Second Chance

Chapter Thirty-Five: Iranian Nemesis

The Kremlin

Moscow, Russia

17^th September 1940

Stalin was in a good mood when Molotov entered, waving the Foreign Minister to a seat and passing him a fine cigar. Molotov tensed; whatever Stalin wanted was going to be bad, he was certain of it. A wave of Stalin’s hand indicated a steaming samovar of tea, brewed just the way that the dictator liked it. Molotov was not reassured.

“The advance into Finland progresses well,” Stalin said. Molotov nodded; information was power in the Soviet Union, particularly if you got it first. “Comrade General Koniev reports literally blasting the Finnish Mannerhiem Line out of the ground.”

Molotov allowed himself a smile, showing his approval. For once, it wasn’t faked; the Red Army had learnt a great deal from the Winter War. Being humbled had taught the army a great deal – and the files from the future had suggested the most competent commanders. The NKVD had been kept busy as loyal, but incompetent commanders had been placed in positions where their incompetence would do little harm.

“Indeed, we should be in Helsinki within a week, and the Finns are already preparing their underground resistance,” Stalin continued. “Of course, we shall serve them as we served the Poles and the Tatars, how will they live without their food and drink?”

“Comrade, how will the fascists react?” Molotov asked, with real concern. In the original future, Finland would have joined the fascists in an attack on Russia, something that the new attack was designed to prevent. “They have vital interests in Sweden, and this will take our forces close to them.”

“We will, of course, recognise their pre-eminent position in the region,” Stalin said smoothly. “After all, we have no real interest in the region, apart from a defensive barrier. They can have Sweden if they want it; we have no interests there.”

Molotov relaxed slightly. “The Swedes will probably end up playing us off against the Germans,” he said.

Stalin shrugged. “It’s a matter of small concern,” he said. “Now; Comrade Porpov informs me that we will have the military build-up well underway in a month, including the new T-34 tank and the fleet of military trucks. For the moment, Operation Peter will have to proceed with what we have on hand, but the Persians have so little with which to fight us.”

“Yes, Comrade,” Molotov said. “The only real danger is becoming involved with the British to such an extent that the Germans will see weakness and jump on us.”

Stalin snorted. “You worry too much,” he said. Molotov quaked; he could be disappeared and replaced with someone more… accepting of Stalin’s quirks and whims. Not a trace of his fear showed on his face, but he knew that Stalin sensed it somehow.

“I live to serve the Revolution,” he said finally, and Stalin smiled. “It is my job to advise you.”

“Of course it is,” Stalin said, with trademark irony. Molotov knew that, in Stalin’s view, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics would find it easier to get by without Molotov. “As it happens, we have made contact with both German supporters and Communists within both Iran and Iraq, and even supporters of Ibn Saud. We’ll keep the imperialists busy while we secure Iran.”

He waved a hand at the map. “Comrade Zhukov has more than enough firepower,” he said. Molotov nodded; Zhukov had even been given the prividge of accessing the files of his victories in the near-mythical other timeline. “He has one hundred and fifty thousand men and nearly five hundred tanks. Mainly old models, but far tougher than anything the Iranians have. He believes that he can secure Iran in a week to a month.”

“He knows his trade,” Molotov said carefully. Zhukov had been canny enough to give no precise timetable, but if Molotov agreed with him and the general failed, Stalin would remember.

“Of course he does,” the General Secretary said cheerfully. “While Hitler and the future Britain and the Japanese fight it out, we will secure our position in the Middle East.” He smiled. “The future is not yet written, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich; while the imperialists and the fascists grind each other down, we will position ourselves for the next round.”

Molotov nodded. Discovering that the Soviet Union was fated to lose in Afghanistan was a shock; Stalin’s response had been to order the Afghanis exterminated, sending in troops on slash and burn missions and showered Kabul with nerve gas. The waves of fleeing humanity were starting to have an effect on North West India, further confounding the British.

“With Iran, we will have secured Tsar Peter’s instructions, and then we will take all of the oil at our leisure,” Stalin continued. “If rag-headed holdovers from the days before the light of communism can threaten America, we can do the same – and our motives will be different. In our lifetime, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich, we will see the world united under a red flag.”

With terrifying speed, his mode shifted. “And of our own nuclear program?”

“It proceeds,” Molotov said reluctantly. ‘Proceeds’ was an overstatement; the scientists were proceeding with ant-like speed. “We lack equipment and knowledge, and most of our sources in America have been silenced.”

“Then the fascists will have the superweapon before we will,” Stalin bellowed. “That is intolerable!”

Molotov, who privately agreed, winced. The resources of the USSR were vast, but its scientific base was sadly limited. Unfortunately, Stalin, not being a scientist, didn’t understand the need for research to establish how to build a weapon, nor the lack of the required equipment to build the prototype reactor.

“We could always ask our allies for assistance,” he said. “However, I suspect that Hitler will prove untrustworthy; it’s not in their interests to supply us with details like that.”

Stalin nodded slowly, his great head lowering. “We still supply them with strategic materials,” he said. “Were we to cut them off, they might give us information that we could check, or he might order an attack.”

Hitler had done that in the original timeline, Molotov knew, and had come within a hairsbreadth of success. Armed with foreknowledge and a reformed production system, might he succeed if he tried again?

“We can ask for the information,” Molotov said carefully. “Should he refuse, well, we’re in no worse a position, and we will soon dominate the oil wells of the Middle East.”

“I have thought about sabotaging the oil wells in Romania,” Stalin said. Molotov allowed himself one lifted eyebrow; the USSR had been planning to get their hands on the oil wells. “Unfortunately, that might tempt Hitler into an attack before we are ready to meet him.” He shook his head, lighting a new cigar. “No, for the moment, we have to play carefully.”

He grinned up at Molotov, a playful grin that had sent thousands to the gulags, or to the executioners’ block. “In time, Comrade, we will be able to dictate our own terms; for the moment, as the dialectic says, patience is required.”

Molotov relaxed and bowed; patience was indeed required. For Stalin to grasp that was a minor miracle, if Molotov believed in miracles, which he didn’t. Communism had shaped the world according to logic; there was no place for superstition, as the Christian Poles, the Jewish Poles and the Muslim Tatars and Afghanis were finding out.

USSR-Iran Border

Iran

17^th September 1940

Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov, General of the Soviet Union and Hero of the Soviet Union, victor of the Battle of Khalkhin Gol against the yellow Japanese, and also victor of shadowy battles in a timeline that would never exist, examined his final dispositions with concern. He’d implemented as much of his strange other-self’s doctrine as he could, including concentrating the tanks and improving the logistics, but he knew that the army was short of many things it needed. Soviet industries were working as hard as they could, but the army was critically short of radios, trucks, rolling stock and countless other things.

“Comrade General?”

Zhukov schooled his expression into immobility as the man approached. He was a thin pale colourless man, which a pinched face like a creature out of myth, and he wore green tabs on his shoulder boards. He was NKVD; representative of Beria, and through him Stalin himself. He was also someone who should never have been allowed near a battlefield.

“Yes, Comrade Commissioner?” Zhukov asked, trusting in Stalin’s desire that he defected the Iranians to protect him. “You have a concern?”

“The Persians have hammered a couple of our cavalry patrols,” Commissioner Petrovich said. “Are we not going to punish them?”

Zhukov waved a hand at the lines of tanks, now preparing their engines for the charge ahead. He’d ordered the horse-riding patrols to locate the Iranian dispositions, knowing that the Red Air Force wasn’t up to the task. Two days after he’d given the order, he now knew where most of the Iranians were.

“In half an hour, comrade, we will be on the march,” Zhukov said. The plan was a modification of the one that had worked at the Battle of Khalkhin Gol; the first echelon would engage the Iranian positions directly, while the second echelon would swing around them and cut the Iranians off from support. Once the Iranian forces in North Iran had been destroyed, and there was the inevitable wait for logistics to catch up with them, they would proceed south to Abadan and Tehran.

“The politburo will not be pleased,” Petrovich said, but he swung away. Zhukov scowled inside; someone with so little training could get hurt on a battlefield. Time passed slowly; he continued to receive reports, and slowly marked out the location of the Iranian forces.

“Time to go,” he said, calling Petrovich back from where he'd been harassing the tank crews. “Are you ready, Comrade Petrovich?”

“Yes, Comrade General,” Petrovich said. “I give you my approval to advance.”

Captain Jagir Rezha, a distant illegitimate relation of the Shah, examined his position with some concern and worry. The British, who dominated Iran – or at least they had, as the position of the future British wasn’t so clear – had restricted Iran to a small army; only ten thousand soldiers were positioned in the north. The future British had given the Iranians some of the captured Italian weapons, and some Italian advisors to teach them how to use them, but they were a very mixed blessing at best.

“Bastards,” he muttered, and studied his fortress. He’d positioned the best guns to defend the location, knowing from Finland that the Russians would come on and try to take it by force. He had his own scouts out, watching for incoming Russian attacks, but he knew that warning would be limited.

“Flare,” one of his spotters shouted, as a firework burst up in the sky. He had hardly any radios, certainly not enough to give his scouts some, and the only solution had been flares. A horseman might not make it back before the enemy arrived; the only solution had been a chain of flares in the sky.

“Positions,” he shouted. He’d picked his position with care; the Russians would have to charge at him, unless they looped around miles away they’d have to come at him frontally. A rumble passed through the air as a swarm of planes passed overhead, heading south, perhaps to Tehran itself.

“Sir,” a man shouted, as a second, duller rumble began to sound. He lifted his binoculars and saw a line of black shapes moving across the ground, heading for his position. He cursed as details of the Soviet tanks became clear; they seemed far tougher than the Italian tanks were, tough and mobile. There were several different designs, moving as if the world couldn’t hold them, and he knew with a sudden sick certainty that he couldn’t stop them.

“Stand by to fire,” he said, as the gunners worked their guns. They hadn’t realised that it was futile; not yet. Had the Soviets spotted them? “Fire!”

All of his guns fired as one. He was proud of his men as explosions dotted the Soviet ranks, and then he felt his heart sink. Only one Soviet tank had skidded to a stop, burning; three more tanks crashed into its rear. The others just kept coming, firing on their own.

“Fire,” he yelled desperately, and then an explosion blasted him to the ground as a Soviet tank hit his guns. The chain of explosions devastated the Iranian position; the Italian tanks were picked off without even managing to fire at the enemy. The entire position had been decimated, and still the Soviets were coming on. His infantry turned to flee, only to be mown down by machine guns as the enemy closed in. A shell landed near him and he knew no more.

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

17^th September 1940

“It’s a coordinated action,” Stirling said, as the display of advancing Soviet tanks appeared on the screen. A long-range drone had been based in Saudi Arabia, supporting the anti-Saud campaign, and PJHQ had ordered it moved to Iran as soon as the first reports became clear.

Hanover lifted an eyebrow. “Why do you think that?” He asked mildly, his mind ticking over with thoughts. “Coordinated with whom?”

“The Germans and the Japanese,” Stirling said. “We lost Gibraltar only two-three days ago, and the Japanese are clearly preparing to hit the remains of the Empire in the rear. Meanwhile, the Soviets take Iran; that gives them the option of heading west into Iraq and then Saudi – an area of vital interest to us – or heading east into India, dooming any possibility of forging a democratic government.”

“I wonder if Prime Minister Nehru knows,” Hanover mused. The Indian and Pakistani embassies – Bangladesh hadn’t rated an embassy since the state collapsed – had been seconded to the Provisional Government, trying to hold India together.

“The Iranians have demanded our help,” McLachlan said. “As you know, we replaced the embassy in Tehran with some of our people at once, and pulled out most of the troops to Iraq. The Iraqis are attacking us; at least the Saudis are grateful.”

“They’re not really Saudis,” Hanover reminded him wryly. Shahan McLachlan had proven to be even more of a gift from God than he’d expected. Securing the oil supply – and incidentally gobbling up Kuwait and the Gulf States – had been easier than he’d expected, and it provided a place to dump unwanted immigrants. “Two questions; can we help them? Should we help them?”

General Cunningham coughed. “I don’t see that we have a choice,” he said. “I admit that I would be opposed to fighting under these circumstances, but if they gain a toehold in Iran, they will be difficult to dislodge later. On the other hand, unless the Iraqis cooperate, we will have serious difficulty in supporting any counter attack – hell, we’ll be on a shoestring.”

He picked up the remote and adjusted the display. “We currently have two infantry divisions and one armoured division in the North African theatre, along with air support and logistic formations. If we force through the final stages of their conversions, the Contemporary 7^th Armoured can also be deployed, at least as far as Saudi, which is where we planned to stockpile material. As it is, we’ll be limited, and Contemporary forces will be worse off, I’m afraid.”

He shook his head. “Canada, at least, can supply us with ammunition for them, but their tanks are nowhere near as tough as they have to be,” he said. “We’d be much better off sending the unconverted units to the Far East, and trading 2^nd Armoured for them, or using 3^rd Armoured and its support formations…”

Hanover shook his head. “Parliament would have kittens,” he said. “We have to keep a reserve in Britain.”

“Then we’ll have to rely on the provisional governments of North Africa to hold their own forts,” Cunningham said. “If we move our forces to Saudi, and work there to build up a reserve, then we can move them into Iran if politics dictate. However, I must warn you that our logistics will be very bad indeed.”

“So are theirs,” Stirling said. Hanover looked across at him; the young officer was clearly thinking out loud. “The Soviet army was never very good at logistics, and it seems that they’re planning to snatch as much ground as they can in the next few days. At some point, they’re going to have to refuel, and we have a major airbase in Iraq.”

Hanover nodded. The Iraqi Government had allowed the British to keep the massive airbase in the centre of the country, simply because they weren’t certain what to make of the news of the future.

“We can move a couple of Jaguar squadrons, one of the mobile air control systems and their supports into Habbaniyah Airbase,” Stirling said. His voice stumbled over the name. “Once the drone has located the support formations, we can start pounding them from the air, and isolate the Russian formations in Iran. I don’t think that we could weaken them enough for the Iranians to handle them, or even stop them, but we could slow them long enough to move our own forces into Iran.”

“In theory, they can take most of the country in a month,” Cunningham said. “There is the danger that they might launch an attack of their own on Habb… whatever base.”

“Habbaniyah,” Stirling said. “We could airlift an infantry force in and task it with holding the base.”

“Assuming the Iraqis cooperate,” Hanover said thoughtfully. “Their policy towards us changes every second day.”

“And some of them might tip off the Soviets to the location of the airbase,” Cunningham said. “We can’t count on the Red Army being as incompetent as Rashid Ali, who is currently under arrest.”

Hanover considered. The Iraqi Regent hadn’t hesitated to purge those who would overthrow the monarchy; it had been child’s play to slip in a few other names. Rashid Ali’s power base hadn’t been enough to preserve him from jail, although the Regent had hesitated to have him executed.

“We have to try,” he said, and scowled. “General, Major, draw up a deployment plan for my approval tonight.” He glanced at the clock. “Morning tomorrow, in fact,” he said, changing his mind. “John, stay a while.”

“Major Stirling was right,” Hanover said, after the meeting had concluded. “This is a joint plan.”

McLachlan nodded. “The Japanese are clearly up to something as well,” he said. “Unfortunately…”

“It will be at least three more days before the submarines arrive, and a week before the fleet arrives,” Hanover said. “The Germans are pounding the American-led convoys hard… damn it; why did they cut the Navy? We don’t have anything like enough fucking ships!”

“The good news is that America might enter the war,” McLachlan said. “The propaganda, our technology, and the clashes between German and American vessels in the Atlantic… and if the Japanese attack the Philippines…”

“They won’t,” Hanover said dryly. “They won’t repeat the same mistakes again. That leaves us with the option of fighting to regain the Empire, or agreeing to Japanese and Soviet dominance of their respective areas. I bet you anything you want to put forward that the Germans are planning to land in North Africa again, once we’re distracted.”

“Impossible,” McLachlan said flatly. “They wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Hanover shrugged. “When has such considerations ever bothered Herr Hitler?” He asked. “They’re trying to grind us down, John, and they might just succeed.”

McLachlan grinned. “We could always blow up the Axis and call it a draw,” he said.

“Don’t even joke about that,” Hanover snapped. “We need the Americans in the war.”