He lit another cigarette from the glowing stub in his hand before crushing the stub out on the table. Although not a chain-smoker, it was often difficult to identify a gap between each Belomorkanal brand, one of the strongest cigarettes in the eastern block, if not the world.
“Yuri, Rusian, Timur, have you started receiving fresh stocks of ammunition yet?”
Colonel Yuri Kharzin, Commander of the 48th Guards Tank Regiment, responded first. “Yes, Comrade General, we have a full load of main gun ammunition, along with rounds for the machine guns and our own personal sidearms.”
“Fuel?”
“All tanked up, sir. I see there are POL bowsers in the vicinity as well, all with full loads.”
“Yes, yes. Rusian, Timur, you as well?”
“Yes, Comrade General,” they responded in unison; Commanders of the 332nd and 353rd Guards Tank Regiments respectively.
“Good, good. Akim, your foot sloggers ready?”
Akim Yermakion, Commander of the 200th Guards Motor Rifle Regiment laughed. As the only infantry unit alongside the three tank regiments, he was often at the butt end of their jokes; always being ribbed about his men being trench-diggers when in fact they had BMP2s, more than capable of keeping up with the tanks and could pack a punch themselves if needed. “Yes, Comrade General, but we are still short of spares for the BMPs.”
“How many are operational?”
The young colonel, in his early thirties, referred to his notes. “All tanks are serviceable and eighty-nine BMP are fully operational. Four BMP are operational, but in need minor repairs if we are to participate fully in whatever is expected of us, Comrade General. I can cannibalise a few to bring the rest up to scratch?”
“Definitely not!” Turbin thumped the table. “I want all vehicles in full-battle readiness, no exceptions. Make the lists available, and I will add my weight to your requests. We have orders from on high…”
“Absolutely, Comrade General.”
A skinny figure in an ill-fitting officer’s uniform, clearly tailored to fit his scrawny frame but failing badly, entered the tent. One of the junior officers gave up his seat for who was probably, next to their divisional commander, the most feared man in the unit: the Deputy Commander and Political Officer, Colonel Yolkin.
“Glad you could join us, Comrade Colonel. I was just getting an update from some of my officers.”
“But is it not a full briefing, Comrade General? I was not informed.”
“It is just an informal meeting, not a full briefing. Otherwise, the full divisional command would be here,” Turbin responded gruffly. Although he had to step carefully with the political officer, he was far from afraid of him. His skills as a divisional commander were widely respected, and many of the tactics used in Soviet Army tank units had been devised by him. He was destined for command of an army in the not too distant future.
“It’s good that you keep your men informed, Comrade General. I heard you tell them that all their equipment needs to be fully functional for whatever task our masters have for us. Good, we must be ready.”
None of them would challenge the political officer; make him aware that the lack of spares was a constant headache for the unit’s officers.
“Have I missed anything?”
“No, Colonel Yolkin. There will be a full brief by the army commander tomorrow, I believe.”
Yolkin wafted the smoke from in front of his face, a constant stream from the cigarette dangling in between Major General Turbin’s nichotine stained fingers drifting towards him. “That is my belief also.”
“Right, dismissed,” Turbin ordered. “I will be checking on your preparations every hour of the day. God help any of you that fail to meet my exacting standards.” He stood up. “Get on with it then!”
Seats shot back as the assembled officers jumped up from their seats, saluted and quickly filed out through the tent flap, leaving the division’s commander and deputy commander alone.
“Comrade General, you know that I should be in attendance for all briefings. It would be looked upon quite badly by higher command should they get to hear about it.”
Major General Turbin took a deep drag of his half smoked cigarette, expelling a stream of smoke high in the air before leaning forward until his face was less than a forearm’s distance from Yolkin’s.
“I am fully aware of my duties, Colonel Yolkin. If there is ever a command briefing, I will ensure that you are one of the first to be informed.”
“But—”
“If you want to be in attendance every time I talk to or check on my men then you had better stick to me like glue. You can start by joining me at 0400 tomorrow morning when I start a complete tour of the division. We might have time for breakfast, but I doubt it. And if we do, it certainly won’t be a leisurely one. I suggest we join the engineers and eat with them. Get some sleep, Arkaldy,” he said, smiling. “It will be a long day.”
The Bear stood up, stubbed out his cigarette on a plate he had been using as an ashtray, and walked towards the exit.
Yolkin jumped up, saluted and, in a shaky voice, said, “It is not my intention to doubt you, Comrade General, or interfere with the running of the division. As deputy commander, my role is to assist you. I would like to join you tomorrow, but I already have tasks assigned. I must prepare my next political briefing for our loyal soldiers.”
The Bear pulled the tent flap back and stormed outside, leaving the political officer to slump back into his chair, feeling slightly battered by the berating he had just received. Although he hated to admit it, even to himself, Turbin scared him.
“So, Stani, your boys ready?”
“Ready as they’ll ever be, sir. Just don’t know for what. They’re pretty pissed off though. Geared up for a major drop during молот 84; then it’s all called off!”
“Something’s in the wind, Stani, I can feel it.”
“Well, sir, we have the aircraft, we have the equipment, and we now even have live ammunition. Supplies have been pouring in.”
A loud reverberation emanated from behind them: the sound of aero engines growing steadily louder, joined by a steady whop-whop of rotor blades as a Hind D attack helicopter roared in behind them. The racket grew louder as it came in close, preventing all further conversation as it swooped in low over the airport, heading for the apron at the other end of the runway. The two airborne-officers quickly placed a hand on top of their pale blue headgear as the downdraft from the five rotor-blades made repeated attempts to blast them from their heads. Silence slowly returned as the helicopter did a circuit of the end of the runway before finally settling down. The two officers were dressed in camouflaged, one-piece coveralls, a blue and white horizontally striped shirt beneath. Although worn by airborne troops, the VDV (Vozdushno — Desantyne Voyska), the blue and white striped shirt was traditionally worn by the Soviet naval elite units. When Major General Mergelov, ex-naval infantry in World War Two, assumed command of the VDV in the 1950s, he adopted it for them, indicating that the airborne were an elite unit.
They were both perched on top of a BMD-1P, a mechanised infantry combat vehicle built especially for the airborne units. The Ob’yekt 915 was basically a trimmed down version of a BMP-1: smaller, lighter aluminium armour, but keeping the 73mm, smooth-bore, semi-automatic gun. The two officers were part of the 108th Guards Airborne Regiment, their mother division being the 7th Guards Airborne based in Kaunas, Lithuania. The BMD was parked on the periphery of the airfield, on hardened ground, now slightly churned up by the movement of many of the airborne infantry combat vehicles. They were about half-a-kilometre from the airport’s concrete apron, the assembled vehicles waiting for when they were called forward to be transported elsewhere. Many would be crated onto special pallets for an airdrop.