Ian Slater - Rage of Battle

“I have taken steps to cover that eventuality, Comrade.”

“How?”

“Sir, the officer in charge of covert operations is an Aleut-Bering — no relation to the explorer. He has things well in hand. The trawlers carry Grail surface-to-air missiles. Infrared homing. Fired off the shoulder. Bering’s trawler brought down the Hercules.”

“And the Americans never picked it up on their radar?”

‘ “That’s what I mean — he’s very resourceful. He fired it off a volcanic caldera. There is often volcanic ash clogging the engines. But Bering is very careful. He ‘volunteered’ to the American Commander to look for possible Soviet missile sites on the nearby islands. Not surprisingly, he’s found nothing. That’s what I call initiative.”

The deputy minister concurred. “So you’re sure he will be able to neutralize the Adak radar and communications installation? I hope he has more than Grail AA rockets for that.”

“He has,” answered Marchenko. “We pay him very well. He’ll keep Adak Naval Station more than occupied while our paratroopers are landing elsewhere on the island and closing in.”

“When do you suggest we initiate the plan? If I’m to support you, I’ll need documentation and—”

Marchenko reached into his vest pocket and extracted a five-by-seven satellite photo of a carrier and battleship battle group. “The carrier is the Salt Lake City. The battleship, we are almost certain, is the refurbished Missouri — the Seventh Fleet off Korea. Elements of the Third Fleet from Hawaii are also en route from Hawaii. Strictly speaking, the Aleutians are the Third Fleet’s responsibility. So you see, the very fact the Americans are also taking one carrier battle group, the Salt Lake City, from Korean waters shows how serious they are in trying to thwart any attack from us on the Aleutians. The only way to beat them is to go in now. With paratroops.”

The deputy minister nodded slowly. “Very well, General. You’ve managed to convince me. I’ll support you in the STAVKA.”

Marchenko sat back, relieved. “There is one thing I should tell you before the meeting is called, Deputy—”

“Yes?”

“Two of our airborne assault brigades are already on their way from Petropavlovsk on Kamchatka Peninsula — en route to the Komandorskiye Islands. They’ll make the attack from there.” He paused. “Minister, I had to put my neck out-there simply wasn’t enough time to go through channels.”

The minister’s tone was quiet. “Be careful, General. People who stick their neck out too far are likely to get it cut off.” He smiled and extended his hand.

Marchenko rose and returned the smile. As he left the deputy’s desk for the long walk out to the waiting room, he heard the telephones start ringing. “General—”

Marchenko turned around. “Comrade Deputy?”

The deputy minister was holding a receiver, one hand over the mouthpiece, waving it censoriously at the general. “What about the two divisions you have put on full alert in Khabarovsk? Without my approval? You never mentioned those.”

For the first time in years, Kiril Marchenko felt himself blush with embarrassment. “Ah — reinforcements, Minister.”

“But you don’t think we’ll need them, do you?”

“No. I don’t think they will be necessary, Comrade Deputy.”

The deputy sat back in his swivel chair, hand still over the receiver. “I hope not, General. For your sake.”

When constables Melrose and Perkins checked the Oxshott emergency ward and discovered that the man who had given his name as Corbett was indeed Mr. Corbett and a “milkman to boot,” as Perkins put it to Inspector Logan, there was relief and embarrassment all around. Relief for Logan because he hadn’t completely bungled the attempted catch of Mr. Wilkins, whose wife had lied about him being home to protect her milkman lover. Embarrassment for Mrs. Wilkins, who, following the inspector’s threat to charge the milkman, admitted to Logan and the two constables that her husband was in Southampton, where he was ostensibly assessing damage wreaked upon a convoy for the purposes of apportioning government reimbursement to the shipping lines whose merchant ships had been requisitioned.

Logan and the two constables took the 6:20 to Southampton. They were delayed at Woking because of track torn up by a Russian rocket attack between Woking and Basingstoke, necessitating a detour via Farnborough and Guildford and a late arrival in Southampton at 10:30 p.m. A light drizzle was falling through the blackout as they got out of the Southampton police car and approached the Westward Arms pub on the Southampton dockside. The contrast between the cold, bleak darkness from which they had come and the hearty, warm, noisy pub was striking, Logan commenting that he hadn’t seen such thick clouds of cigarette smoke since prewar days.

“Whole ruddy navy must be here,” said Perkins.

Wilkins was well dressed in a brown suit, but even his tailor couldn’t hide his beer belly.

“ ‘Ello, ‘ello!” someone called out at the sight of the policemen. “Anybody smell coppers?”

There was ragged laughter, someone else shouting, “You’re for it!” to the bar in general. Wilkins was turning, with a pint of Guinness in one hand and a gin and orange in the other, when he saw the inspector in his tweed jacket, cap still on, and the two constables by his side. His face changed from a merry pink to ash white.

“Mr. Wilkins? James G. Wilkins of Hemes Street, Oxshott?”

Wilkins nodded, someone shouting at him, “I want you to ‘elp us wiv our inquiries?”

Logan had the charge card out and was reading Wilkins his rights, Perkins and Melrose watching their flanks. It was a tough crowd — mostly merchant seamen getting well and truly sozzled after the harrowing Atlantic run.

“Come along,” Logan told Wilkins. Wilkins looked pained. “What’ll I do with these?” he asked plaintively, looking at the drinks.

“I’ll ‘ave the Guinness, mate,” said a distinctly Australian drawl. “Who’s the lolly water for?”

“It isn’t lolly water,” Wilkins said.

“No worry,” said the Australian, “I’ll drink it, too.”

Perkins drew the inspector’s attention to a young woman getting up from one of the cubicles. Logan nodded, and Perkins made his way through the drinkers toward her. Wilkins was still standing immobilized, holding the drinks.

“Might as well give them to Ned Kelly,” Logan advised him, indicating the Australian. “We’ll give you a chit for them if you like,” Logan added, intent on following procedure to the letter.

“Jesus,” said the Aussie, laughing, “free booze!”

Logan feared a rush on the bar. “Cuff him, Melroad.”

Melrose did as he was told and, amid a solid chorus of boos and “You bastards!” led Wilkins out.

“I’m innocent,” said Wilkins, looking about in the darkness, feeling the pull of the handcuffs.

“Of what?” said Logan as he hit the cold, bracing air.

Wilkins looked from one policeman to the other. “I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s a start,” said Logan. “Eh, Melroad?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Melrose dutifully.

‘“You have the lady, Melroad?” asked Logan.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Into the car, then.”

Logan was jollier than Melrose thought he had a right to be. They’d darn near botched what Oxshott station was already dubbing the case of the “pummeled pumpkin.” Nevertheless, Melrose felt a sense of achievement himself, and the warmth from the “lady” against him helped. Then, as they were leaving the dockside, he caught a glimpse of one of the ships in the convoy, her list near to capsize point, and he wondered how many men had died on her because of spies. He heard Logan calling in Scotland Yard’s CID. The Criminal Investigation Division would add an extra shine to Logan’s glory. If Wilkins talked.