The Long Hard Road

Chapter Forty-Seven: The Russian Revolution

Moscow

Russia

5^th July 1942

Molotov sighed grimly as he considered the situation. Rumours of the destruction of Stalingrad had been denied by Radio Moscow; an unusual step that had convinced the population that the rumours were in fact true. Stalin had acted quickly, but not quickly enough; the NKVD units that had attempted to seal the ruins of the city had been torn apart by desertions and internal dissent. Everyone of them knew about radiation; they didn’t want to be near any possible source of the deadly poison.

Molotov scowled. The war was lost; everyone knew that. The Red Army was collapsing; the Ukraine and Belarus were in open revolt… even the Finns were scoring successes against the occupation force. To add insult to injury, Vladivostok had surrendered when General Iosif Apanasenko had realised that Americans possessed atomic bombs. Rumour had it that certain members of the city’s population had petitioned for recognition as an independent state, rather than joining Trotsky’s promise of a democratic Russian federation.

He shook his head. With the collapse of the western front, it wouldn’t be long before Moscow itself was besieged by American or British forces, which were already skirting the radioactive regions of Poland and punching into Belarus. Their aircraft ranged further and further east, and as for whatever they’d done to the factories…

His radio, the little device that Trotsky had given him, buzzed. “It’s time,” Trotsky said. Molotov nodded to himself; he’d embraced the risk when Trotsky had contacted him, and re-embraced it when he hadn’t reported the entire incident to Stalin. “Are you ready?”

Molotov nodded. The little device that Trotsky had given him was still on his person, a neat little assassination tool that would pass unnoticed by the NKVD. “Yes, Comrade,” he said, and savoured the irony. Perhaps Trotsky would have his chance to build a democratic – capitalist – Russia, perhaps not. If Molotov had a high position, perhaps some elements would survive.

“Then move now,” Trotsky said. “Your time for getting through the streets is running out.”

“Understood,” Molotov said. He gulped; even now, defying Stalin seemed dangerous. Day by day, the regions that Stalin controlled were shrinking, or held down by thousands of NKVD soldiers under constant attack. Productivity was down to almost nothing; sooner or later they would run out of bullets. “I’ll call my driver at once.”

Hiding the radio – it was disguised as a simple pen, one that was – naturally – inferior to a capitalist product – Molotov called for his driver. He was supposed to be on station at all times, but with all the unrest… it would not have surprised Molotov if his driver had deserted. A lot of the lower-ranking Communist Party officials were lying low, hoping that they would be ignored in the chaos.

“Yes, sir,” the driver said, appearing from the room. “What is your command, sir?”

Molotov smiled to himself. The driver was either loyal, or an NKVD plant. Either way, it didn’t matter at the moment. “Drive me to the Kremlin, at once,” he said. “I must see the Great Stalin at once.”

Trotsky had been a genuine military commander. Unlike Molotov, he had been very involved in plotting the coup that had placed what would become the Communist Party in power, and he had commanded the force that had fought the Soviet-Polish War of 1919-21. Planning a coup was simple; you just had to decapitate the opposing regime and any possible successors.

Natasha Yar blinked at him as he finished talking to Molotov. He nodded to himself; recruiting Molotov had been a stroke of genius, he was certain. The last thing Russia needed was a situation when the coup was carried out with British and American tanks closing in on Moscow. That… would give the Allies too much control over Russia, too much influence over the population.

“Are you certain that this will work?” She snapped. Trotsky, who’d seen her break the neck of an NKVD officer, knew better than to believe that she was the simple babushka she appeared. Her thick robes concealed body armour and enough weapons to hold off an entire NKVD force.

“Fairly certain,” Trotsky said. There were only four main combat squadrons under their command, Russian émigrés from the first revolution and their children, trained very quickly by the British and led by a handful of SAS officers. That… limited the amount that they could do very quickly, even though there were only three main targets in Moscow; the Kremlin and Red Square, Radio Moscow’s big transmitters and the new NKVD barracks, built outside the city. “Have you given the orders?”

“Yes, I have,” Natasha said. “Irina and Sergi are on their way.”

Trotsky nodded. “Then its time,” he said. “Send the signal.”

The NKVD had learned very quickly that they could no longer relay on fear to keep the population in line. The first attacks, directed against individual agents and the Moscow police, had provoked retaliation, and then the second attacks had been even more brutal. The entire terrorist campaign had been incredibly frustrating for Beria, before he died, and the NKVD was on the verge of collapse.

Stalin had ordered them to send more forces to Moscow, knowing that whoever controlled Moscow had a good chance of holding the rest of Russia, and ordered them moved into the barracks outside the city. Marshal Kliment Voroshilov, the commander of the 1^st Guards, had ordered them to patrol the city, even under attack. The NKVD had been under constant attack ever since, and they had even lost a handful of tanks. Recovering one that had been overrun by the underground had been a relief; they had enough problems with Molotov Cocktails without facing tanks as well.

The NKVD driver took the tank back to the barracks, noticing that it needed some repairs, and left it in the tank park. The tank was indeed moving sluggishly; it had been fitted with a concealed FAE bomb. When Trotsky sent the signal, the FAE bomb exploded, sending a massive wave of fire blasting across the NKVD tank farm. When Voroshilov would call for their services, the stunned survivors would be in no shape to help anyone, not even themselves.

Molotov heard the shouting even as his black car entered Red Square. An obviously scared NKVD officer checked his papers, passing over half of the checks he was supposed to make, just to remain out of sight. He glanced behind him and gasped; nearly the entire population of Moscow was on the streets, shouting slogans that would shock Stalin, who would almost certainly be on the verge of having Voroshilov open fire on the crowds.

“Down with Stalin,” they shouted, a massive chant that echoed around the buildings, cowing the NKVD guards. Firing on Poles was one thing – everyone knew that the Polish people were eternal enemies of the Russian Rodina – but to fire on so many of their own people? They’d been reminded of their own mortality; they knew that nemesis was at hand.

“Down with Stalin… Down with Stalin…”

Molotov moved as fast as he could. The NKVD guards seemed almost pleased to see him; Stalin hadn’t issued any orders at all. “Take me to Marshal Kliment Voroshilov,” he commanded, using the Marshal’s full name to avoid confusion. “At once.”

The guard who was supposed to escort him directly to Stalin didn’t argue. “This way, Comrade,” he said, and led him into a small room in the Kremlin. Marshal Kliment Voroshilov looked up at Molotov as he entered.

“Ah, Molotov,” he said. “You do know that they were throwing your cocktails around earlier?”

Molotov glared at him. “Don’t try to be suave,” he snapped. “It doesn’t suit you.” Voroshilov scowled at him. “What are you going to do?”

Voroshilov picked up a machine pistol. “Do?” He asked. “I’m just calling for reinforcements, and then we’re going to blast that rabble away from the Kremlin.”

“No,” Molotov said. His tone was flat. “Voroshilov, that’s the entire population, more or less, and they’re armed. You start a fight and it will end with us being hung over the statues of Comrade Stalin.” A thought struck him. “Where is Comrade Stalin?”

“He’s gone into the underground tunnels,” Voroshilov said. His tone was full of glee. “He’ll meet up with the 1^st Guards outside the city and…”

Molotov cursed. He’d thought that Stalin would have stood it out until the end. Clearly the dictator had decided that using the link to the Moscow Underground, which had been sealed ever since the unrest had broken out, was safer than staying around to fight. God only knew where he might have gone…

“Why do you care anyway?” Voroshilov asked. Molotov’s hands clutched the assassination weapon that Trotsky had given him. “It is a honour to cover the retreat and regrouping of the great man who…”

“He had all our best generals shot,” Molotov snapped. He brought out the weapon, secure in the knowledge that Voroshilov wouldn’t recognise it for what it was. “He only spared you because you were clearly no threat to anyone…”

“I’m the supreme commander of the 1^st Guards,” Voroshilov snapped. “Comrade Molotov…”

“Oh shut up,” Molotov said, suddenly reaching the end of his tether. The weapon made a single phut noise as it fired a burst of tiny bullets into Voroshilov’s face. For a long chilling moment, Voroshilov’s hands scrabbled for the machine pistol, but then he fell over. Molotov picked up the machine pistol, set it to single-shot, and shot Voroshilov again, just to make certain.

“Sir, I…”

Molotov turned as the guard burst in. “We are going to end this in a way that doesn’t involve us all dying,” he said, and hoped that he was telling the truth. Voroshilov’s command radio was in front of him; he picked it up and issued orders.

“Sir, what’s happening?” The guard asked. He sounded plaintive. “Why are you…?”

“We’re surrendering,” Molotov said flatly. He watched as the NKVD guards laid down their weapons, to have them collected by Irina and Sergi. “We’re going to put an end to all of this.”

“He’s fled,” Trotsky said grimly. Irina and Sergi had searched the Kremlin from top to bottom once the NKVD guards had surrendered; they had only found the link to the underground. He wished he could say that he had been surprised, but Stalin had always had a question mark hanging over his conduct during the Civil War. That little detail had been forgotten by the Communist historians, who had given Stalin the decisive role in every event from before his own birth right up to the current nuclear program.

Natasha nodded. “Perhaps for the best,” she said. “If he’d remained here, he might have managed to put up a fight.”

Trotsky nodded. It was a good point, he supposed; Stalin would have fought like a cornered rat. “So… what happened at Radio Moscow?”

“We got the transmitters intact,” Natasha said. “You can make your recording now.”

Trotsky nodded again, feeling his years pressing down on him. He was old; older than even Natasha appeared. He’d been supposed to have died three years ago; that had been a shock, even to him.

“Have the recorder brought in now,” he said, and waited until Irina brought in the recorder. She had played a vital role in inciting the population to come out onto the streets, making another bid for justice and fairness, and had led them to the Kremlin. She smiled at him and he smiled back. If he’d been a few years younger, he might have tried to…

He shook his head. Like Natasha, Irina was more than she seemed. The bubbly student was so… unreal, even for the strangest university in Moscow, and he was certain that Irina had skills that no one else ever knew about – until it was too late.

“There,” Irina said. “You may speak when ready.”

Trotsky took a breath. Stalin had rarely spoken to the entire country; Lenin had only done it once, as far as Trotsky recalled. Radio had been in its infancy during the Revolution – the first Revolution – and it had been Stalin’s regime that had spread thousands of bulky radios around, just to ensure that everyone got their daily dose of propaganda. Who knew; if the people didn’t hear the soothing lies of Radio Moscow, they might start believing the dreadful rumours?

He spoke in careful basic Russian. “People of Russia,” he said. “My name is Leon Trotsky.” He allowed a note of humour to slip into his voice. “I imagine that you will have heard of me.”

He sobered. This was too important for little jokes. “The regime of the criminal Stalin is over,” he said. “For the moment, a provisional government will run the country until democratic elections can be held, hopefully in six months. During that time, we ask you to be patient; it will take time to rebuild enough to hold the elections, ensure food supplies and demobilise most of the army. We will seek a truce with the British and Americans, against whom Stalin flung thousands of our young men, a truce that will ensure that we have the time to rebuild and become strong once again.”

He sensed Natasha’s concern, but ignored it. “Now… I must speak to those who enforced the rules of Stalin,” he said. “Those of you who guarded the gulags, who enforced impossible production values, those who forced men in to fight and shot them for ill-timed words. This is your once chance to walk away with your lives. Surrender – now – to our people, and you will be allowed to live. Resist – and you will perish. Release your prisoners, surrender to them, and you will be permitted to leave.”

He sighed to himself. He knew that most of them would not listen, or they would be murdered by their own people. It didn’t matter. “Thank you for listening,” he said. “Please tune in again tomorrow for an update.”

Irina turned off the recorder. Trotsky sat down and put his head in his hands. “Are they going to listen?” She asked. “Will they even care?”

“It’s hard to be certain,” Trotsky admitted, remembering embarrassing times in peasant villages. “They will give us a chance, yes, but not a very big one. Once we start moving the captured forces from Iran – those that agreed to work for us – into the country, we can clean up the NKVD units, those that refuse to surrender or dissolve.” He sighed. “Irina, it’s going to be very difficult indeed; it could take months before the country is working again.”

“We have to secure the nuclear and biological plants,” Natasha said. Trotsky nodded; he knew better than to believe that the British would let them go. Hanover had promised him nuclear power plants, but not plants that would produce bomb material. Trotsky privately agreed; there was too much risk of someone else taking control to allow the plants to continue to exist. Later, perhaps…

“Have you got a list of them?” Natasha asked. “We have to move quickly.”

“Here,” Molotov said. The former foreign minister sighed. “And now… what are you going to do with me?”

Trotsky grinned. “Vice President?” He asked. His new constitution prohibited the Vice President from running for President himself. He took the list of research cities. “German plants as well?” Molotov nodded. “What was Stalin thinking?”

Irina shrugged. “Forget that,” she said, sounding more the teenager than ever. Her face, so un-Russian in attitude, if not appearance, crinkled. “Where the hell is he now?”

The giant railway junction and station, three miles outside Moscow, which had held thousands of the new, standardised rolling stock, was in ruins. Somehow – Gregor Pantovich had no idea how – it had been bombed; the blast had shattered the entire station. With the NKVD’s sudden disappearance from the site, the Zeks who had been lucky enough to draw the job of loading countless trains – and had survived the experience of having the station bombed – were milling around, wondering what to do. They were miles from their homes – many of them were Poles or Russians from the Far East – and they had no idea of where to go. The handful that had lived in Moscow had headed towards the city at once.

Gregor felt his stomach rumble and eyed some of the Poles. If they had been the fat capitalists Radio Moscow had branded them, he might have tried to eat them, but they were as thin and scrawny as the rest of the Zeks. They were all hungry, they urgently needed food, but there was none to be found.

“Look,” a Zek called, as their unease grew. A single train was heading towards the station, clearly unaware of the massive devastation that had hit the track and ruined it. The Zeks jeered as the train flew over a damaged railway link and crashed to a halt.

“Food,” a Zek shouted. “There must be food in there.”

Gregor didn’t need any more encouragement and he lunged forward with the rest of the Zeks, storming the engine and breaking into the single carriage. It was armoured and secured, but the Zeks had their crowbars and their hunger was driving them on and on. Moments later, the main door crashed open and they poured their way into the carriage. There was only one man in the carriage, staring at them. Gregor recognised him at once; the man whose face adorned every wall in the station, every building he’d been since he’d been arrested on suspicion of something. The NKVD hadn’t even bothered to tell him what they thought he’d done, just grabbed him and shoved him into a camp.

“You,” he breathed. The sheer terror of the man held them in place, staring at him, looking at the man looking at them. The Zeks behind Gregor, unable to see, pushed forward; the man winced in sheer terror… and the spell broke. The Zeks forced themselves forward, piling onto the man and dragging him down by sheer weight of numbers. Years of pent-up rage demanded vengeance.

It took Comrade Stalin a very long time to die…