Sacrifice

by Graham Masterton

  Golovanov folded his short, muscular arms melodramatically, and looked around at his audience. ‘We have a contingency plan for eight days,’ he said. ‘However, if our diplomatic negotiations are successful, and we have every reason to believe that they will be, then it is possible that we will be talking in terms of five days, or even fewer. The speed of the victory, comrades, will be up to you!’

  There was a moment’s pause, and then General Yeremenko stood up, and began to applaud. All the other officers and staff in the room rose to their feet, too, and clapped for two or three minutes. Golovanov applauded them in return, and shouted in his hoarse voice, ‘Pobyeda! Pobyeda! Victory!’

  ‘Pobyeda!’ shouted his commanders, clapping more loudly. ‘Pobyeda!’

  At last Golovanov lifted both hands for silence.

  ‘Comrade Lenin said that in its struggle for power, the proletariat has no other weapon but organization. Today, on the eve of this historic struggle, we have very much more. We have rockets and guns and ships and aircraft – everything we need to overwhelm the oppressive occupying armies of Western Europe. But it is still our determined organization which makes us invincible. It is our great Army, marching forward as one man; shouting out our battle-cry with one overwhelming voice!’

  There was more applause, Golovanov eventually sat down, and Yeremenko clasped his hand and said, ‘Very stirring, comrade marshal.’ But both of them somehow sensed that Golovanov had suddenly looked too old, and too dictatorial, a belligerent geriatric who had suddenly lost his teeth. Shifts of influence within the upper echelons of the Army could be felt by experienced officers like Golovanov and Yeremenko as if they were warnings of impending earth-tremors. Even Colonel Chuykov found himself frowning, and glancing across at Yeremenko and the Political Commissar Serpuchov, strangely alerted to the subtle tilt in the balance of personal power.

  The remainder of the morning was spent in a long and detailed briefing. Each Front commander made an exhaustive report on the readiness of his troops and his armour, the balance of his land forces and his air defence forces, the distribution of his reserves and his ordnance. There were reports from the Baltic Fleet, from the SPETSNAZ diversionary forces, from the divisional tank commanders, from the Rocket Army. Gradually, like a massive jigsaw, a picture was built up of an unstoppable military machine: nine tank divisions, ten mechanized infantry divisions, four rocket brigades, two engineer brigades, two bridge-building brigades, an artillery division with more than 700 guns, all supported by the 16th Air Army with over 2,000 aircraft, outnumbering the forces of NATO two to one.

  Yeremenko had organized the forces of the Western Strategic Direction with such efficiency that when the day came for Operation Byliny, it would take only a few key military signals to’ re-organize the troops that were apparently on nothing more threatening than their annual exercise into an invasion force of awesome momentum and concentrated strength.

  Four

  After dinner that evening in Yeremenko’s house on Falkenstrasse, when Commander Kiselev and Admiral Perminov had left, Golovanov said, ‘I’m very impressed, comrade general.’

  ‘Hilda has a way with pork,’ replied Yeremenko, deliberately misunderstanding him. He was drinking kvass and eating black grapes, collecting the pips in his hand. A George Shearing record was playing quietly on the record-player.

  Golovanov knocked back the last of his Pertsovka pepper-vodka, and wiped his mouth. ‘I never thought I would live to see this happen, you know.’

  ‘Byliny? No, I don’t think any of us did. But, you can sense the excitement, can’t you? Did you sense it today? It’s almost as if everybody were getting ready to go off on their holidays.’

  ‘It’s hard to think of the world changing so drastically,’ said Golovanov. ‘In six days, you know, we will alter the map more than Hitler did in six years.’

  Yeremenko spat out more pips. ‘That’s what we were trained for, after all. You can’t build an Army like ours and then expect it to sit on its backside doing nothing. An Army has to fight. You can’t deny any organization its basic function. Would you start a ballet company, and train them to perfection, and then forbid them to dance in public?’

  ‘Some ballet company,’ grunted Golovanov, in amusement.

  They sat in silence for a while, listening to the music. Golovanov felt uncomfortable in Yeremenko’s house. It was modern, but in a heavy Germanic way. There were big square armchairs and big square tables and big square abstract paintings on the walls, in black and orange. Golovanov hated orange and he hated black. There were no plants in the house, no ornaments; none of the feminine touches that Golovanov enjoyed around his own flat in Moscow, and in his dacha at Zhiguli, for all that most of his own furniture was massive and traditional. In Yeremenko’s house, he felt as if he were waiting to go somewhere else, as if it were an airport, or a doctor’s waiting-room. It was a key to Yeremenko’s state of mind; just like his cold, stilted. Army-textbook conversation.

  Yeremenko said, ‘More vodka?’

  Golovanov lifted his finger and thumb to show that he wanted only a little. ‘I don’t want to go round to Herbertstrasse rolling drunk.’

  Yeremenko poured him another, and then they raised their glasses. ‘Za vahsheh zdahrovyeh!’

  Yeremenko didn’t sit down, but prowled around the room, his fingers drumming on the backs of the chairs, on the tables, on the walls.

  ‘Byliny,’ remarked Golovanov. ‘I wonder who thought of that.’ Byliny were the great historical cycles of songs that characterized early Russian folk culture. ‘Byliny makes the liberation sound almost sentimental.’

  ‘Somebody seems to have a sentimental turn of mind,’ said Yeremenko.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ asked Golovanov. He sensed that Yeremenko was preparing to get something off his chest that had been disturbing him all day. ‘Is it me? Do you think I’m sentimental? I assure you I’m not. But, you can always try me, comrade. Life is competitive, after all.’

  ‘I’d just like to know who decided that we shouldn’t go nuclear,’ said Yeremenko. ‘We could clear Germany in a single morning, if we used nuclear warheads. You know that as well as I do. Instead, I’m going to have to risk scores of tanks, hundreds of guns, and use up tons of ordnance and fuel.’

  Golovanov squinted at Yeremenko through his vodka glass. Yeremenko’s image was peculiarly distorted, like a pale-faced fish, swimming around a bowl. Golovanov decided that he had probably drunk too much already. Curse Yeremenko for being a teetotaller. But, he managed to slap his thigh, and say with great geniality, ‘If all of our diplomatic negotiations go well, we won’t have any need of nuclear weapons.’

  ‘What about the axe theory?’ Yeremenko asked. The axe theory was fundamental to Soviet military thinking. It simply propounded that if you happen to be holding an axe, you shouldn’t bother to punch your enemy on the nose with your fist; you should hit him with your axe straight away. In other words: if you have nuclear weapons, use them, and quickly.

  ‘The axe theory is all very well as far as it goes,’ said Golovanov, still beaming. ‘But of course the trouble with nuclear weapons is that they are not axes. They have a tendency to linger, and to do as much damage to those who have dropped them as those upon whom they were dropped. My instructions are that if we can possibly avoid using them… well, we’re not to, and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘I can’t imagine how any diplomatic negotiations can alter the strategic situation so dramatically,’ said Yeremenko, displeased.

  ‘No, well, I don’t expect that you can,’ Golovanov replied. ‘But, comrade general, I assure you that the Supreme Commander is highly optimistic.’ He thought to himself: you should drink a few grams of vodka every now and then, Comrade Yeremenko. Kvass never put fire in anyone’s belly.

  ‘Well, I suppose I’m just keyed-up,’ said Yeremenko. ‘I don’t want anything to go wrong. My father was at Kharkov. He used to have nightmares about it, the rockets shrieking through the streets.’

 
Golovanov said companionably, ‘You can’t base a strategy on your father’s nightmares. Our task is to liberate Europe, not destroy it.’

  Yeremenko said nothing. At the moment, there was nothing he could say. Golovanov was the First Deputy. Until Operation Byliny began to move, the best that Yeremenko could hope for was that Golovanov would be too demanding, too arrogant, too old-fashioned, and that eventually he would arouse Kutakov’s displeasure.

  There was a subdued ring at the door. Yeremenko said, ‘That must be Major Poplavskiy. Do you want another small one before you go?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Golovanov, shaking his hand. ‘You have been far too hospitable already.’

  Fie eased himself out of his armchair, and stood up. His uniform jacket was rucked up like a ballet skirt. ‘You have achieved wonders here in Germany,’ he said. ‘I shall make a special point of mentioning how efficient you have been to the Supreme Commander.’

  Yeremenko escorted him to the door. Major Poplavskiy had been let in by Yeremenko’s housemaid Hilda, and now stood uncomfortably in a corner, under a splashy turquoise-green abstract painting that reminded Golovanov of seasickness.

  At the door, Golovanov briefly hugged Yeremenko, and said, ‘Remember, my friend, these are momentous days. This may well be the last great political upheaval in the world for the next hundred years; the last great task.’

  ‘These diplomatic negotiations…’ said Yeremenko.

  Golovanov gave him a broad smile. ‘As soon as I know, comrade, you shall know! Now, sleep well.’

  ‘You too,’ said Yeremenko, in a tone so flat that Golovanov couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

  *

  Inge Schultz lived on the west side of Wünsdorf in a small exclusive estate of red-roofed private houses, most of which were occupied by East German civilians employed in important jobs with the GSFG headquarters: the privileged middle-class in a so-called classless society. There were new Volvos and Mercedes parked outside, an occasional Skoda, no Ladas. Major Poplavskiy drove the black Volvo estate with an engaging lack of expertise, bumping the rear wheel over the curb whenever he turned a sharp corner, and parking almost in the middle of the road when they eventually arrived at 17 Herbertstrasse. Major Poplavskiy had been chosen for his discretion, rather than his driving ability.

  ‘Tomorrow morning, marshal?’ asked Poplavskiy, hesitantly. ‘Seven o’clock, perhaps?’

  ‘Six,’ Golovanov told him, and tugged on his gloves.

  He walked up the stepping-stone path until he reached the varnished front door, with its yellow hammered-glass window. From inside, he could hear the sound of rock music, he didn’t have any idea what. His idea of music was Tchaikovsky and chastushki, ribald four-line folk songs. Good hearty stuff you could stamp your feet to. He rang the doorbell, although he could see that Inge had already heard him.

  Inge opened the door, and stood silhouetted by the light in the hallway. Chuykov’s description of her had been accurate, but not evocative. Whenever he set eyes on her, Golovanov’s breath was biffed out of his lungs, and he found himself unable to speak. What could you say, in any case, about a woman like Inge? He stepped into the hallway, and flapped his hat around, and nodded, and that was all that he could manage.

  She smiled, the legendary Inge, and walked ahead of him into the open-plan sitting-room. The grey velvet curtains were drawn tight, the white carpet was immaculately smooth, the grey leather furniture shone with polish. It looked as if professional cleaners had been here, and they probably had. There was a glass room-divider, on which were dozens of glass statuettes, Lalique and Wärff and Daum, crystal fishes and dancing ballerinas and purple vases.

  Inge turned and stood in the centre of the room, her hips cocked, and smiled at Golovanov with that smile that always drove him mad: taunting, provocative, mysterious. He was not a child. He knew that she was either employed by the KGB or that she reported to them every time he visited her. If the Politburo had wanted to destroy him on moral grounds, they could have done so years ago. But Inge, he knew, was one of his continuing rewards for being conservative, and loyal, and for being powerful enough to dominate executive officers as skilful and political as Yeremenko.

  Inge was 28 or 29 years old, she had never told him. She was 1.75 metres tall, broad-shouldered, white-skinned, with enormous Olympian breasts and a pinched-in waist. Her legs sometimes looked to Golovanov as if they were longer than he was tall; lean and shapely, with a triangular space in between her thighs through which he could have passed a 50-gram glass of vodka. It was her face which always transfixed him, though. Her clear-cut Germanic chin, her straight, thin nose, her pale lips which rose in a bloodless bow-shape. Those translucent grey eyes that stared at him and made his prostate gland tingle with fear and arousal. That white, white hair, immaculately braided around her forehead. She looked as if she had stepped out of a Wagnerian opera.

  She was everything that aroused him, and everything that unnerved him. Strong, erotic, passionate, dominating. He had never known a woman like her. She made his skin burn with a sexual hunger like napalm. He had to blot out of his mind the thought that she probably had sex with scores of other men: that, to her, he was only just another ‘uncle’.

  This evening, she was wearing a black satin evening suit, with high padded shoulders and a deep décolleté that exposed her frighteningly white cleavage. Her calf-length skirt clung to her long legs, and he could see that she was wearing black fishnet stockings and black open-toed shoes with high stiletto heels.

  ‘Well, Inge,’ Golovanov swallowed, tugging down his jacket. ‘You look as eatable as always.’ His German wasn’t very good: they usually spoke to each other in a ragbag of Russian, German, Swedish, and English.

  ‘Comrade marshal,’ she smiled. She stayed where she was, in the centre of the room. ‘Why don’t you come and kiss me?’

  Golovanov lifted his hat, hesitated, then tossed it on to one of the chairs. He walked up to Inge, cautiously put his arms around her slippery black-satin body, and lifted his face up to kiss her. Their mouths barely touched; but she kissed him again and again, his forehead, his cheeks, his eyes, and her thin nostrils flared with something that might have been desire, or might not.

  ‘I didn’t expect you back so soon,’ she said. ‘I heard that you had gone east, to Khabarovsk.’

  ‘I’ve been everywhere, travelling. You know what chores they give us old men to do, inspecting, saluting, looking into pots of kasha.’

  ‘Something’s happening,’ she said, without any preamble. ‘There are so many officers here this month; so many more than usual.’

  ‘Annual manoeuvres, that’s all. They haven’t been a bother to you, have they?’

  Inge kissed his forehead abstractedly. Her perfume was musky and intense, and Golovanov could feel the body-heat radiating from her milk-white cleavage. ‘Maybe a drink,’ he suggested. He walked across the room, loosening his necktie. ‘What’s this music? More decadence, I expect?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Frankie Goes To Hollywood.’

  ‘That’s the name of the pop group?’

  Inge went to the glass shelves, and took the stopper out of a pear-shaped glass decanter. ‘Wyborowa?’

  ‘Anything.’ Golovanov unbuttoned his jacket, and eased himself out of it. In his khaki shirt, the sheer squat bulk of his body was even more obvious. He was proud that he didn’t have to wear a corset. He knew at least two other marshals of the Soviet Union who did, including Kutakov. He sat down on the grey leather sofa, and rubbed the palm of his hand over its shiny surface. ‘You haven’t heard anything to make you worried?’ he asked her.

  She brought him his drink, and knelt down on the floor beside him, resting her thin sharp elbow on his knee. Her grey eyes stared into him unsettlingly. ‘Something’s happening,’ she said. ‘I know it. All you Russians have been excited, like horses in heat.’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, shaking his head. He raised his glass, and said, ‘Za vasheh zdahrovyeh e blagapal
uch’yeh!’

  Inge ran her long fingers over the top of his head, lifting his thin swept-back silver hair. ‘You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?’

  ‘About what? There is nothing to lie about. We are having our summer exercises, that’s all. Very tedious it is, too. One division here, one division there. Tanks, trucks, BMPs. Come on, my dear, I didn’t come here to talk about the Army.’

  Inge thought for a moment, and then smiled slowly, and said, ‘No. Of course you didn’t. Do you want me to dance for you?’

  Golovanov lifted his drink again, and nodded. ‘A dance, why not?’ But as she stood up and turned away from him, he felt a twinge of suspicion and concern. Had she really sensed that something was up? She couldn’t be telling the truth when she said that ‘all you Russians have been excited.’ Only those who had attended this morning’s meeting in the strategic conference room had been told of Operation Byliny; thirty-one senior officers with impeccable security clearance. A woman like Inge should be aware of nothing at all unusual, only the comings and goings of officers and staff which attended every summer exercise. She was stunning to look at, she was wily, but she was only a whore.

  Perhaps her questions were something to do with her connections with the KGB. Perhaps the KGB was testing him. He sipped his vodka and watched her as she put another record on to her Bang & Olufsen stereo, and for the first time since the last days of Krushchev, he felt insecure.

  She put on Culture Club’s latest. To Golovanov’s ear, the music was nothing more than dissonant jangling, with those strange whining voices that Western singers always seemed to adopt. But the way in which Inge danced made the music hypnotic, and peculiarly compelling.

  To begin with, she walked up and down the room in front of him, her hips and her shoulders moving in time to the music in that particularly arrogant fashion-model stride that had become popular in Paris haute couture. Then she turned, and as she turned, she unbuttoned the front of her black satin jacket, and swung it open to bare one breast. Big, creamy-skinned, with a wide pale nipple, and mobile with its own weight. Golovanov watched her in fascination as she strode down the room again, moving rhythmically, dancing like a sophisticated animal, and then she turned again and this time bared both breasts, enormous and rounded, and her flat white stomach.