Colin Gee - Opening Moves

“In your hands you possess the plans by which the Motherland will overcome these travesties. The memory of all our comrades who gave their life’s blood will be honoured and our country will be properly rewarded for destroying the threat of Nazism forever.”

Bulganin held up his folder and moved it around so the title could be easily seen by every man. Once satisfied that all had read what he held he continued.

“Our leader’s little joke, for this is one fairytale that will come true for us, but will become a hurricane visited upon the capitalists and their lackeys.”

Even with the passion of the moment some laughs were still forced, for the older, wiser officers knew they were about to be immersed in another sea of blood and fire.

“Comrades, let us begin.”

The meeting had commenced at approx 1103 hrs. By the time it finished at 1724 hrs, every question had been answered and the overall political plan was accepted. Actually, nearly every question, because one extremely important question had not even been raised, much to the surprise of every military man present.

No one dared to ask.

The military translation of the document into formal planning would take some time. Reorganising the Soviet Military Fronts into the new formations would take weeks by itself. The Marshall responsible for the largest Front in the west suggested eight months to prepare, whilst others felt it was possible in six.

Professionally, the Generals and Marshalls felt the political plan good and fully understood the reasoning behind it. The evidence of the Western Allies’ own provocations was damning.

It was the timing that caused the major problem. So much to organise. A logistical nightmare that only time could assuage, or so their collective experience told them.

Stalin had said nothing, allowing his Deputy to field all the questions, with additional clarifications sought from Beria and, on two occasions, Colonel General Pekunin of the GRU.

Until the question of preparation was discussed. As possible timescales were being thrown out by the Marshalls, Stalin slowly rose from his chair and slowly walked round to stand in front of the table, adjacent to his deputy. That was unusual and during his short journey the voices trailed away until there was only silence and the sound of his footsteps.

The room held its collective breath.

Stalin looked directly at the Marshall who had advised the longest preparation period. “Comrade Marshall, eight months is preposterous. Six months”, he pointed directly at another senior man who had first touted this time scale, “is wholly unacceptable.” There was no argument. They now knew that Stalin has his own fixed agenda.

“The moment to strike is now” he punched his fist into his hand in emphasis, “And the more we delay, the better prepared the Western Allies will be.”

He held up his file. All eyes were drawn to it.

“You have read and discussed the contents. Comrades Beria, Bulganin, and Pekunin have answered the specifics of your enquiries and you have accepted their reasoning and information. The maskirova is already in place and working, and even as we speak, we move forces eastwards in line with our agreements with the capitalists, armies which can be diverted, following the plan cited in the section covering the involvement of the Japanese.”

“We have all we need and the time is right.”

Stalin turned and walked back round to his seat, tossing his folder noisily onto the table.

“This is no fairytale Comrades; this is reality.”

He took his chair by the back and pulled it out.

“I will expect detailed plans ready for presentation and approval when this group next convenes on 2nd July, with a view to executing the attack at the earliest favourable moment after that”, and sat down and lit his pipe, appearing about as unconcerned as if he had just ordered a dinner rather than instant Armageddon.

There was nothing but stunned silence Stalin looked around him, expecting some comments but there were none, so he continued puffing gently as his eyes swept the room.

His voice broke the strained silence.

“Place your units in the charge of your deputies if you must, but work hard and give the Motherland a plan for victory. There will be no excuse for not being ready Comrades, none.”

No one present doubted that, but such a short period of time to plan such a huge enterprise?

One Marshall, his shaven head already full of orders and maps, stood and waited to be recognised.

Stalin acknowledged him with a gesture of his head.

“Comrade General Secretary, as you say, the political plan is good and the timing is right. We can and will present the military plan but we lack vital details.”

This was the one thing that had, for some reason best known to the General Secretary, been omitted from the documents.

“Yes you are right Comrade Marshall, the details of who will command and oversee Operations.”

“Yes Comrade General Secretary.”

“That decision had not been reached until today.”

Looking around at the rest of the GKO, Stalin received the expected nods of assent from all, even though only Beria and Bulganin knew which names were to follow.

“The command of the Far East Front will be placed in the capable hands of Comrade Marshall Vasilevsky.” The recipient acknowledged his appointment by standing up and clicking to attention.

“Command of the newly created Red Banner Forces of Soviet Europe will fall to…”

Stalin’s voice trailed off and he slowly, almost theatrically, looked around the room, most managing to avoid his eye as his gaze swept over them before returning to the officer standing who had posed the question.

“Well, you of course Comrade Marshall Zhukov. Who else would we entrust this great venture to but Georgy the Victory Bringer?”

Emilia Beatriz Perlo was always in demand. She was twenty-five years of age and had all the classic Mediterranean beauty associated with her lineage, from smouldering hazel eyes framed by heavy eyelashes, shoulder length jet-black hair that hung in natural curls, through to a full and extremely curvaceous body, all of which made Emilia the subject of much attention and desire amongst her fellow scientists.

Her speciality was algebra, and in particular algebraic geometry. She was outstanding in her field, even at such a young age. Perlo’s abilities within the field of Mathematical Physics meant she stood out in a peer group of outstanding talent.

Having been sent from her native Spain in 1934 when her family saw the civil war coming, she resided with her Aunt in Washington, entering the American education system as a regular student. It was not long before her incredible talents became noticed and she was nurtured through higher education and into a government programme.

She was nineteen years old when she received the news that her father had been killed in action, fighting alongside the Nationalist forces during the Battle of Teruel on 21st February 1938.

She was twenty-one years old when her aunt sat her down and told her the truth.

Her father was not a nationalist but was a communist who had sided with the Republicans. He had remained as a spy inside the Nationalist forces, supplying information to his communist commanders and risking his life daily in the process.

In an awful twist of fate, he was accidentally shot by a nationalist soldier when clandestinely returning to his encampment after contacting another republican agent with vital information. The nationalists honoured him with a full military funeral as befitted his major’s rank and status, and the Republican hierarchy mourned his passing and the loss of intelligence they would now sustain.