He was being realistic. He had flown a stupid solo mission, almost gotten killed, affected the course of the war not at all, and now it was time to face facts: Russia was defenseless. “I’ll bet Zambia has a better air force than we have,” one of the junior officers muttered. Chernov took off his flight gear and sat down by a main tire with the water bottle and waved them away. “Let me rest awhile.”
His mind was still going a thousand miles an hour, replaying the missile shots and the Japanese fighter slashing across in front of his gun. The emotional highs and lows — amazing! He would never have believed that he could feel so much elation, then, five seconds later, so much terror. He was wrung out, like a sponge squeezed to millimeter thickness in a hydraulic press. Five minutes later one of the NCOS came for him from the dispersal shack. “Sir, Moscow is on the line. Someone very senior.”
“How senior?”
“He says he’s a general, sir. I never heard of him.”
Chernov walked across the ramp and entered the dispersal building, a single room with a naked bulb in the ceiling — not burning, of course; the only light came from the dirty windows. A large potbellied wood-stove stood in the center of the room. The four or five enlisted men in the room fell silent when Chernov walked in and reached for the phone. “Major Chernov, sir.”
“Major, this is General Kokovtsov, aide to Marshal Stolypin.”
“In Moscow?”
“Headquarters.”
“I’ve been trying to telephone regional headquarters and Moscow since the Japanese invaded. You arc the first senior officer I’ve spoken to.”
The desk soldier had other things on his mind. “I asked to speak to the commanding officer. Are you in command of the base?”
“Apparently so, General.”
“A fighter base should have a brigadier general in command.”
“Our general retired four years ago and was never replaced. Two of our squadrons were transferred three years ago and took their airplanes with them. The other squadron was decommissioned: The people left, but the airplanes stayed, parked in revetments. My squadron, the Five hundred fifty-sixth, is the last.”
“And you are a ma right-brace or?”
“That is correct, sir. Major Chernov. We used to have a colonel. This spring, he and some of the other officers took several vehicles and left. We haven’t seen them since. They said they were going to Irkutsk, near Lake Baikal. To find work. The colonel had relatives in Moscow, I believe. He talked of the city often, so he may have gone there.”
“He had orders?”
“He deserted!”
“Call it what you like.”
“Desertion.”
“The colonel drove out of here in broad daylight. The others too. They were owed over eighteen months’ pay. They hadn’t seen a ruble in six months.”
Silence from Moscow. Finally, the general said, “Why are you still there?”
“My wife left me five years ago, General. I’m alone. This place is as good as any other.”
“You are loyal.”
“To what? What I am is stupid. The government owes me almost two years’ pay. I haven’t been paid anything since the colonel was, nine months ago. Neither have these enlisted men. We’re selling small arms and ammunition on the black market to get money for food. When we don’t have any money, we ask for credit. When we can’t get credit, we steal. But enough of this social chitchat — what did you call me to talk about?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Believe me, so am I.”
“Marshal Stolypin wants you to harass the Japanese. Just that. Launch a few sections a day, try to shoot down a transport or two, force them to maximum effort to protect their resources.”
“I thought Stolypin retired years ago. Samsonov is—“
“Samsonov is dead. Stolypin has come out of retirement to lead us against the Japanese.”
“Maybe he can work a miracle.”
“Don’t be insubordinate, Major.”
“I’m trying, sir.”
“So what have you done, if anything, to fight the war?”
“I went up awhile ago. One plane. They shot at me; I shot at them.”
“One sortie?” he asked, disbelief apparent in his voice. “Three today. We flew six yesterday, four the day before.”
“Only thirteen?”
The jerk! Chernov had dealt with asshole superiors all his adult life. He kept his voice absolutely calm, without even a trace of emotion. “We can launch one more sortie this evening. We have fuel for perhaps eight more; then we’re done.”
“We’ll have fuel delivered.”
“The electricity has been off here for a month. No one has paid the power company, so they shut it off. We have to pump the fuel from the tanks to the planes by hand, which takes a lot of time and effort.”
“President Kalugin has signed a decree. The electricity will be turned back on.”
“Terrific. War by decree.” Yan Chernov couldn’t help himself. He was losing his composure. Maybe it was adrenaline aftershock. “We want you to launch some sections to harass the enemy,” the general said from the safety of Moscow. “Don’t be too aggressive, you understand. Inflict just enough pain to annoy them. That is the order of Marshal Stolypin.”
Chernov lost it completely. “You fool! We worked for four days to get six sorties out yesterday. Two sorties a day on a sustained basis is all we could possibly launch, even if World War Three is declared. My executive officer was killed this morning. We have no food, no fuel, no electricity, no spare parts, no GCI site, no intelligence support, no staff. … We have nothing! Have I made it clear? Do you comprehend?”
“I am a general, Major. Watch your tongue.”
“Get your head out of your ass, General. We can’t defend this base. We should be flying these planes west to save them. It’s just a matter of time before the Japanese attack. It’s a miracle they haven’t already. I can only assume you and Stolypin want the Japanese to attack us, because you are taking no steps to prevent it. When we’re dead, you idiots in Moscow won’t have to ever feed us or pay us or—” The headquarters general hung up before the major completed the last sentence. When Chernov realized the line was dead, he quit talking and slammed down the telephone. Everyone in the room was staring at him.
“Everything that can fly goes west at dawn,” Chernov shouted, spit the flying from his lips. “Work everyone all night.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chernov turned to face the junior officers who had trickled in while he was on the telephone. “Get the trucks we have left. Fuel them. Have the men load the tools and all the food we have. They may take their clothes. Nothing else. No furniture or televisions or any of that other crap.”
He was roaring at the top of his lungs, unable to help himself. “We will drive west, all the way to Moscow. If we get there before the Japanese, we will drag the generals from their comfortable offices and hang them by the balls.”
Yan Chernov stomped out to pee in the grass.
Delivery of the Russian ultimatum to the Japanese was a chore that fell to Ambassador Stanley P. Hanratty. The Russian diplomats had all left Tokyo the day after the invasion, turning out the lights and locking the door of the embassy as they left. The U.s. government offered to assist the Russians diplomatically in the Japanese capital until relations were restored, an offer that Kalugin seized upon. Delivery of the ultimatum was Ambassador Hanratty’s first chore for the Russians. Of course, he and the U.s. government were privy to the contents of the note. Hanratty returned the following morning to the Japanese foreign ministry to receive the Japanese reply. “We find it difficult to believe, in this day and age,” the Japanese foreign minister said as he handed over the written reply, “that any government on the planet would threaten another with nuclear war. Still, in anticipation of just such an event,
