten minutes ago.
“Please Marshal, you will only get yourself in trouble or worse, if you persist. I beg of you to follow orders as best you can, and to not stand in the way of Comrade Stalin’s wishes. Please, Marshal, for all of our sakes.”
Maslennikov’s shoulders droop just a fraction of an inch, as he again stands still for what seems like an eternity. His aide has seen this kind of body language before from his commander and knows that the danger has passed, momentarily. Internally he breathes a sigh of relief for he knows the worst is over and Maslennikov has come back to his senses. Thank God the powerful have some privacy in which to vent their frustrations. The rest of us must always be on our guard and must never let them see our true feelings. Maybe it is that kind of passion that makes the powerful the way they are. Always convinced they are right with never a doubt.
Well, the aide thinks, I pray that he is wrong this time.
Finally Maslennikov speaks.
“Order the units transferred Pavel, and then have this place cleaned up. Call my driver… I’m going home.”
“Yes Marshal Maslennikov. I shall see that it is done, right away.”
Chapter Twenty-Three:
Intimidation
On the French coast
August 15, 1946
Just a taste of winter to come is felt in the onshore breeze. There is no doubt that winter is coming yet there is the possibility of clear skies and temperate temperatures for months to come. The Soviets have always fought well in foul weather, and the mild winters of the English Channel region appear to have not entered into their debit column. In fact, spending a few months on the French coast is eminently preferable to Moscow and sub-zero temperatures. It is a curious fact is that Moscow and London are within five degrees’ latitude of each other. The difference lies in the warm waters of the Atlantic’s Gulf Current keeping Britain so comparatively mild.
The stated aims of the Soviet Army are to prevent the United Kingdom from being used as an airbase for the bombing of Europe and the Soviet Union. It makes no difference if it is the weather, or Soviet fighters that prevent such raids from occurring. If the weather is bad, then the bombers can’t take off. If it is good, then the Battle for Britain II will take place. Either way, there will be no bombing of Western Europe and Western Soviet Union from planes based in Britain, and that is just what the STAVKA intends to happen.