Impasse (The Red Gambit Series) (77 page)

One Japanese soldier saw him and plunged forward, screaming loudly, intent on skewering the American officer.

Painter side-stepped and the bayonet sailed past his side, ramming into the sandbags.

The automatic pistol struck the soldier twice across the nose
, and the insensible man dropped to the earth, out of the fight.

Trembling with the shock and
the enormity of what was happening, Painter was again unable to slide the new magazine home before he was seen by another enemy rifleman.

This man fired and the bullet punched
into Painter's abdomen, throwing the American commander against the bag that was spilling its sand from the bayonet tear.

Painter bellowed in pain, as much for the new wound as the
sandbag's impact with the scissors still lodged in his right arm.

The magazine was in the slot
, but not home, so he slapped the butt against his thigh and thumbed the slide into place.

The rifleman was already down, put to death with a triple shot from a Garand.

Lieutenant Tanji, fresh from ramming his sword into the stomach of a young corporal, kicked the dead man off his blade and turned towards Painter.

The Colt
fired and the .45 bullet smashed Tanji’s left arm just above the elbow joint, almost severing the limb. His pistol fell from useless fingers, but he gave no cry of pain. Only one single word escaped his lips.

“Banzai!”

Tanji steadied himself and walked purposefully towards Painter, who shot twice.

The Japanese officer, knocked
backwards by the energy of the bullet clipping his left shoulder, smashed face and chest first into an old tree trunk, used to hold the camo netting roof over the bunker.

His nose and mouth erupted in streams of blood.

Inside his body, the savage impact of a protruding piece of tree caused a rupture of some blood vessels in his lungs, and small quantities of red fluid started to enter the damaged lung.

Shaking his head
to clear the mist, Tanji pulled himself up onto his knees, and then struggled to stand up, the obvious spread of blood on his stomach indicating another area of damage, above the right hip.

Again the pistol barked
, but this time the American officer missed, the growing presence of the vengeful swordsman affecting Painter’s aim.

Tanji had moved forward nearly ten feet before the next two rounds hit him. Actually, only one, the
first shot struck his binocular case, deflecting off the metal and narrowly missing his neck as it went on its journey.

Spun slightly by the
initial impact, the second round slid across the Japanese officer’s chest, gouging the skin and leaving a long and bloody trench in the soft tissue as it passed through.

Tanji
fell to his knees, the pain overcoming him momentarily. Again, he stood up, coughing and spitting blood as more of the bloody broth worked its way from his damaged chest and face into his lungs.

Painter could see his death approaching
, and he tried hard to steady his nerves and make the telling shot.

‘
The head, the fucking head, go for the fucking head!’

It was not
the best decision, as such shots require better judgement and a cooler head.

He fired and missed.

“Banzai!”

Painter screamed.

“Nooo!”

Tanji
’s sword stabbed brutally as he summoned his last reserve of strength.

He drove the katana point first into Painter
’s windpipe, penetrating the spinal cord beyond.

Death was instantaneous, whereas Lieutenant Tanji
, totally spent by his final effort, took a few more minutes to travel to his ancestors.

The few survivors were quickly bound
, except for the two wounded Chinese officers, who were bayoneted to death. The senior NCO made the decision to fall back after the tanks and armoured car, leaving only the dead behind.

The soldiers of Rainbow faded away into the woods, where they dug in and waited for further orders.

Whilst the mish-mash of the 20th Armored and 343rd Infantry Regiment had completed its mission and halted the Japanese advance, the price it paid was far in excess of what it could afford.

Had the
y known it, perhaps it would have been of some solace to the survivors that they had badly damaged the Rainbow Brigade, and whilst the American war machine could guarantee to bring replacement men and vehicles to the fight, few such opportunities were available to the Japanese.

For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.

Hosea, Ch8, V7.

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday, dear Comrade General Secretary,

Happy birthday to you.

[Some content of a sexual nature]

The first one had been built to order for Stalin, and was designed by the architect Merzhanov.

During World War Two, Stalin and his entourage had done much of the planning for the victory of the Fascists within its wooden walls.

An additional storey was added in 1943, and a lift installed for additional access.

The
rest of the hierarchy of the Communist state quickly realized that having their own dacha at Kuntsevo would provide them with opportunities of access unavailable anywhere else, and so other buildings sprang up, carefully designed to afford the full creature comforts, but not to eclipse that of the leader.

It would have been difficult in
any case, as Stalin’s dacha was set inside a double fence system, protected by an array of anti-aircraft guns, and topped off with a three hundred man NKVD security details.

The dacha had been a hive of activity all day, as reports and briefings went on from breakfast until late afternoon.

The full extent of the Baltic fiasco was now laid open for all to see, and yet still the General Secretary had not spilt blood on the matter.

Nazarbayeva had briefed the whole GKO, starting with the loss of her prized RAF asset,
whose nonsense message bore every break in code form possible, as well as his distress tag.

Sh
e brought proof, undeniable proof, that the new Army group was a fake, a maskirovka, the same trick the Allies had played on the Nazis in France during 1944.

Beria let her speak, knowing full well that she was wrong.

In truth, she had been right, but Comrade Philby had come through, his latest report indicating that the formation would be ‘accidentally’ revealed as false and, when the Soviet High Command had swallowed the bait, it would be properly constituted in secret.

It was a thing of beauty as far as Beria was concerned.

His pleasure in the duplicity of his former allies only overtaken by his complete joy for the embarrassment he inflicted upon Nazarbayeva.

It was but the
first move in a day that would see Stalin’s birthday made special for him in so many ways.

Nazarbayeva had seemed to take it in her stride but he knew… he
knew
that he had hurt her pride badly.

The GRU General continued with an assessment of Allied casualties during the failed offensives, one that, in Beria
’s opinion, overstated by nearly 10%.

When he questioned the woman he found that she still had teeth
, and that his own information was incomplete.

Nazarbayeva finished with an upbeat assessment of th
e balance of forces, with a GRU assessment that Allied ground forces were incapable of launching any substantial action in the prevalent weather conditions and, in any case, had supply difficulties and personnel problems of their own.

The Soviet Academic who presented the forecast for Europe, both in the short term and over an extended period, rumbled and coughed his way through his presentation
, but was undoubtedly a man who knew his business.

“
So, Comrade Academician, you are telling us that the temperatures could be as low as minus fifty in places?”

“
Yes, Comrade General Secretary.”

Stalin quickly continued.

“And that this weather could extend well past the end of January?”

“
That is our middle estimate, Comrade General Secretary.”

Such a happening would give the Red Army time to rebuild its supply base and rest the exhausted units on the German front.

Of course, the same would apply to their adversaries,

The rest of the day moved between reports on production, transport
, and manpower availability, and came to a natural end at 3pm exactly.

The evening was set aside for a celebration of the Leader
’s birthday, and most of those present left to prepare.

Nazarbayeva was on her way out when Molotov, directed by Stalin, caught her arm and told her to remain.

Gestured to a chair, she sat with Bulganin, small talking about classical music and the ballet, whilst Beria and Molotov listened to the hushed whispers of Malenkov. Stalin pleasured himself with his pipe until the room was brought to order by an urgent knocking.

In walked
six men, some of whom Nazarbayeva knew, some of whom she didn’t, particularly those from Japan, and one ‘Hero’ she thought she should know by name. The faces were lighting up her memory, but the lost names avoided detection for now.

The matter was soon made irrelevant in any case.

Admiral of the Fleet Hovhannes Isakov did the introductions, starting with the head of Naval Planning, Rear-Admiral Lev Batuzov.

Next in line was a civilian, one she had seen before.

“Comrade General Secretary, Director Kurchatov.”

‘
The head of our Atomic programme?’

“
May I introduce Director Nishina, director of His Imperial Majesty’s Nuclear Weapon research programme.”

‘
What?’

“
Leytenant General Takeo Yasuda, director of the Imperial Japanese Air Force’s Scientific and Technological development team.”

Many
thoughts whirled in Nazarbayev’s mind, but none were particularly clear until the final introduction, the man in naval uniform whom she really knew she should recognize.

“
Comrade General Secretary, Kapitan third rank Mikhail Kalinin.”

The medals hanging from the submarine commander spoke more eloquently than words.

His presence clarified matters for Nazarbayeva, her mind coming to an inescapable solution in an instant.

‘
We are building a bomb for a submarine.’

A gentle kock on the door
broke her concentration, and also rubbished her thoughts.

The door opened and admitted an Army general.

“Comrade General Secretary, my apologies. Comrade Marshal Beria asked me to obtain some production figures, and I knew you’d want the most up to date I could obtain.”

Beria had already tipped his leader off
, so there was no anger at the Army officer’s late arrival.

Everyone took up a seat around the table.

“My apologies, Comrades.”

Isakov
had realized his omission and stood up again, pointing at the most recent arrival.

“
Comrade Polkovnik General Boris Vannikov, People’s Commissar for Ammunition.”

Kurchatov sat down as Nazarbayeva mentally added,
‘also Minister of Middle Machinery… and Beria’s man.’

Few outside the walls of the Dachas of Kuntsevo understood that
‘Middle Machinery’ was the Soviet term for Atomic Weapons.

Nazarbayeva had contributed nothing to the
technical briefing, for that was what it was. There was no argument or discussion, just a procession of facts, schedules, needs, wants, and projections. The Japanese conversed with Kurchatov in English, their only common language. Some of what they said might as well have been in Swahili, for all the good it did to the listeners, the technicalities of the task ahead wasted on men whose intellect normally only ran to organizing a little internal genocide, or executing political opponents who were too powerful.

Stalin made it clear that the GRU
’s role was to help acquire missing information, as requested by the men around her, and in that regard, she was required to place GRU’s resources at the disposal of Colonel General Vannikov, as required.

She accepted a numbered copy of the secret file for Project Raduga, hers being number thirty-six of thirty-seven.

She did not, could not, ask why the GRU had been excluded to this point. At least, not at the moment.

The bri
efing broke up at 5.30pm and, again, Nazarbayeva found herself beckoned to stay.

“
Comrade General, you look shocked.”

“
Comrade General Secretary, I had no idea we were so near to producing a weapon.”

Stalin poured himself a tea. The orderly had only brought one cup.

“The Germans were very helpful, and our new allies have opened up their research to us. In fact, they’ve transferred some of their finest brains to us, and it has reaped benefits already.”

Stalin did not pass on the fact that two of the three Pacific fleet submarines had been sunk, taking over twenty invaluable Japanese scientists to the bottom of the North Pacific.

He looked at the woman that he now considered his protégé.

“
You want to ask why GRU has not been involved before this, Comrade Nazarbayeva.”

It was not put as a question.

“I can only assume that there was good reason, Comrade General Secretary.”

It wasn
’t meant to be sycophantic, and Stalin knew it.

“
It’s a State secret and, with such things, the fewer that know, the better kept the secret will be. You know this to be true, Comrade.”

Nazarbayeva nodded.

“Anyway, that’s not why I asked you to stay. There’s a celebration here tonight,” he took a gentle sip of the scalding tea, “And I’d like you to attend.”

Nazarbayeva was about to swing into the standard litany of female excuses
that every woman can peel off when caught on the hop for such events.

Stalin chuckled.

“I hope you don’t think that I lack the proper organizational skills for such an evening, Comrade General?”

The nearest thing to a laugh that had
escaped from Stalin for some time, and it was accompanied by a genuine grin.

“
Comrade Beria was detailed to ensure that all feminine articles necessary are at your disposal, along with a guest dacha. There are no uniforms tonight. Tonight, we forget the war and drink to happier times.”

Simply put, she clearly had no choice.

“Thank you, Comrade General Secretary. I would be delighted.”

“
Quite so, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Seven o’clock sharp.”

A
fter a formal salute, she left the room, her plans to return to Germany scuppered without an opportunity to appeal, although the prospect of clean sheets and a quiet night was not unwelcome.

She would have neither.

Nazarbayeva had been escorted to her guest lodgings by two female NKVD officers, who revealed that they had been tasked with providing the GRU General with the proper accoutrements for a social evening.

Safely delivered to her dacha, Nazarbayeva was left alone with a promise that
, at 1850hrs precisely, the car would be back to take her back to Stalin’s quarters for the birthday party.

The dacha was simple
, but reeked of wealth, the artifacts inside the plain wooden walls seemingly from the time of the Tsars. She had no idea that it belonged to the NKVD but, regardless, she intended to make sure that it was without the standard paraphernalia of bugs and listeners.

The log fire roared away and an attendant appeared to serve tea, inviting her to sit in a voluminous red leather armchair warming in its orange glow.

Despite the relatively short time until the festivities, Nazarbayeva welcomed the relaxation on offer, and felt the warmth of the aromatic tea fill her belly as she stretched her legs, easing the boot from her damaged foot without attempting to conceal the manoeuvre.

After informing the GRU General of the location of her bedroom
, and offering to be on hand if needed, the orderly slipped quietly from the lounge and left her to herself.

The silence was like a drug, filling her senses with a
wonderfully relaxing nothingness that she could barely recall from before the war.

Nazarbayeva had to force herself from the chair and into the bedroom
, where the products of the two NKVD women’s efforts were laid out like a fashion presentation.

Quickly, she slipped around the room, checking all the usual haunts of the electronic surveillance equipment.

She found none. and there were none to find. Well, maybe just one.

The large mirror on the wall was perfectly positioned
for a fashion parade, and she swiftly slipped out of her uniform and went through the selection process.

Firstly, she started with the underwear.

None of it was ‘dramatic’, to say the least, but the choice came down to one of two, both matching sets, one in black, the other red.