Red Inferno

CHAPTER 4

Harry Truman finished reading his briefing papers and put his wire-rimmed glasses on the desk. He was exhausted, but no more so than the man in front of him.

“General Marshall, what about our boys and Berlin?”

“Mr. President, they are still making progress, although it is much slower than we had hoped.”

“They’re not taking heavy casualties, are they? I don’t want that. Certainly not at this stage.” Truman had been having second thoughts about the decision to send soldiers toward Berlin. The realization that he was solely responsible for whatever befell those men was a heavy one.

“Actually no, sir. While there have been some casualties, the rate has been quite light. They are simply moving slowly and cautiously, checking for mines and possible ambushes. Also, the roads and bridges have been pounded by the Air Corps, so there’s quite a bit of maintenance to perform as they move out. They are just about ready to move into the suburbs of Berlin.”

Truman snorted. He hated the term light casualties. To him it was an oxymoron. Casualties were light unless, of course, you were one of them, in which case casualties just became heavy. He’d seen casualties firsthand as an artillery officer in World War I and hated the thought of causing them, light or not. He thought it was a good thing that America’s new president was actually a combat veteran who understood the human cost. Too many presidents, FDR included, had never seen real combat.

“At which point,” Truman said, “if I read these maps correctly, they will be very close to the northern arm of the Russian army.”

“Correct.”

Truman put his glasses back on and stared at his secretary of state, Ed Stettinius. “Ed, what about Stalin? Has he responded yet to our note?”

“Not yet, sir.”

Truman scowled. “I certainly hope the man has received it and has given his generals notice of our intentions.”

Stettinius almost looked affronted. “Sir, I handed it to Ambassador Gromyko myself. We also directed several other copies through the Swiss and the Swedes. He has it, sir. Stalin is just being his usual mysterious self.”

Marshall thought that Stalin was a little more devious than mysterious but held his tongue. Stalin’s intentions would become evident soon enough. He hoped to God that Colonel Burke’s assessment of Stalin’s aggressive intentions would prove wrong.

T HE S OVIET EMBASSY was housed in a large, old, and grim building on 16th Street in Washington, and the party was in full and rowdy swing when Steve Burke arrived with Natalie Holt on his arm. He noticed with amusement the number of Marxist-Leninists who were goggle-eyed at the sight of Natalie’s off-the-shoulder green silk dress, which showed both a wonderful shoulder and the hint of well-rounded cleavage. Due to the cloth shortages that decreed shorter hemlines, it also showed a surprising amount of extremely lovely leg. He couldn’t decide whether he liked their overt attention or was jealous. And why would he be jealous in the first place? It wasn’t like he and Natalie were engaged or anything. He decided he was acting like an adolescent.

“Natalie, I think they would like to coexist peacefully with you.”

“How charming,” she said, smiling affably, not at all put off by the stares. With her looks, he thought it was doubtless something she had gotten used to. “But they can’t have me, and it’s all their fault for eliminating the aristocracy. Now they have nothing to strive for.”

Invitations to the Soviet reception had not been difficult to get. Several had been left with the Russian section of the War Plans department and it would not have surprised Burke if he saw some of his colleagues bellying up to the very large and crowded open bar.

The party’s ostensible purpose was to commemorate both the arrival of a new cultural attache, who was doubtless a spy, and to celebrate what everyone was referring to as the Allies’ mutual final push on Berlin. When Berlin was finally taken, it was said, Hitler would be displayed in a cage in the Kremlin where he could spend the rest of his days sitting in his own shit. Would serve the bastard right, was the consensus, and Burke agreed.

Burke suspected that the real reason for the party was the fear that the war would be over and many of the Russian staffers sent home to their socialist paradises before all the booze in North America could be consumed. Tonight, the Reds were making a valiant effort to solve this horrendous problem. It was only nine in the evening and several Russians, civilian and military, were staggering about in advanced states of drunkenness.

Natalie squeezed his arm tightly as they navigated through the crowded hall and toward the buffet table. They each took a glass of champagne-decadent French, of course-and a plate of hors d’oeuvres.

Steve pushed a shrimp into his mouth. “Do the peasants eat this well in Minsk and Pinsk, I wonder?”

“Of course they do, Steven. Have you forgotten it’s a workers’ paradise? These are merely their leftovers shipped over to make us capitalist swine envious. I just can’t believe someone ate all the caviar already.”

“Ah,” he said and turned as a scuffle broke out across the room. He was beginning to have second thoughts about whether he should have asked her to accompany him as he heard the sound of glass breaking. His presence at the party was more or less a command from General Marshall’s office, because Marshall wanted several Russian experts to mingle and try to read what the Reds were doing and thinking. In particular, the higher-ups wanted to know of any stray thoughts or comments regarding the two divisions called Miller Force now en route to Berlin. This had been reported by various overzealous American newspapers as an attempt for the Americans to get there first and take the city. General Marshall was upset by this interpretation and had urged the State Department to further reassure the Russians that this was not the intent.

Burke’s immediate impression was that the effort to gather information was an utter waste of time. There were no major players from either government present this evening. No Gromyko, and nobody from the upper levels of the American or other Allied governments to set the tone and go through the elaborate dance of conveying messages via statecraft. Both the hosts and the guests were mid-level officials from a number of countries who were taking advantage of a free feed and the challenges of an inexhaustible supply of liquor.

“This is amazing,” Natalie said. “They’re behaving like there’s no tomorrow. Of course, if they’re sent back to the Soviet Union, they could be right.”

In the distance a small musical group began playing something that could scarcely be heard above the din and was barely identifiable as music.

A Russian officer whose name Burke scarcely remembered lurched drunkenly in his direction.

“Burke!” he said. The Russian’s breath was an alcoholic stench, and Steve recoiled while Natalie turned her head and laughed. “War almost over. We kill fucking Hitler, no?”

“Colonel Korzov, your English is improving remarkably.” Korzov rewarded Burke with a huge hug and lurched away, but not before trying to peer down the front of Natalie’s dress. He looked much like a three-legged bear.

“You’ve charmed him,” Natalie said, continuing to laugh. Burke decided he was glad he had brought her, although he would now have to have his uniform cleaned. Korzov had spilled a drink on his pants and there were food stains on the front of his Eisenhower jacket as well.

“Everybody loves me,” he said and then froze. There was something wrong with his jacket. Carefully, he patted his chest and confirmed what his mind had told him. There was something inside his jacket. Korzov had slipped him what felt like a sheet of paper.

“Steven, is something the matter?” Natalie looked worried at the sudden change in his behavior.

He leaned down and whispered in her ear. She nodded understanding. “Excuse me, please,” he said loudly. “I have to go to the restroom. I don’t think I should have had that shrimp.”

He had said that last part for anyone who might have been listening, although common sense told him that it wasn’t necessary and no one could possibly be eavesdropping on them in the din.

The men’s john was almost empty and he had no problem finding a stall. Deciding to play the role to the hilt, he closed the door, dropped his pants, and seated himself on the fairly clean commode before retrieving the document. The paper was a folded sheet of loose-leaf on which a message had been written by hand and in Russian. He scowled and tried to read it. The penmanship was crude and not at all like the scholarly works he was used to perusing.

The words came slowly and, as he translated them in his mind, shocked him and filled him with dread. He read them a second time, and then a third before he was satisfied that he had made no mistake. With shaking hands, he folded the paper again and stuck it in his pants pocket. Now he felt the enormity of what he knew and the preposterousness of his own situation. If there was a more vulnerable position for a human being than enthroned on a toilet, he couldn’t think of one. Yet here he was in the men’s room of the Soviet embassy with his pants literally down around his ankles and a message from a traitor in his pocket. The NKVD could burst in and kill him without his lifting a finger or his pants.

Fearing the tramp of footsteps, he flushed the toilet, straightened his clothing, and stepped quickly out into the hall. Natalie was speaking with several Russians and they were not pleased to see him return. When she took his arm again, the Soviets grudgingly departed toward the bar.

“Are you all right?”

“No. It’s my stomach,” he lied, again speaking for any unseen listeners. “I think we should leave immediately.”

She blinked and nodded understanding, and they stepped out into the cool of the night. “I’ve got to contact Marshall,” he said, and her eyes widened.

“The chief of staff? Now? My God, Steve, what was in that message?”

They had found his car and he opened the door for her. He deferred answering until they were well under way. “The Reds,” he finally told her, “are mad as hell that we are sending those two divisions toward Berlin and are going to attack them at first contact.”

They drove in silence in the direction of the Potomac River and Arlington. Steve concentrated on his driving while Natalie sat stunned. Finally, after several glances in the rearview of his ’36 Buick, Steve nervously broached a concern.

“Natalie, I think we’re being followed.” It was a line out of a dumb movie and he felt foolish for saying it, but the lights of the same car had been behind him for some time. Natalie turned and looked behind her.

“Turn right on Constitution,” she commanded. It would take them past the White House and toward the river. The Soviet embassy was only a few blocks from the White House. Ironically, they had driven around the White House on their way toward Constitution Avenue. He obeyed and saw the mystery car turn as well.

“Okay,” she said. “Keep going in this direction until you hit the road that leads to the Memorial Bridge and the cemetery.”

Steve did as instructed and watched as the car kept pace with them. “Natalie, could someone have seen Korzov give me the message?” The answer did not have to be spoken. If he was being followed then someone had indeed seen it pass. It also meant they were in danger. Whoever was following them had no real idea where he was headed. However, they would figure it out in a couple of minutes.

They made the bridge and crossed over into Arlington. There the road split. Turn right and they would be in a civilian area. Turn left and they would be headed toward Fort Myer and the newly constructed Pentagon. It would be a clear signal of intent to whoever was following them. He turned left.

The car followed and seemed to speed up. “Hang on,” Steve yelled. Hang on to what? he thought inanely as he jammed the accelerator to the floor and felt the big car’s surge of power.

The other vehicle continued to gain. For what seemed an eternity, the chase went on. Now he could see the lighted gate to Fort Myer and two guards, probably armed. He urged the Buick forward and leaned on the horn. In the mirror he saw a couple of winking lights and realized to his horror that they were being shot at. Something clanged. The car had been hit.

As the car careened wildly toward the gate, Steve saw the first two guards drawing pistols and two more men with rifles appearing from the shadows. He waited until the last second and slammed on the brakes. The mystery car did an abrupt and high-speed U-turn and sped away.

An MP with a. 45 automatic drawn and aimed at them approached cautiously. He lowered the weapon only slightly when he saw Burke’s rank. “Sir, just what is going on?”

“Get the officer of the guard,” Burke ordered.

A second MP took up station on the other side of the car. “He’s on his way, Colonel.”

A few moments later, a very young lieutenant arrived and seemed stunned when Burke told him to contact General Marshall immediately.

Despite the MP lieutenant’s understandable reluctance to call the general at that late hour, they finally did make telephone contact with someone at Marshall’s residence, and Burke insisted that it was extremely important that a lowly lieutenant colonel see the chief of staff immediately.

Marshall received them in his library and in uniform. The short drive from the gate had given the man a chance to dress.

Marshall glanced at Natalie and seemed to glare briefly at the stains on Burke’s uniform. Whatever Burke had, he clearly thought it both too important to wait for morning and to change into a clean uniform.

“All right, Colonel, what do you have for me?”

Burke quickly explained about the party and how Korzov had delivered the message. He handed the folded paper to Marshall, who looked at it briefly while Burke gave a summary translation and then put it aside.

“Burke, you are certain this says what you think it does?”

“I am, but please have the translation confirmed by others.”

Natalie interrupted. “I’ve read it as well and I agree with Steve’s interpretation.”

If Marshall thought it strange that she, a civilian and a female, had been allowed to see such an important document, he didn’t show it. “You have a Russian background?” the general finally asked her.

“I was born there,” she answered. “My parents were minor nobility and what are now referred to as White Russians. Those of us who survived the revolution and the wars left in the 1920s and made it to the United States. My first language was Russian and I am now employed at the State Department.”

Marshall nodded. “What do you think of Stalin?” he asked her.

“He is a thief and a murderer.” She said this with a venom that caused Marshall to blink. “He had several members of my family, including my father and sister, executed for the crime of being born.”

Marshall turned to Burke. “This Korzov, is he reliable?”

“General, I have no idea. I’ve spoken to him a couple of times, but never anything like this. Until tonight, I really wasn’t certain he knew I existed. I have no idea why he chose to give me the message. On the other hand, I know of no reason for him to lie about something like this. What does he have to gain?”

“A bullet to the back of the head,” said Natalie. “If he’s lucky.”

Marshall rose and Burke knew he was being dismissed. “I don’t know why he selected you either, although perhaps out of desperation. Why he did it doesn’t matter if the information is correct. The point is, you were chosen and now I’ve got to do something about it. You did the right thing by coming here right away, even though-” he smiled briefly-“you’d ordinarily fail inspection. Because of the attack on you, you will both stay on the post until we are certain that you are safe.”

Back in the car and heading toward her temporary quarters in Fort Myer, Natalie rested her head on the back of the car seat and turned toward Burke. They both were exhausted by the events of the night.

“Two divisions,” she said. “The papers are full of terms like that and have been since this damn war started. And that’s what you’ve been talking about, but what on earth are two divisions? How many men are we talking about? How many lives are involved in this potential tragedy?”

“Maybe thirty thousand, all told.”

Natalie paled. “So many? If the Reds attack, it will not just be a slap by Stalin, will it? If he does attack them there will be a great many dead and wounded, won’t there?”

He agreed grudgingly. How could he say otherwise?

Natalie persisted. “Then we’ll be at war with Russia, won’t we?”

He saw a tear roll down her cheek. He put his arm around her shoulder, and she rested her head alongside his. “Yes, Natalie, by this time tomorrow we could be at war with the Soviet Union.”