Armageddon - Leon Uris

Tony gave a sour “ugh, girls” look and trotted off with his sister.

Hilde looked beautiful; he offered her his arm but she ignored it.

“Wouldn’t like to see a dull, immature, spoiled flyer from time to time, would you?”

“Captain Davidson, the kind of friendship I am interested in goes against your manly nature.”

“I thought about that and I’d like to see you anyhow. Maybe I’m maturing?” He was eating crow now and there was no use rubbing it in.

“I accept your apology because I believe you mean it now. However, I do not wish to see you.”

Hilde did not believe in platonic relationships between men and women. It might begin that way with the best of intentions; sooner or later it would drift toward sex. With a man like the flyer, sooner. In Berlin, in the old days, she had been too self-centered to be excited by the beginning of a romance. Later, a deep hatred of men was born.

Some of it had mellowed in the home of Colonel Smith and of the Loveless family. Now wisdom told her that there were good men and there was good love in the world, but she always excluded herself from the possibility.

They gathered the children, crossed the street, continued quietly.

“Don’t get angry,” Scott said after a time, “but I learned that you never go out on dates.”

“Life is much more simple that way,” she answered.

“I promise I won’t complicate things.”

It had been a lonely year for Hilde. Scott was charming and he could be controlled now that she had his absolute respect. She knew she was trying to fool herself because in three or four dates he would return to being what he really was. Yet, she did not want to send him off again. They came to the head of the colonnade.

“Why don’t we have that milk shake,” she said. “I can always feed them an hour later.”

He started to offer her his arm again, but held it back. He had entered a strange new world of the fear of rejection. Hilde took his arm and they walked down the colonnade.

Chapter Twenty-eight

TEGEL AIRFIELD NEARED COMPLETION a mere three months from the day the first shovel was set into the earth.

One obstacle remained in this strange blockade—the transmitter of People’s Radio sat near the end of the runway.

Although the French role had been minor, it was dramatic. Colonel Jacques Belfort personally supervised the dynamiting of the Russian tower. The Russians branded them “cultural barbarians,” but to no avail.

The first Skymasters from the zone set down in Tegel in autumn of 1948, pushing the daily tonnage to six thousand.

The Soviet concept of the blockade, a logical and routine political maneuver, had failed to achieve its initial aims. The whole matter was getting out of hand. While the Russians continued to be certain of ultimate victory, much of their confidence was undermined by the small miracles performed by the West.

The Kremlin sent out a contagious new line of thinking to probe for a way out of the blockade mess without a loss of face.

V. V. Azov was a prisoner in his Potsdam mansion. It was in the wind that he would be liquidated. Indeed, an undercurrent of anxiety ran beneath the entire Soviet command. Even Marshal Alexei Popov, the greatest Soviet war hero, might be falling out of favor.

Igor Karlovy placed his own good fortune on the fact that he was the foremost aviation traffic expert in the command. However, this technical skill could not sustain him in Berlin forever.

“How can you remain so certain,” V. V. Azov demanded of Igor, “that the operation of the new runway at Tegel will not allow the Airlift aggression to continue indefinitely?”

The commissar’s face was ashen and he had developed a bad twitch. At times, Igor thought, he seemed to be on drugs.

“If they had ten runways in Berlin, the Lift would still collapse in winter. There is an entirely new set of problems never solved in aviation.”

“It seems the Americans have ways of solving quite a number of unsolvable problems.”

“I assure you, Comrade Commissar, they are barely holding even now. Coal reserves have fallen to less than a two-week supply. A single streak of bad weather in December and they have no choice but to quit.”

“Igor,” Lotte pouted, “you sit for hours and stare and say nothing.”

“Huh ... what ... what did you say?”

“You are bored with me.”

“No, no my pet.”

“You used to sing to me all the time, even when you were not happy.”

“Do you want a man or a nightingale! Dammit, woman! I have problems on my mind!”

Lotte cried. In the last week or two all he had to do was look at her crossly and she would cry. She wept over nothing. He walked into his study and slammed the door behind him.

His frequent black moods were not caused by the growing desperation of the Russian command. Igor was an engineer and he would not be bullied against his judgment. What was getting him down like a growing poison was the hatred and rejection of the Berliners. The defiance of a half-million workers, their scathing humor, their willingness to sacrifice anything to avoid the Soviet way of life.

And the damned Americans and their damned chocolate flyers ... the kangaroo and the candy bars....

Sean looked at his watch; Ernestine would be at the room in a few moments. He emptied the bag of groceries. There was a knock on the door. Strange, he thought, Ernestine has a key. He opened the door and faced Igor Karlovy.

“Come in,” Sean said.

Igor looked about the shabby room. It reminded him of rooms in Moscow. “Forgive me for showing up in this manner, but you know how things are done in Berlin. It has been a long time, O’Sullivan.”

They shook hands.

“So, we are all just men,” Igor said, “and all in the same boat.”

“Can I expect to be reading about my frailty in your papers tomorrow?”

“Of course not,” Igor said, “there are certain things we Russians honor. Besides, everyone from Popov on down is too vulnerable.”

Sean scrounged the cupboard, found a half bottle of vodka, and offered Igor a cigarette.

“The record of our past friendship appears to have gained value in our command,” Igor said. “I have been told to bring you a message.”

“Go on.”

“We are ready to implement a four-power currency control immediately and guarantee your access routes to Berlin.”

Sean knew that the Russians were capable of reversing themselves overnight on any given issue and offer an unexpected treaty without apparent reason. “I’ll see that General Hansen gets the message.”

“With your personal recommendation, I hope.”

“As a matter of fact, no,” Sean answered.

“Between friends,” Igor said, “this whole quarrel is becoming costly for both sides. The prospect of having to impose a blockade during the winter is not pleasant. On the other hand, there is no way your Airlift can run through the winter. We have both proved our points. I believe we should both save face as gracefully as possible.”

Sean laughed. “Come on, Colonel Karlovy. What’s a few thousand Germans starving to death? You’re bringing this offer because you don’t want to go into the winter and find out we can pull the city through.”

The Russian stiffened. “When can I have your answer?”

“You know the address here.”

The door burst open and Ernestine saw the Russian first and became masked in fright.

“An old friend,” Sean said, stepping into the candlelight.

Igor tipped his fingers to his cap and thought it time for him to go. “Good-by, Colonel ... aufwiedersehen, fraulein.”

Igor locked himself in his office, shocked by O’Sullivan’s abruptness. Had O’Sullivan spotted a Soviet weakness that quickly? Had he in truth been sent to transmit Russian fears?