Though the bulldozers were a vital part of that plan there were also thousands of German prisoners of war toiling in the early autumn sun. A handful of them might have been involved in the last attempt to defeat the Royal Air Force. The overall objective for one side was the same… survive the coming onslaught. The other side had learned from the defeat of the Germans in 1940 and was sure to have developed alternative tactics that they would attempt to use.
The end result for the Soviets was intended to be not invasion. It was to clear the skies above Great Britain, and prevent them from ever again attacking Europe; forever safeguarding the Motherland. It was intended to prevent the Americans from ever again using Britain as an unsinkable aircraft carrier or as a springboard for invasion. It was to defeat utterly, the RAF, and to prevent it from rising to the defense of the skies above Great Britain ever again.
The Soviets had spent six months modifying their fighters for longer range, higher altitudes and now thousands of them could extend their reach over 600 miles out, from the coast of the English Channel. They could now reach for the skies, like the Americans. Virtually all of the United Kingdom was within range of the fighter force of the Red Army Air Forces.
The Soviets watched, as the Luftwaffe failed because their fighters could not stay long enough over their targets. How they could not reach many parts of Britain. How the Battle of Britain was lost when the Germans diverted their attention from Fighter Command to bombing the cities. How the Luftwaffe ran out of trained pilots, before the RAF did.
Soon it would be time to see if the RAF had adapted as well; new radars, new jet fighters, new AA guns, new AA shells, with proximity fuses. Would this be enough to overcome five-to-one odds? In the first Battle of Britain the RAF managed to shoot down just over one and a half planes, for each of their losses. In the end they actually lost more fighters than the Germans
In the next Battle of Britain this will be a recipe for their defeat. Where are the Americans? Will they come in time?
Off Kotlin Island,
Near Leningrad
August 24th, 1946
A massive crane strains at the cable and gradually the fishing net and its cargo break the surface. The small group involuntarily flinches as the shape of the contents becomes apparent. Although dented and broken in three places, its shape is unmistakable: a bomb; a huge, life-destroying, bomb.
“It is incredible that we found it in shallow water, on board the third B-29 wreckage we examined. It appears that the pilot deliberately wanted to crush his plane as much as possible but the plane was so damaged that he didn’t have much control. He was a brave man. I believe he could have escaped with his life and his crews if they didn’t try so hard to destroy their cargo.”
“Very lucky indeed comrade. Lucky for us, and unlucky for the capitalist pigs. Do you really think we can gain anything from that mess?”
“I personally don’t think we can. We already have all the plans so this is just merely physical proof of what we already know and it’s so damaged. I really don’t see how much it can help. Comrade Stalin likely wants to use it as a bargaining chip or for propaganda purposes. Maybe he’ll use it to scare the NATO generals into doing something stupid or threaten to use it on England and make them sue for peace.”
“But… it’s damaged beyond repair!”
“Yes, but the NATO pigs don’t know that. We can use it to mask some of the activities of our spies. It will be hard to tell if the knowledge we gained comes from them or this wreck and they will realize soon that we have gained a significant amount of knowledge.”
“Well, I just hope it comes in time.”
The harsh light of the office was hard on his tired eyes. The smell of the basement office hadn’t changed in years. He had been passed up for promotion a dozen times, and it was time to think about retirement. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to. Too many mysteries to solve; too many unanswered questions.
It was lunch time and all his colleagues were heading out to the lunch room. He didn’t have to eat much anymore. He didn’t exercise or perform manual labor, so his food intake was minimal. He hated to exercise anyway. That was for insecure muscle-men who were afraid of getting sand kicked in their faces. You know, the kind that of guy that answered those ads in the back of magazines. They always seemed to be short guys anyway.
At six feet and two inches he was not short. However he was decidedly out of shape. Of course in 1946 there was no emphasis on fitness. Most people still worked manual labor jobs, and the thought of exercise was not a priority. The new phenomenon of the couch potato was poised to invade the modern psyche but not quite yet. Kids still played outside and people still worked with their hands. A suntan meant that you were a manual laborer and was not a sign of what some might consider a high social status. Everyone smoked and drank to varying degrees.
Many homes even had little bars in them, where friends would gather after a good meal, in each other’s homes. People delighted in taking turns being host and hostess, having their peers over for dinner and drinks. That was what weekends were custom-made for.
Not for Crenshaw though. He had remained unmarried and was quite frankly, uninterested at this point in his life. His work was his life. He had no hobbies and no distractions; just his paper-pushing job, and the Soviet missiles… which, by the way, was not his job. His boss had made that abundantly clear. He made him give back all the blackboards he had setup, and ordered him to not work on the Soviet missile issue.
How had he put it? “Forget about Stalin’s goddamned missiles and concentrate on your own goddamned job!”
He worked on the problem in his spare time. How were they doing it? What was the guidance system? He’d figure it out, if it took him the rest of his life; which was, as it happened, only another twelve months.
Lung cancer, undetected and untreated, was in the early stages of forming. A lifelong smoker Crenshaw had been unknowingly doomed since he was 36. If he had only known had stopped then, the damage could have been reversed… but he didn’t, and it won’t. He was a dead man walking thanks to Pall Mall cigarettes, the only brand he ever smoked. After all Santa smoked Pall Mall and “puff by puff… you’re always ahead;” which of course, he was.
He was going to die a full fifteen years ahead of his non-smoking identical twin brother.
