“Outstanding. That’ll make a lot of boys very happy. The armored boys all wanna be home for Christmas. Also, it’ll reduce our logistics some.”
Bradley went to address his ball but stopped himself, instead leaning back on the club as a support.
“Tell you something though, Ike. It’s not just the refugees who are causing us logistical problems, although that particular nightmare doesn’t go get any better. It’s the Germans. Krauts are chewing up a lot of supplies. Seems like they have a live-fire drill, manoeuvre exercise, or some sort of complicated training almost every day.”
“They’re efficient and want to keep up their skills obviously. You know Guderian, Brad.”
“Yeah, I know, Ike… but them and the Poles are almost living for it. One of my staff discovered they’re working side by side constantly, living and training in the field for days on end.”
“Yeah, I heard summat about that. Old enemies seem to have suddenly found some common ground, eh?”
“You mean a common enemy doth unite?”
“Something like that. You gonna hit that damn thing or am I going to die of old age?”
“Well, now that you mention age…”
“As you were, General!”
They laughed easily.
“Seriously though, those boys are certainly going to be well-prepared and fighting fit if things start up again… heaven forbid!”
“Amen to that, Brad. Like I said, they’re a warrior people, and if they’re ready and willing if the whole mess starts up again, then I, for one, will be grateful of their skills. Now… any chance, General?”
“Move on, old timer.”
Eisenhower walked on a little way and turned just in time to see Bradley perform a beautiful chip.
Both pairs of eyes followed the ball up and down.
“Go on! Yes… yes… go on… hallelujah!”
“You gotta be kidding me!”
Bradley trotted past on his way to retrieve the ball from the cup.
“Make way, old timer… it’s a young man’s game, you know.”
Eisenhower chuckled as he lined up his own riposte.
“I reckon it’d be wise to start learning Finnish, General Bradley. Soon as I get back, I’m cutting your orders!”
Bradley’s reply was lost in the click of Eisenhower’s own chip to the green and the exasperation that immediately followed it flying well past the cup.
“Son of a bitch!”
1312 hrs, Tuesday, 22nd October 1946, Stakhanovo Airfield, USSR.
Sacha Istomin heaved a sigh of relief.
Out of his left-hand windows he watched as the fire crews extinguished the fire in the port outboard engine, whilst his co-pilot watched the same process being conducted on the starboard outboard engine.
“Navigator to pilot. Crew all out. I’m the last one aboard. Leaving now.”
Istomin had ordered his men out as soon as the aircraft came to a halt, and they had obliged at record speed, as no one likes to be in a burning aircraft at any time.
“Come on, Leonid! Let’s get the fuck out of here! Raus, raus!”
Bolkovsky, the experienced co-pilot permitted himself to be chivvied along by the commander of 901st Independent Special Aviation Regiment, the Red Air Force’s special operations bomber squadron.
Both men dropped onto the foamy tarmac one after the other.
Two firefighters dashed forward and pulled the men clear in dramatic fashion, clearly keen to demonstrate their professionalism to the regimental commander.
Istomin was much more interested in the damage to his aircraft, and the damage to future missions that went hand in hand with further problems with the huge bomber.
As if to taunt him, the wreckage of one of his American aircraft lay in direct line of sight, his eyes flicking from the ruined port outer to the charred wreckage of the‘General H.H. Arnold Special’,one of the three B-29s with which he had started the 901st.
The accident had claimed six of his men, as well as writing off the valuable aircraft.
The other aircraft of the original group was ‘Ding Hao’, which along with the recovered pieces of another B-29, ‘Cait Paomat’, which had been salvaged from a crash site in the Sikhote-Alin mountain range, had contributed knowledge to the Soviet Union’s aircraft designers.
They then faithfully reverse-engineered the aircraft and subsequently placed in the Red Air Force’s hands the new Tu-4, a virtually identical copy of the B-29, but one that didn’t suffer from engine problems quite like the R-3350 Wright Cyclones did, but was slightly inferior in speed performance and with considerably less range and bomb load, for reasons no one quite understood. This was offset by greater reliability in the engines, a higher ceiling, and much greater firepower in its defensive armament.
Istomin turned to examine the starboard engine and took time to look beyond where, lined up on the far side of the airfield, were eleven of the brand new Tupolev aircraft, all under his command.
His train of thought was interrupted by Pranic, the base engineering officer, who seemingly prepared to deliver his normal ‘how the fuck was he supposed to keep the fucking Amerikanski bombers flying with no spare parts’ monologue.
“Comrade Polkovnik. I’m glad you are safe.”
“Thank you, Comrade Mayor of Engineering, although I seem to be giving you back a badly wounded bird.”
Pranic, unusually, waved his hand dismissively at the smoking aircraft.
“Provided the surfaces and mounts are undamaged, the engines won’t be a problem, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Bolkovsky and Istomin both looked in astonishment at the dour officer, who normally only had death to look forward to.
Pranic understood their expressions and smiled warmly.
“Comrades, our friends in the NKVD have been successful in obtaining some replacement engines… apparently from China. I have seven such engines en route… all new, still in their shipping crates. Should be here in four hours.”
Istomin slapped the man on the shoulder and laughed in triumph.
“Excellent, Comrade Mayor of Engineering. I hope to be ready for a test flight by 1400 tomorrow.”
The smile departed from Ivan Pranic’s face and he returned to his normal self.
“I’ll report to you on my findings as soon as it’s cooled down enough to examine, Comrade Polkovnik.”
”Excellent, excellent. I’ll be in the mess sampling some vodka with my valiant co-pilot. Keep me informed, Comrade.”
The group parted with salutes typical of air force personnel the world over.
A small GAZ jeep slipped alongside the two pilots. They dropped into it with practised ease, and sped off towards the distant buildings.
2103 hrs, Tuesday, 29th October 1946, Vinogradar Young Communists Sailing Club, Black Sea, USSR.
Nobukiyo clicked the stopwatch and grunted with satisfaction.
He said nothing and simply showed the watch to the Soviet officer alongside him.
They shared a smile.
“Congratulations, Comrade Commander. The best time yet.”
Nobukiyo had been mercilessly drilling his hangar and deck crews for over a month, devising new routines, improving on existing practices, all with the target of ensuring that his beloved submarine was exposed on the surface for as little time as possible.
Recently promoted to Captain First Rank, a decision made by the High Command once they discovered Nobukiyo’s status, Mikhail Kalinin was extremely satisfied that, when… more like if… the mission was given the go ahead, the Japanese submariners were more than up to the task.
“So, are you calling a halt for tonight, Comrade Commander?”