‘Too late… I’ve killed us all… you’re a fucking fool, Vasily! A fucking stupid fool!’
Ryabkov was screaming at anyone, trying to get the men to escape the killing ground.
Kazakov simply stood his ground and planted a foot on Takeo’s corpse, wrenching his shashka free.
In anger and blind fury, he pointed it at the sky.
It would not reach his enemies, who approached at a uniform three hundred and seventy miles per hour, a mile between each vic of three aircraft, with fifteen aircraft in total.
“Bastards!”
The familiar large canisters tumbled down, two from each aircraft, causing panic amongst the running men below.
1232 hrs, Tuesday, 18th March 1947, base of Height 570, Medzany, Czechoslovakia.
Colonel Petersen gripped his binoculars as he watched the clearly crazy Soviet officer wave his sword at the approaching Mustangs.
The renewed sun and absence of wind and rain granted him the air support he needed to finish the job, and he had come forward to order his boys off the hill before too many were lost.
Had he had radio communications, Takeo and scores of his men would not now be lying in the open, red and ruptured.
His hands gripped the binoculars tightly as he spotted a wounded soldier writhing in agony just below the crest.
He was a Nisei.
‘Oh Mother of God!’
There was nothing he could do, but he could not take his eyes away, as if to do so was almost dishonouring the man’s impending ultimate sacrifice.
The first vic flew over and dropped on the far side of the hill.
He had seen this before, and understood that the aircraft would walk the napalm backwards, which made it easier for them to see their targets as each vic attacked in turn.
The hilltop was transformed into a burning sea in which the occasional swimmer could be seen, dying in extreme agony,
As the final group of three Mustangs drove in, he risked a quick glance at the Russian with the sword who stood resolutely waiting for death.
The final fireballs washed over both the sword-waving lunatic and the wounded Nisei.
An hour later, Petersen arrived on the top of the hill as the grisly work was already in progress, some of his men tasked with moving the blackened pygmy bodies into a pile ready for a multiple burial when the graves registration units arrived.
Charlie Company had earned the right to be first up the hill, and the tired Nisei had found no hint of resistance.
The napalm had dried out much of the surface and the firm footing allowed the company to move quickly and start forming decent defensive positions, in case of a Soviet counter-attack.
There was no chance of that, not that Petersen would have known, as orders to the 5th Guards Cavalry Division now confined them to the east bank of the Torysa River.
Four hours later, the 100th [Nisei] Infantry Battalion was relieved.
Chapter 195 – THE BRIEFCASE
Few people realize that luck is created.
1503 hrs, Tuesday, 18th March 1947, the Kremlin, Moscow, USSR.
Stalin’s attitude had changed, and not for the better.
Nazarbayeva shifted uncomfortably under the tirade of abuse that had now been going solidly for two minutes and, or so it seemed, without the General Secretary repeating any word of significance.
Beria smirked as the hated woman received a roasting over the GRU’s failure to give any warning prior to the Allied attack, or to generate any significant intelligence after it.
He examined her body, her curves, as a man who has experienced the pleasures in sight can recall those he has experienced beneath.
His smile spread wide as he remembered the delicious penetrations of her bod…
“And you can wipe that smile off your fucking face too! The NKVD shagged the camel on this matter, or do I need to remind you again?”
Beria’s pleasant thoughts came crashing down.
“Apologies, Comrade General Secretary. Whilst you were dealing with General Nazarbayeva, my mind had strayed to the subject of our retaliation.”
Stalin’s finger wagged between the two of them, like the weapon of an executioner selecting his victim.
“I was too light on the fucking pair of you before… I want fucking answers!”
Stalin nodded sharply.
“Right. I’ve heard what Comrade Marshal Beria had to say. So… your turn.”
“Yes, Comrade General Secretary. I was in Camp Vár when the attacks took place, and all seemed perfectly calm and natural there.”
Nazarbayeva’s mind flicked to her discussion with Ramsey but she steered it back to the discussion in hand.
“I returned and ordered a complete review of the evidence of the last six months. That’s quite a task as you can imagine, and that task is still underway, Comrade General Secretary. I ordered to look back from last Friday, as it’s more likely that anything we missed would be nearer the attack date, given there would be more going on.”
Beria had said pretty much the same thing so it drew no response from Stalin.
He simply sat there puffing on his pipe and giving nothing away.
“So far there’s no clue as to any enemy attack… in fact… information we have received since the attack makes me feel that the Allies were caught by surprise.”
Stalin laughed.
“That’s what he said…,” he selected the NKVD head with the stem of his pipe, “Which is obviously fucking ridiculous, as they fucking attacked us! Have you two been colluding to make me look a fucking fool? Eh?”
Beria had already had his mauling so kept quiet to allow the woman to take every ounce of hurt.
“No, Comrade General Secretary. If that was the conclusion that Comrade Marshal Beria came to, then he came to it separately, and I can only agree with his assessment.”
To Stalin and Nazarbayeva, that was an endorsement of Beria’s statement.
To Beria, it was a condescending agreement that he had arrived at the same conclusion as her.
‘When this has died down, I’m going to finish you, bitch…’
Stalin selected Nazarbayeva with the stem of his pipe.
“Then tell me this, Comrade Nazarbayeva… how could the Allies fucking attack us and be taken by surprise at the same fucking time.”
He slammed his hand down on the table and leapt to his feet, using the stem to switch between the two intelligence officers as he made each point in turn.
“How the fuck can they be taken by surprise when they attacked? Do you take me for a fool? Is this some fucking attempt to cover your own asses? Eh? Who fucked up here? More than just you, I suspect? GRU? NKVD? Both of you? Eh?”
Beria went to speak but got short shrift.
“I’ve heard what you have to say. You… Comrade Nazarbayeva… you’re always full of theories. Tell me yours… and don’t hold back… don’t hold back at all.”
Stalin hit the table so hard he clearly hurt himself and brought tears to his eyes.
“Tell me what has happened here, Comrade General, and make it fucking good. I’ve been kind to you… so very kind and accepting… but this cannot be allowed to stand… this sort of uselessness and ineptitude must… and will… be punished. Now fucking SPEAK!”
Stalin’s spittle ran gently down her cheek and onto her top lip.
He neither apologised nor offered her one of the small cloth towels he used to wipe his desk down.
For her part, Nazarbayeva simply wiped her hand across the moisture and coughed to clear her throat.