The Long Hard Road

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Kamikaze

The Kremlin

Moscow, Russia

8^th May 1942

Molotov stepped through the security guards – Moscow had become even darker as the NKVD cracked down on the citizens – and entered Stalin’s inner sanctum. For once, the dictator wasn’t unhappy; he was smiling darkly. Molotov felt panic; only the certain knowledge that the guards would shoot him down if he tried to run kept him walking towards his chair.

“Have a seat,” Stalin said. He held up a box of cigars. “Georgian, I’m afraid, but they’ll have to do.”

Molotov’s mind worked rapidly as he took a cigar. Stalin was in a good mood, and he was certain that that meant trouble. The cigar was thick and smoky, from Stalin’s native Georgia… which was in revolt. He felt his blood run cold; was Stalin making a subtle point?

“Quite weak really,” Stalin said. “They really should have been more grateful to me. After all, did I not make them strong?”

Agreeing with Stalin was always a good idea when a person was unsure of their ground. “Yes, Comrade General Secretary,” Molotov said. He was astonished; ‘weak’ was not a word he would have applied to his cigar. The future claimed that smoking was bad for you, and smoking the cigar he could believe it. His lungs wanted to curl up and die.

“I received interesting news from our good friends the Germans,” Stalin said, his tone only mildly sarcastic. “They have a high-ranking source within America, and it seems that the capitalists intend to stab us in the back, at Vladivostok.”

Molotov thought quickly. Asking for a map would be a sign of weakness. “Would they not have to go through Japan first?” He asked. “They are not at war with Japan.”

“They would certainly have to go close to Japan,” Stalin agreed. He smiled darkly. “I think its time that the Japanese earned the resources we’re pouring into Manchuria for them.”

Molotov considered. “Comrade General Secretary, they do not have a fleet anymore,” he said. “What can they hit them with?”

Stalin laughed throatily. “So formal,” he said. “It turns out that the Japanese have prepared a new weapon; they crash their planes into British ships and blow them out of the water. Think how many little capitalists they could drown.”

“And if they could wipe out the fleet, they could defeat the attack before it had even begun,” Molotov said. “Will they agree?”

“Of course they will,” Stalin said. Before Molotov could find of a way to tactfully remind him of the dangers, he elaborated. “Comrade Apanasenko has far more firepower than they have, placed along the borders. Think of how we could destroy the Japanese redoubt, and still have time to prepare the defences of Vladivostok.”

Molotov smiled. Stalin was thinking like a strategist. “Their flimsy defences would not stand up to us for long,” he said. “Our tanks are so much better.”

Stalin nodded. The Japanese were making frantic efforts to create a fall-back position, on the off-chance that the British worked up their nerve to the point that they would dare to launch an invasion of the Japanese Home Islands. Even with some assistance from Russia, they hadn’t managed to create the strong nation they desired… and now that they had lost contact with their homelands, they had been crippled.

“You will inform the Japanese Ambassador of our requirements,” Stalin said. “In the meantime, we can prepare to defend Vladivostok, although only with what we have on hand.” He looked down at the reports on his desk. “You may leave.”

Molotov left. He knew – and he knew that Stalin knew – that the Soviet Union was in serious trouble. The Trotsky movement in Russia itself was gaining ground, particularly after the defeat in Iran, which they had taken care to inform the public about. Radio Moscow, of course, had gone on and on about how delighted the Iranians were about Soviet liberation from the Shah and how they were embracing communism… but no one was listening.

He shuddered as the guards patted him down. The rebellions in the Ukraine and Belarus, despite mass deportations, were still burning; the Ukrainian conscripts had had to be disarmed after several unpleasant incidents. Tens of thousands of them were now in gulags, sitting out the war until Stalin had finished with them. Thousands more had escaped back to the Ukraine… while the economy was in serious trouble.

He stepped out of the Kremlin and into his car. The driver took one look at his face and started the car back to the Foreign Ministry. Molotov ordered him to head to the Japanese Embassy, and then regretted it; they had to drive past the wreck of the Planning Division. Trotsky’s strike – all the underground claimed that he had led the strike personally – had decimated the planners who held the vast Soviet Union together; killing Stalin alone would have had a similar effect.

Scowling, Molotov stepped out of the car and into the grounds of the Japanese Embassy, passing through first NKVD guards, and then Japanese soldiers, both of whom insisted on inspecting him. Whatever happened, he was certain, as long as they didn’t lose their nerve, they would win in the end.

“Ah, Ambassador Hikada,” he said, as he was shown into the presence of the Ambassador. “I have a proposition to put to you.”

USS Enterprise

Sea of Japan

12^th May 1942

Admiral William Hasley, known as Bill to his friends and his subordinates, stared through his binoculars as the American force entered Japanese waters. It wasn’t something he was pleased about – the exact situation of America’s relationship with Japan wasn’t clear – but he was confident that his force could chase off any Japanese fleet, if the remainder of the Japanese fleet dared to come out to fight.

“Keep the combat air patrol up anyway,” he ordered. The little radios that had been designed by the British and mass-produced by American factories were delights; he could coordinate entire carrier wings with ease. The six fleet carriers of the fleet could put up four hundred aircraft between them, each one a brand-new Hellcat fighter flown by a skilled pilot.

“Yes, Admiral,” the duty officer said. Enterprise launched a squadron of Hellcats even as the Admiral watched, a manoeuvre that had been practiced time and time again at Pearl Harbour, when the fleet was being prepared for departure. “Should we launch one of the AEW aircraft from Wasp?”

Hasley turned his binoculars to glare at the older carrier, USS Wasp. Unlike her six comrades, the older carrier wasn’t fit for fleet action – and Hasley firmly believed in the new carrier doctrine that his other self had pioneered – and instead she carried the 1^st Marine Division, which wasn’t a real division any longer. Instead, it was a helicopter force, one capable of engaging any target from the air. He grinned suddenly; one of the aircraft carried a powerful radar that was far more capable than anything the Enterprise carried.

“I think that would be a good idea,” he said. “My complements to General Vandegrift and ask him to dispatch the helicopter.”

He didn’t speak to Major General Vandegrift personally. They didn’t get on. Instead, he studied the latest in orbital reconnaissance; if the Russians knew they were coming, they weren’t doing anything to get ready to meet them. He frowned; Vladivostok was not an easy place to attack under normal circumstances, which was why he wasn’t going to attack it directly, even with the large force under his command. Instead, they would land at Nakhodka, and then march to surround the city-port.

“Ah, Admiral,” Captain Thompson said. He waved a hand at the borrowed British radar system. “I think we have a problem.”

Hasley looked at the display and swore. “Is that a glitch?” He asked. “I never trusted those systems…”

“No, sir,” the radar operator said. “They’re real.”

For a long moment, Hasley’s mind refused to accept them; nearly a thousand aircraft heading from Japan, directly for the fleet. They couldn’t be real; no one in their right mind would launch a fleet like that, would they?”

“Sound battle stations,” he said. The alarms started to ring. “Get the planes off the decks, now!”

Flying officer Shinto wasn’t used to his aircraft. The modified Zero was a new design, supposed to be capable of matching the British aircraft. Shinto, who’d seen the British aircraft, knew better, but it was a honour to die for the Emperor – one that he’d been forbidden. As one of a handful of survivors from the Dutch East Indies, one of the most experienced pilots that Japan had left, Shinto had been forbidden to crash into any American ship.

Shinto clenched his teeth as he saw the American planes ahead of him. His mission was to keep them off the suicide units, which were loaded with explosive and too heavy to manoeuvre well, and to fight as long as he could. He pulled a lever, dropping the extra fuel tank – hopefully landing on top of an American ship – and swooped around into the battle.

An American plane appeared in his sights and he fired. It wiggled away before he could confirm he’d hit it, but he was certain that he had. The sight of another American plane going for a kamikaze unit caught his attention, and he swooped down on top of it, firing a long burst into its tail. He blinked; it was still flying!

“What in the name of…”

It wasn’t a thought he was destined to complete. The Hellcat he’d fired upon had better armour than any Japanese aircraft. It flipped around and spiralled towards the ground in a controlled dive… and one of its wingmen fired directly into Shinto’s aircraft. His last thought was puzzlement; how could he die so easily?

The radar operator had given up trying to track the battle, but it was very clear what the Japanese were trying to do. They swarmed down on the American ships, targeting the battleships and the carriers, trying to crash into them. The explosions that marked their deaths proved that they were carrying high explosive loads.

Admiral William Hasley tried to look calm as the Japanese swarm closed in on the American fleet. The radar-guided guns on the destroyers and battleships were firing constantly, swatting the Japanese out of the sky, as a force of Japanese craft slammed into the battleship USS Washington and the heavy cruiser USS Chicago. The Washington shuddered as explosions blasted up from her port side; the Chicago wasn’t so lucky, she rolled over and sank.

“They’re not trained very well, are they?” He asked his aide, who nodded. He knew that there was nothing he could do; he kept his face calm, whatever it cost him. The Japanese pilots were inexperienced and it showed; they kept making suicidal runs into the massed fire of the American ships.

“No, sir,” the aide said. “Permission to wet myself, sir?”

Hasley snorted at the mild joke. “No, Tom,” he said. “You have to remain calm.”

As quickly as it had begun, the attack ended. The skies were suddenly clear; the only planes in the air were American. “Report,” Hasley snapped. “What did we lose?”

“Four destroyers, two transports and the Chicago,” the radar operator said. “Their IFF signals are gone.”

Hasley nodded. “How long until we hit the target?” He asked. “Can we afford to run the gauntlet again?”

He waited while the staff added up the numbers. He wasn’t scared; the problem was that each battle cost them supplies and ammunition. At some point, they would have to abandon the attempt to seize Vladivostok… and the Soviets would know that they were coming.

“Seventeen hours,” he said finally. “I think we can make it in time for the original invasion plan.”

He smiled. “Ask the British to slam a few missiles into Japan’s airbases, would you?” He said. “I think we’re at war with them now.”

Near Nakhodka, Russia

9^th May 1942

No more suicidal Japanese attacks threatened the fleet; rumour had it that bad weather had forced the Japanese to remain on the ground. The darkness of the morning was broken by flickering lights; the Russians didn’t seem to have worried too much about security. Drifting mist made visibility difficult, even through the best British equipment, but Admiral Hasley was determined to go ahead.

“I don’t like it,” Flying Officer Radcliff protested. The small British pilot had been volunteered for the invasion force and he didn’t like it at all. “Why haven’t they bothered with black-out?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Captain Caddell said cheerfully. The Russians had set up a large gun platform on the beach; the helicopters were to take them out before the Marines could land. “Is your plane ready to go?”

“It’s a helicopter,” Radcliff protested angrily. “Yes, it’s ready; I’m not one of those people who don’t bother to do basic maintenance.”

The group of British pilots muttered agreement. The Wasp had a large number of British pilots. “Then, everyone aboard,” Captain Caddell snapped. “Move it!”

Private Max Shepherd followed the team into the first helicopter. Two accidents, one of them lethal, had convinced everyone to take very good care of the helicopters, particularly when their rotor blades were spinning. Without waiting for orders, the pilot took the helicopter into the sky, heading around the Russian position.

“I’m not reading any radar,” he said. “There are traces from Vladivostok itself, but…”

“Can it see us?” Captain Caddell snapped. “Do they know we’re coming?”

“They can hear us,” Radcliff pointed out dryly. “No, sir; those radars aren’t powerful enough to get a signal to us, and then back again.”

Shepherd tuned them out, watching as the grey sea gave way to land. The Russian lands were nothing like as attractive as Norway had been, even in the semi-darkness. They seemed to be all rocky and desolate. He wanted to sleep, but he didn’t dare; instead he focused on the mission.

The helicopter sat down with a bump. “Everyone out, now,” Captain Caddell snapped. “Pilot, take off and don’t spare the horses…”

“I think it’s too late for anything clever,” Radcliff said. “The Russians have seen us; they’re sending a cluster of tanks to investigate.”

“Bastards,” Captain Caddell said. “Deploy into tank positions, now!”

Shepherd cursed and moved with the others, reaching for his bazooka, the new improved version. They were on top of a small hill, staring into the semi-darkness. The growing light of dawn was challenging the mist, but visibility wasn’t good at all.

“There,” one of the Marines shouted. Four Marines fired at once, slamming bazooka rounds into a Russian tank, which exploded in a blast of white-hot fire.

“Spread out, kill them,” Captain Caddell snapped. One of the helicopters risked life and limb by swinging out over the enemy tanks, unleashing a burst of rocket fire into their ranks. They exploded in a sequence that was awesome and horrifying.

“We have to move on,” Sergeant Pike said. The Marines advanced at a run, heading down towards the enemy position. The Russians fought like mad bastards, but the loss of their tanks had stunned them, and they died in place.

“Take the guns,” Captain Caddell ordered sharply. “We have to take the bastards out of play, quickly!”

General Vandegrift allowed himself a sigh of relief as the Russian guns fell silent. The transport ships of the Marine force, carrying infantry and light tanks, were launched, heading into the Nakhodka harbour without a care in the world. The tiny town seemed to have been half-abandoned; the handful of fishermen were rounded up quickly.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered, as the landing ship grounded, releasing another hundred Marines onto Russian soil. “They could have challenged us with far more tanks than they did; a bit more alertness and they might have wiped out the helicopter force.”

Major Barton, the British observer, shrugged. “Perhaps they saw you coming,” he said. “Incidentally, forces from the Philippines bombed Japan with B-29 bombers.”

“That’s good news, I suppose,” General Vandegrift said crossly. “I wish we had better air cover here.”

“They’re busy elsewhere,” Barton said, as planes from Wasp – the helicopters – roamed overhead. “Vladivostok has ships that need to be taken out, and they have airfields close by, you know.”

“I knew that,” General Vandegrift snapped. British condensation always annoyed him. “I have every confidence that Admiral ugly-buttocks” – Barton bit off a laugh – “can handle the Russian flyboys. However, I have professional experience that tells me that something is wrong here.”

Barton frowned. “We have a complete satellite download, all hours of the day or your money back,” he said. “If they’re planning to launch an attack on us, where are they?”

General Vandegrift frowned, considering the question. “They’re supposed to be good at camouflage,” he said finally. “Even if they knew we were coming, it would have required precognition to know where we would land.” He scowled grimly. “Are you confident that your systems cannot be fooled?”

“Not with anything the Russians have,” Barton said confidently. “They should be trying to shove us back into the sea now, except that they’re not.”

General Vandegrift nodded gloomily. “I wish I could disagree with you,” he said. “Doctrine says that attacking a landing force as soon as possible is the correct course of action. I assume that they read your history books” – Barton shrugged – “so they’ll know that as well as we do.”

Barton cursed suddenly. “They know some of our advantages,” he said. “They know – or believe – that we have precision weapons with us. They know that we’ll see them on the ground, so they don’t attempt to attack us, but instead to drag us into a fight for Vladivostok itself. We have to take the city as soon as possible; it’s a threat to our supply lines. They know that… and so they hope to break us in the city.”

General Vandegrift smiled wryly at the ‘us.’ “I still don’t think that’s right,” he said. “I’m going to continue bringing the force over, and I’m going to deploy scouts around, just to make certain that there are no Russians close enough to observe us. Once we have the entire force on land, we can advance to seal off Vladivostok.”