Robert Conroy - Red Inferno

Acheson stiffened. Now it comes, he thought.

“The Soviet Union will both release the men we have taken as prisoners and permit the force in Potsdam to depart upon your agreeing to the following conditions: First, you will not attempt any further offensive actions against the Soviet army.”

Acheson mentally concurred. There were no plans to do any such thing, anyhow. “I presume you will permit us to continue our supply efforts and provide us with a list of those Americans being held prisoner.”

“Certainly. The second condition is that you will disavow any rights to Berlin, which our brave socialist comrades have taken and hold by right of conquest. Further, the zones of occupation that were to have been divided among the United States, Great Britain, and, at your insistence, France, shall now be limited to the Rhineland and the area just to the northwest of Switzerland. You will not occupy any of Austria.”

The fifty-two-year-old Acheson was stunned, and Natalie was hard-pressed to keep her emotions in check. She spoke for the first time. “That, Ambassador Gromyko, is not what was agreed to at Yalta.”

Gromyko shrugged, as if dismissing the query of a small and not particularly bright child. “Women should not be involved in these sorts of discussions.”

Despite his pious-sounding statement, he had been undressing Natalie with his eyes. She was used to this sort of treatment and simply glared at him. Gromyko represented all that she hated. People like him had destroyed her family.

Natalie responded angrily. “I am involved because your people tried to kill me.”

Gromyko was unmoved. “You and your lover, Colonel Burke, had something that belonged to us. It was considered quite important at the time. However, there was no attempt on your life. You imagined it. My men may have gotten overzealous in an attempt to halt you and recover our property, but they have been chastised, and, after all, nothing came of it. Colonel Korzov has returned to Moscow for reassignment following his indiscretion. Regardless, neither you nor Colonel Burke are of any interest to us. You may do whatever you wish without any paranoid fears. Neither you, nor Burke, nor your mother are of any interest to us.”

Natalie tried not to gasp. Korzov reassigned? Probably to a grave. And how the devil did he know about her mother?

“Secretary Acheson and Miss Holt, the Yalta agreement no longer applies; in fact, it no longer exists. When you attacked the Russian army you repudiated it. You should be fortunate that the Soviet Union, which has suffered twenty million dead at the hands of the Hitlerites, is permitting you any voice whatsoever in the future of Germany. I agree with Premier Stalin and Comrade Molotov that our terms are most generous.”

“Ambassador,” Acheson persisted, “that sort of settlement would be unacceptable to the American people. It would be as if all our efforts in Europe were for nothing. We too paid a debt in blood and cannot simply walk away from it.”

Gromyko stared at the ceiling. It was as if further discussion of a closed topic bored him. “What the American people think is of absolutely no concern. You should be more strict with them. As is Comrade Stalin, for instance, with those who do not see his vision for a united peoples’ Europe.”

“I am well aware how your government treats those who disagree with it,” Natalie said acidly. “I would not think it something to be proud of.”

The comment appeared to amuse Gromyko. “Your opinions are of no concern to me, Miss Holt. I am well aware that your parents were traitors to the Soviet Union.”

The comment stunned her. How did Gromyko know so much about her background? Or were there Soviet sympathizers in the State Department who would leak that sort of information? Perhaps some State Department employees were being blackmailed. She might have been vulnerable if her mother’s past hadn’t already become common knowledge within State. But what about others? The FBI was already checking. What would they find?

Gromyko turned to Acheson. “If you were implying that acceptance of our most generous terms will cost Mr. Truman his office, then I am utterly unsympathetic. Having permitted this insanity to occur, it is likely that he is incompetent and should go. We can deal with his replacement as readily as we do him, and our terms will not change.”

Gromyko rose, signaling an end to the short meeting. “Please convey my regards to Mr. Stettinius and Mr. Truman, and inform them of our terms. Also please inform them that we expect a favorable response in a very short time. We cannot permit the remnants of that annoying Miller Force to remain very long where they are. It is only our innate generosity that has allowed us to permit your planes to drop food and medical supplies to them without interference. Good day, Mr. Acheson, Miss Holt.”

Captain Mack Walters truly liked piloting the military version of the Piper Cub. Unlike most pilots who lusted after the chance to fly fighters, or, second choice, bombers, the thirty-year-old Walters was quite happy flying low and slow scouting missions. He was a good pilot, but knew his limitations. In a dogfight, his lack of lightning reflexes would surely get him killed, and he really was terrified at the thought of hauling around a B-17. He was firmly convinced that aircraft that large were not intended to fly. Besides, he would have had to share the plane with others, while his current little craft was usually his and his alone, even though there was room for one more person. This left him plenty of time for reflection and contemplation.

He did not think about the unique hazards of his job, that flying a slow, unarmed plane over enemy territory would have struck some people as utter insanity. Mack enjoyed it. He liked to joke that everyone from Texas was just a little crazy anyhow, and damn few people argued with him.

Beneath him, golden sunlight reflected off the Elbe. U.S. forces were on the western side of it and the Russians on the east. His assignment was simple-to see if he could figure out what the Russians were up to as they settled in on their side of the river after the debacle that had cost so many lives.

Top brass was clearly disconcerted by the numbers of Russian troops and tanks massing along the river. Just because they were there, however, didn’t mean they had intentions of doing anything but gather and wait. But wait for what?

Walters took a deep breath and turned his tiny plane eastward, flew across the river, and over the Russian area. After a moment, he exhaled loudly when it seemed that he was unnoticed. More than likely, they had seen him but thought he was too insignificant to bother with.

He climbed higher to get a better view of the unfolding panorama. “Hot Dog to Bun,” he said, cringing at the call sign his demented commanding officer had thought up. “Hot Dog to Bun. Come in, Bun.”

A tinny voice responded over the plane’s radio. “This is Bun. What do you see, Captain?”

“I see hundreds of tanks, about the same number of trucks and other vehicles, along with many, many infantry units. A lot more than I can count. It looks like still more are coming down the pike too.”

“Hot Dog, are they still parked?” the voice asked. Mack said they were. Bun sounded disappointed. “Okay, see if you can spot anything unusual.”

Walters signed off without sharing the opinion that the whole thing was fucking unusual. He was about to turn back to the Allied side of the Elbe when a strange shadow caught his eye. Something was camouflaged, and that something was rather extensive.

He dropped lower, until he was scarcely a couple hundred feet off the ground. “Shit,” he muttered in disbelief at the sight below. He got his camera and began taking pictures. He was so engrossed he didn’t see the tracers streaming toward him from the ground as he flew over his subject.