by Ian Slater
“We could muster enough troops in Vladivostok and ferry them over, but we haven’t the time and there are only two divisions on all of Sakhalin. It’s as big as Japan’s north island. But our main concern, Comrade Deputy, and this is why I’ve come straight to you for your support in the Politburo, is that even if we repulse the Japanese landing — and this may be possible with our fighters out of Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk in south Sakhalin — so long as Japan continues to get oil from the Americans, she will be able to harass us along our eastern flank. We’ve got to stop the oil coming to her from Alaska. Even if their fleet is a feint to—”
“What about our submarines?” interjected the deputy. “We surely have enough of those out of Vladivostok?”
“So do the Americans, Comrade Deputy. And quite frankly, the U.S. hydrophone arrays — underwater microphones — are so good in the Pacific, they pick us up way ahead. At the moment, we can’t get near those tankers because of Shemya and Adak.”
The deputy glanced up at his wall map at the Aleutians arcing like a sickle toward Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula, with only the two Soviet Komandorskiye Islands between Kamchatka’s ICBM sites 190 miles to the west, and the westernmost U.S. island of Attu 250 miles east of the Komandorskiyes.
“So we have to take out Shemya and Adak?” proffered the minister.
“Adak would do. It’s the U.S. submarine listening post and base.”
“Can we do it, General? If there are so many American submarines in the Pacific—”
“No, no,” the general was quick to tell him. “Not by sea. By air. It’s the only way, given the time problem. Fighter attacks to soften the island base up — then paratroops.”
The deputy minister frowned. It was now evident why Marchenko was seeking his approval so urgently. He would need a majority of Politburo supporters on this one. “General — I am not as adroit as you in military matters, but I would doubt the Americans will fail to see you coming. An attack on the island by our fighters flying below enemy radar can be done. This I know. But when you take in paratroops, the radar will surely see them.”
“Not if our fighters knock out the American radar first.”
“And what if they don’t? As I remember from your reports on our air-to-ground rocket raids on England, radar installation masts can be notoriously difficult to knock out. Almost as difficult as bridges, I believe. But if I am correct, Shemya Island, as well as being one of the most heavily armed places on earth, is between Komandorskiyes and Adak?”
Marchenko nodded. “And if we wait, we could have the American Pacific Fleet to contend with. Elements of it are already heading up from the Sea of Japan, where they were providing carrier fighter cover for the U.S.-ROK counterattack in North Korea.”
“Then how do you propose dealing with the Adak submarine base?”
Marchenko walked to the wall map, extending his hand out from the Komandorskiyes. “We will fly due east two hundred miles north of Shemya — midair refueling for the MiG-29s. Then due south to Adak.”
The deputy minister nodded approvingly. “Then what about the Americans’ antiaircraft missile batteries on Adak Island?”
Marchenko permitted himself a smile of anticipated satisfaction. “We have our covert trawlers commanded and manned by disaffected Aleuts — descendants of our fur traders. Some of them still believe the Aleutians are theirs — very much like the American Indians and—”
“We have them, yes, but can they do the job?”
“It’s already proven, Comrade. One of them has already downed a Hercules off Unalaska. The Americans thought it was volcanic ash from Mount Vsevidof. The Aleutians are a chain of volcanos. The trawlers will be ‘fishing’ off Alaska. Very rich fishing grounds, especially off Adak.”
“The American shore batteries on Adak will blow them out of the water.”
Marchenko shrugged. “Of course—after the trawlers have wreaked havoc on Adak Station. Our paratroopers will finish the rest, and we will have secured a stepping stone to Alaska. Most importantly, we will have neutralized the American advance warning station for their submarines just as the Japanese neutralized their Wake Island station in the Second World War. Our submarines will be much freer to attack oil tankers en route from Alaska. In addition, this—”
“Will take the pressure off our western front,” said the deputy, “and allow us time to deal with the Japanese.”
“Exactly,” said Marchenko. “Will you support me in the Politburo?”
The deputy’s fingers were tapping his blotter. “You really think it will work, Marchenko?”
“Comrade Deputy, my son is stationed in the Far Eastern Theater. In Ulan-Ude. I fully expect him to be one of the fighters in the attack on Adak.”
“If you’re that confident, Comrade,” said the deputy, “I’ll support your proposal to the premier.”
“Thank you, Comrade Dep—”
“One thing,” cut in the deputy, pushing himself back from the desk. “I take it the Americans had a board of inquiry into the crash of their Hercules. Do you think they are convinced it was — what did you call it, ‘volcanic ash’?”
“I have taken steps to cover that eventuality, Comrade.”
“How?”
“Sir, the officer in charge of covert operations is an Aleut-Bering — no relation to the explorer. He has things well in hand. The trawlers carry Grail surface-to-air missiles. Infrared homing. Fired off the shoulder. Bering’s trawler brought down the Hercules.”
“And the Americans never picked it up on their radar?”
‘ “That’s what I mean — he’s very resourceful. He fired it off a volcanic caldera. There is often volcanic ash clogging the engines. But Bering is very careful. He ‘volunteered’ to the American Commander to look for possible Soviet missile sites on the nearby islands. Not surprisingly, he’s found nothing. That’s what I call initiative.”
The deputy minister concurred. “So you’re sure he will be able to neutralize the Adak radar and communications installation? I hope he has more than Grail AA rockets for that.”
“He has,” answered Marchenko. “We pay him very well. He’ll keep Adak Naval Station more than occupied while our paratroopers are landing elsewhere on the island and closing in.”
“When do you suggest we initiate the plan? If I’m to support you, I’ll need documentation and—”
Marchenko reached into his vest pocket and extracted a five-by-seven satellite photo of a carrier and battleship battle group. “The carrier is the Salt Lake City. The battleship, we are almost certain, is the refurbished Missouri — the Seventh Fleet off Korea. Elements of the Third Fleet from Hawaii are also en route from Hawaii. Strictly speaking, the Aleutians are the Third Fleet’s responsibility. So you see, the very fact the Americans are also taking one carrier battle group, the Salt Lake City, from Korean waters shows how serious they are in trying to thwart any attack from us on the Aleutians. The only way to beat them is to go in now. With paratroops.”
The deputy minister nodded slowly. “Very well, General. You’ve managed to convince me. I’ll support you in the STAVKA.”
Marchenko sat back, relieved. “There is one thing I should tell you before the meeting is called, Deputy—”
“Yes?”
“Two of our airborne assault brigades are already on their way from Petropavlovsk on Kamchatka Peninsula — en route to the Komandorskiye Islands. They’ll make the attack from there.” He paused. “Minister, I had to put my neck out-there simply wasn’t enough time to go through channels.”
The minister’s tone was quiet. “Be careful, General. People who stick their neck out too far are likely to get it cut off.” He smiled and extended his hand.
Marchenko rose and returned the smile. As he left the deputy’s desk for the long walk out to the waiting room, he heard the telephones start ringing. “General—”
Marchenko turned around. “Comrade Deputy?”
The deputy minister was holding a receiver, one hand over the mouthpiece,
waving it censoriously at the general. “What about the two divisions you have put on full alert in Khabarovsk? Without my approval? You never mentioned those.”
For the first time in years, Kiril Marchenko felt himself blush with embarrassment. “Ah — reinforcements, Minister.”
“But you don’t think we’ll need them, do you?”
“No. I don’t think they will be necessary, Comrade Deputy.”
The deputy sat back in his swivel chair, hand still over the receiver. “I hope not, General. For your sake.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
When constables Melrose and Perkins checked the Oxshott emergency ward and discovered that the man who had given his name as Corbett was indeed Mr. Corbett and a “milkman to boot,” as Perkins put it to Inspector Logan, there was relief and embarrassment all around. Relief for Logan because he hadn’t completely bungled the attempted catch of Mr. Wilkins, whose wife had lied about him being home to protect her milkman lover. Embarrassment for Mrs. Wilkins, who, following the inspector’s threat to charge the milkman, admitted to Logan and the two constables that her husband was in Southampton, where he was ostensibly assessing damage wreaked upon a convoy for the purposes of apportioning government reimbursement to the shipping lines whose merchant ships had been requisitioned.
Logan and the two constables took the 6:20 to Southampton. They were delayed at Woking because of track torn up by a Russian rocket attack between Woking and Basingstoke, necessitating a detour via Farnborough and Guildford and a late arrival in Southampton at 10:30 p.m. A light drizzle was falling through the blackout as they got out of the Southampton police car and approached the Westward Arms pub on the Southampton dockside. The contrast between the cold, bleak darkness from which they had come and the hearty, warm, noisy pub was striking, Logan commenting that he hadn’t seen such thick clouds of cigarette smoke since prewar days.
“Whole ruddy navy must be here,” said Perkins.
Wilkins was well dressed in a brown suit, but even his tailor couldn’t hide his beer belly.
“ ‘Ello, ‘ello!” someone called out at the sight of the policemen. “Anybody smell coppers?”
There was ragged laughter, someone else shouting, “You’re for it!” to the bar in general. Wilkins was turning, with a pint of Guinness in one hand and a gin and orange in the other, when he saw the inspector in his tweed jacket, cap still on, and the two constables by his side. His face changed from a merry pink to ash white.
“Mr. Wilkins? James G. Wilkins of Hemes Street, Oxshott?”
Wilkins nodded, someone shouting at him, “I want you to ‘elp us wiv our inquiries?”
Logan had the charge card out and was reading Wilkins his rights, Perkins and Melrose watching their flanks. It was a tough crowd — mostly merchant seamen getting well and truly sozzled after the harrowing Atlantic run.
“Come along,” Logan told Wilkins. Wilkins looked pained. “What’ll I do with these?” he asked plaintively, looking at the drinks.
“I’ll ‘ave the Guinness, mate,” said a distinctly Australian drawl. “Who’s the lolly water for?”
“It isn’t lolly water,” Wilkins said.
“No worry,” said the Australian, “I’ll drink it, too.”
Perkins drew the inspector’s attention to a young woman getting up from one of the cubicles. Logan nodded, and Perkins made his way through the drinkers toward her. Wilkins was still standing immobilized, holding the drinks.
“Might as well give them to Ned Kelly,” Logan advised him, indicating the Australian. “We’ll give you a chit for them if you like,” Logan added, intent on following procedure to the letter.
“Jesus,” said the Aussie, laughing, “free booze!”
Logan feared a rush on the bar. “Cuff him, Melroad.”
Melrose did as he was told and, amid a solid chorus of boos and “You bastards!” led Wilkins out.
“I’m innocent,” said Wilkins, looking about in the darkness, feeling the pull of the handcuffs.
“Of what?” said Logan as he hit the cold, bracing air.
Wilkins looked from one policeman to the other. “I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s a start,” said Logan. “Eh, Melroad?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Melrose dutifully.
‘“You have the lady, Melroad?” asked Logan.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Into the car, then.”
Logan was jollier than Melrose thought he had a right to be. They’d darn near botched what Oxshott station was already dubbing the case of the “pummeled pumpkin.” Nevertheless, Melrose felt a sense of achievement himself, and the warmth from the “lady” against him helped. Then, as they were leaving the dockside, he caught a glimpse of one of the ships in the convoy, her list near to capsize point, and he wondered how many men had died on her because of spies. He heard Logan calling in Scotland Yard’s CID. The Criminal Investigation Division would add an extra shine to Logan’s glory. If Wilkins talked.
* * *
In Berlin’s Alexanderplatz it was 11:45 p.m. and also raining, but here no rights were being read to the prisoner, and the crowd of one of the suburban “committees against terrorism” were a sullen lot, dragged out in the rain as witnesses to what happened to anyone found spying against the newly declared people’s German Democratic Republic. Behind them, there was the smell of chicory from the ersatz coffee being brewed in the police station.
What made the charge even more serious than usual was that the prisoner had been found wearing a uniform of the people’s antiaircraft battery. The Alexanderplatz was chosen because, while it was some distance from the point of arrest, it afforded the authorities maximum propaganda value, for television cameras were already installed overlooking the Platz, and the population at large could see the penalty for actions against the state.
“Could I please,” asked the prisoner with great dignity, “leave a message for my wife and family in Frankfurt?”
“No,” answered the stabfeldwebel who had arrested him at the roadblock, “you may not.”
As they blindfolded him, Leonhard Meir thought of his son, who had fought at Fulda Gap, and wondered whether he was alive or dead. As the stabfeldwebel pinned the white paper disk on Meir’s boiler suit, Meir started to say something, but his throat was so dry, no sound came.
As the shots rang out across the vast Platz, the citizens of Lübars had already turned to head home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“I’d rather you volunteered your help,” snapped La Roche, his lean, tanned frame reclining in the ultramodern chair that overlooked Pearl Harbor from his top-floor office of the La Roche Building.
Two Forrestal-class carriers, though in the safety of the harbor, were surrounded by a swarm of destroyers and fast-guided missile frigates, loading up with supplies. Though it wasn’t general knowledge, La Roche knew this battle group would be the second to head for the Aleutians, his sources in Washington informing him that while the war in Korea was going well for a change, Japan’s move north to protect her western flank meant that the United States” ‘back door,” the Aleutians, might be endangered as the Soviets sought to isolate Japan from the vital supply routes to and from the United States. He’d heard that already elements of the Third Fleet out of Yokosuka were steaming toward the far-flung islands. Whichever way it went, Jay La Roche was satisfied he was in the right place at the right time, Hawaii being the supply hub for America’s Pacific war.
“It’s not that I’m unwilling to help,” replied the congressman, adjusting his tie of dark maroon and blue stripes against the starched white shirt that contrasted with the blue striped suit. “But this trouble with your wife—” He was very careful not to say “ex-wife.” “Well, what she did up there off Halifax — I mean, it’s a very touchy subject with the navy. They’re sticklers for discipline, as you know, and if she suddenly transferred out of there — to here — well, Waikiki’s hardly a hardship posting. It’ll look awfully suspicious.”
“Suspicious to who?” asked La Roche angrily, using his letter opener as a drumstick on his desk of Carrara marble, the same kind, he told all visitors, that was used by Michelangelo.
The congressman shifted uneasily. “It would be suspicious to everyone stationed up there.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” said La Roche, his drumming on the marble increasing. “All I’m interested in is getting her the hell out of there. And back here.”
“I understand your feelings, Mr. La Roche…”
“No you don’t,” said La Roche. He was tired of one-night stands. There was nothing after. He wanted her back, damn it. Way the world was going, you never knew. You had to take what you wanted when you wanted it, otherwise it might be too late. He’d promise to behave — cut down on the booze and dust. “I can get you unelected, Congressman. Easy as I put you there. Anyway, why the fuck should you care what a bunch of stumblebums in the navy thinks anyway—”
“Mr. La Roche, my boy’s fighting in Korea. If I can’t get him out—”
“You can get him out.”
The congressman tried to look La Roche straight in the eye. It was difficult; La Roche’s eyes bored into you with more experience behind them than most men accumulated in a whole lifetime. “I don’t…” continued the congressman, “want to pull special favors for my son.”
“Then you’re a goddamned fool. Anyway, if you have a quiet word with the navy — sweeten it with the promise of increased appropriations or whatever — who’s going to know?”
“I will,” said the congressman quietly, his voice seemingly swallowed by the vastness of the plush gray-pile-carpeted office.
“I don’t mean your kid, for Chrissake,” said La Roche, temper rising. “I mean, who’s going to know about my wife?”
“Word gets out.”
La Roche opened a drawer, pulled out an Irish bond envelope, and walking closer to the panoramic view, slid the envelope across the marble desk. “No, Congressman. Word doesn’t get out — not if you pay enough. Now, how much do you want?”