Ian Slater - Rage of Battle

“Oh,” replied the minister of war, “and what do you think our Pacific Fleet will be doing? Nothing?”

Kiril Marchenko pulled another Marlboro from his pack, taking his time to light it. Premier Suzlov appeared to be doodling, not paying attention, but Marchenko believed he was listening — intently.

“The Far Eastern Fleet will be attacking the Japanese,” said Marchenko, shifting the gold Dunhill lighter close to the packet of cigarettes.

“Exactly, Comrade,” said the minister of war, sitting back, relieved. “Exactly. So therefore why do we need so many divisions on the—”

“And the Taiwanese,” put in Marchenko. “Our fleet will have to deal with the Taiwanese.”

The minister of war shook his head. “No, my friend. Taipei hates the Japanese as much as the mainland Chinese do. And not just because Japan and Taiwan have been competitors in the capitalist system. No — it goes back much farther than that.”

“I know,” said Marchenko.

The minister of war was enveloped by the cloud of smoke from the American cigarette. “Kiril,” he said slowly, leaning forward, short, stubby fingers clasped on the baize, “my good friend. Tokyo will never team up with Taipei to try for Manchuria or for our raw materials in the East. It would be the guarantee of a future war between them. Splitting the spoils. You know how these capitalists are.”

“I disagree,” responded Marchenko. “Tokyo will team up with the devil to get more materials, war or no war. Together with Germany, she is the powerhouse of the West. But her stockpiles, for all her cunning, are limited, Minister. Oil from the Middle East, cheap coal from Canada, bauxite from Australia. It must all come by sea. And—” Marchenko looked about quickly but intensely at everyone at the table, making sure the premier was alert to his point. “And all of it must come a long way — thousands of miles by sea.” He shook his head knowingly and blew out a long stream of grayish smoke. “She is overextended, my friends. I agree that, for the moment at least, a Taiwanese attack on Manchuria is not likely. Our intelligence confirms that U.S. President Mayne has warned Taiwan not to do anything against China as long as China doesn’t attack the U.S.”

“Attack the U.S.?” asked the minister for war. “Where? China is five thousand miles from—”

“By sending Chinese troops across the Yalu,” put in Marchenko. “Into Korea. Korea is stabilized now after the Freeman airborne attack opened it up for the Americans to counterattack. The Americans don’t want any escalation of war in Asia.”

“Then you are arguing against yourself,” charged the minister of war. “There is no danger of Taiwan attacking. And if Japan makes a move against our Far East flank first, they will have to contend with our fleet of submarines and surface warships out of Vladivostok.”

“Very good,” answered Marchenko, “but I think they might try for Sakhalin Island. It’s rich in raw materials. You will recall that the Japanese called it Karafuto until we took it away from them at the end of World War Two. It is less than a hundred miles from Hokkaido. They could be there before our fleet way down in Vladivostok knew about it. And even if Vladivostok did find out, our fleet could never catch them in time. I can’t think of a more opportune time for them to move — while we are preoccupied in Europe.” Suzlov stopped doodling, looking up to see whether Kiril Marchenko’s thesis had surprised the rest of the STAVKA as much as it had him. It had.

“We would annihilate them,” said the minister of war confidently.

Marchenko leaned forward from across the table and offered the minister a Marlboro. The minister accepted it, smiling but nonplussed all the same. “Then,” said Marchenko, lighting the cigarette for him, “you will need soldiers.”

There was a silence invaded only by the intermittent clanking noise somewhere in the air ventilation system. Marchenko, holding his cigarette in the Western manner, unlike the minister for war, indicated the strategic map of the USSR across from them. It covered the entire wall: eleven time zones, its sheer vastness impressive even on paper. The war minister and everyone else at the table knew full well that once the Far Eastern divisions were raided for manpower and entrained westward — itself a logistical nightmare — the Far Eastern borders would be irrevocably weakened. Apart from Japan, there were the Chinese. There were always the Chinese. One point two billion of them at your back door. “Remember,” cautioned Marchenko, “when Chairman Khrushchev threatened Mao over Damansky Island. He told Mao, ‘We could invade China at a moment’s notice. A press of the button and you will have a million dead,’ to which the Great Helmsman replied, ‘A million less to feed. You would drown in our blood.’ “

“Then what are we to do?” the war minister asked Marchenko irritably. “About the NATO front?”

“We are sending in SPETS now,” put in the minister responsible for special forces. “Comrade Marchenko suggested we try further attacks behind their lines to take pressure off Marshal Kirov’s forces while they are being regrouped and refitted for the final attack on the Dortmund-Bielefeld pocket.”

“And how do the SPETS get there?” asked the general for logistics and supply.

“They will walk in,” said Marchenko, shifting his gaze west from Siberia to Western Europe. “In British and American uniforms.”

“The Allies aren’t fools,” said the minister of war. “They’ll catch on to that soon enough.”

“Of course,” conceded Marchenko, “but how long do you think it will take them, Minister? Hannover is sending in SPETS even as we talk.”

“Where the American airborne were dropped?” asked a brigadier general.

Marchenko turned, making sure he would remember the face. The man was quick. “Yes,” said Marchenko. “Exactly.”

“I expect,” said the minister of war, his tone tinged with sarcasm, “NATO will get onto it within a week. And then they’ll refuse to take any of our forces prisoner in retaliation.”

“A week!” said Kiril, smiling broadly, his cigarette jutting out from both hands, which were clasped in front of him as he smiled, positively buoyed by the minister’s assessment. “A week! We estimate only three days, Minister. We only need one decent raid on the monster depot at Munster and the whole pocket will be down to eating rats and using slingshots within a week.”

“If,” put in the admiral for the Northern Fleet, “the convoys resupply them.”

“Will they?” Kiril’s speed in turning the admiral’s question into a demand — almost an accusation against the admiral — took everyone by surprise. Suzlov was watching the admiral intently.

“I–I don’t think so,” replied the navy chief, clearly rattled but trying to rise quickly to the occasion. “We have a new strategy. Also — we have been — ah — gathering much better reports on shipping movements in and out of the English ports. Our intelligence agent networks in England are working extremely well. The more accurate the departure and arrival times, what ships are due where, the better chance we will have of sending in low air strikes across the English Channel… to specific targets… chop them up before they can even scramble their fighters.”

“Good,” said Kiril. “It’s imperative that we strike at both ends of the problem. At the convoys and at the pocket.”

“In a month,” predicted the admiral, “their rollover convoys will have rolled flat and sunk.”

There was hearty laughter, much of it released from the tension between Marchenko and the minister for war. Nevertheless, Suzlov wanted to know what made the admiral so confident. Such promises he knew were not made idly; the man who said no one could reach Red Square without him knowing it was quickly replaced after the young West German, Rust, had landed on Red Square in a light aircraft.