It was a lie, painful to speak out loud, a small but necessary untruth to avert a monumental tragedy. Maybe the general could tell it was a lie, too.
But it didn’t matter. Even if she was lying, even if this was all just a fit of conscience in which she must indulge, was it not better to rid himself of one troublesome, ambitious woman rather than three colonial soldiers who, to this point, had spotless records?
Manpower doesn’t grow on trees, he reminded himself. But this Truffaut-Bergerac woman doesn’t know her place and embarrasses my command, wasting everyone’s time with useless intelligence she had no business searching for in the first place. And all the while, she’s wanted for assault back in France! Then comes this business of lewd behavior with the colonials. These people from La Résistance think they answer to no one, but they’re sadly mistaken. I say good riddance to bad rubbish.
One more thing troubled him, too: Executions are such messy affairs, with repercussions that have a nasty habit of popping up months or even years later. There’s always some journalist, novelist, or filmmaker willing to drag your name through the mud after the fact, someone who knows nothing of what it takes to run an effective military organization.
But these executions we’re about to perform do seem a bit “elective”…and I’ve just been offered the means to sweep the whole matter cleanly under the rug.
“So, Truffaut-Bergerac, you ask to be banished as your punishment. To where, may I ask?”
“Frankfurt, mon general.”
“What business do you have in Frankfurt?”
“There are people—a person, actually—I wish to see there.”
“An American, I suppose? That is their territory now.”
“Yes, an American. A flyer.”
With a leering smile, he replied, “Yes, we all know about your flyer. It seems you wasted little time jumping from German beds to American ones.”
She struggled to hold down her anger at the German beds inference, asking herself, Is this what France will be like from now on? Nothing but revisionist history to glorify those who fled at the expense of those who stayed and fought? Spying on the Boche between the sheets was not something I thought up. It was my duty to France as a member of La Résistance.
But now that just makes me a whore in the eyes of these French officers who hid behind the British and Americans for four years?
The defiance in her voice surprised even her as she said, “Would you like to shave my head now, as well, mon general?”
“I’d watch your tone, young lady. Have you given any thought to what effect your actions will have on your uncle, the colonel?”
“My uncle has already disowned me, so I’m sure holding him responsible for my misdeeds serves no further purpose for this command.”
The general didn’t bother replying because she was right on both counts. Marchand had, in fact, disavowed his niece’s actions in this very office just this morning.
And while I question his judgment for hiring the little putain in the first place, in the interests of avoiding the chaos that replacing him at Affaires Civiles would cause, his error can be forgiven…as long as I’m rid of that woman.
Tassigny slumped into his chair, his decision already reached. There was nothing more to do than work out the details.
“The captain will provide you with a military travel voucher for Frankfurt,” Tassigny said. “For your safety, you will continue to hold your military credentials until this war is formally concluded, at which time they will be revoked. See the finance officer for any sums due you.”
“And the colonial troopers?” she asked.
“I will reject the tribunal’s finding. They will be released from prison today and returned to duty.”
“Thank you, mon general.”
He said nothing more, his hand merely waving her out of his office.
As she walked out the door, Tassigny muttered, “Va te faire enculer, chienne ennuyante.”
The translation: Go fuck yourself, annoying bitch.
Chapter Thirty
Tommy knew something was far out of the ordinary as he taxied Eclipse into her parking spot. Not only were McNulty and Mischenko waiting for him, but there were five armed Soviet soldiers who were definitely not aviation ground crew also waiting.
“The brass already know Who-cut-your-cock-off went down, Captain,” McNulty told him before he’d undone his seat harness. “They want your gun camera film, right fucking now.”
“I don’t understand that,” Tommy said. “All that film’s going to show is that I shot down an ME-262. I think our Russian friend decided he was immune to flak over an airfield. The Krauts showed him otherwise.”
“You see him go in?”
“No…but I saw the wreck right after. Pretty hard to miss a white Yak, no matter how busted up it is.”
“You think he got out?”
Tommy replied, “I doubt it. Too low to jump…and it didn’t look like the kind of landing you walked away from.”
Apologetically, Mischenko interjected, “Captain, you’ve got to go with these Soviet MPs. They’re not giving me any reasons, but I think we’re all in dutch over something, big time. Oh, and they’re telling you to turn over your sidearm, too, sir.”
The MPs didn’t take Tommy to the usual debrief hall. He was brought instead to a bleak room without windows. A single dim light bulb dangling from the ceiling provided the only source of illumination. There was a hasp on the door which allowed it to be locked from the outside. Oliver Hammersmith and J.P. Lambert were already inside, looking uneasy as they shifted in stiff-backed wooden chairs, their holsters and pockets emptied, too. Once they deposited Tommy inside, the MPs departed, closing the door behind them. The sound of a lock being snapped into place was unmistakable.
“What the hell’s going on?” Tommy asked.
“I believe we’ve fallen out of favor with our Soviet friends,” Hammersmith replied. “J.P. and I have been in here since right after you left on your mission.”
“That long, huh?” Tommy said. “Then I guess it doesn’t have anything to do with Vukonikov going down.”
Looking even more worried, the Brit asked, “Is he dead?”
“Probably.”
Hammersmith lowered his voice to a whisper and asked, “Did you have anything to do with it?”
“What kind of stupid fucking question is that, Ollie? And why the hell are you whispering?”
Hammersmith tapped the wall behind him and then touched his ear. Tommy got the message: The walls have ears. They’re probably listening to everything we say.
“So we should dummy up, then?” Tommy said.
Hammersmith just nodded.
Forty silent minutes later, the door opened. McNulty and Mischenko were pushed inside. Sonia Alexiev stood at the threshold, sounding apologetic as she told them, “Gentlemen, the general will be with you shortly. Do any of you require something to drink or need to use the toilet?”
They all needed both items. But before they could answer, a male sergeant nudged Alexiev out of the way, said something to the men inside that sounded anything but cordial, and then closed the door. Once again, they could hear the lock snapping into place.
“What’d the Russkie say?” Tommy asked Mischenko.
“Can’t give you a literal translation, sir…but I think the gist of it was tough shit.”
And then they waited for another two hours.
They could hear the entourage coming, their boots clunking loudly in step on the wooden floors, the sound reverberating down the narrow hallway like a parade in progress. Someone fiddled with the lock, and then the door swung open. General Kozlovsky stomped into the room, followed by four staff officers and Sonia Alexiev. None of them looked happy to be there.
Tommy told Mischenko, “Tell them we’re all real sorry about Major Vukonikov.”
But as the translator tried to speak, the general silenced him, yelling, “Nyet! Nyet!”
Then Alexiev explained, “
The general insists that only I am to provide the translations. I’m sorry, Adam, but you must remain silent.”
Tommy asked, “But why? What’s the harm in having you and Adam as translators?”
“Because you have all lost the general’s trust, Captain Moon. He feels that working with you is no longer in the best interests of the Soviet Union. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be.”
Tommy replied, “I don’t get it, but if that’s the way it is, well… But would you still convey what I said about Major Vukonikov?”
“Certainly, Captain.”
The scowl on Kozlovsky’s face never faltered as she expressed Tommy’s sympathy. When she was done, his reply was a barrage of angry words.
Sonia braced herself, took a deep breath, and provided the translation.
“The general wishes to inform you, Captain Moon, that you are being held responsible for the loss of Major Vukonikov. It is a wingman’s duty to protect his leader. You have failed to do so.”
“Hey, just a damn minute. I covered him just like I was supposed to. He was stupid enough to fly into a flak nest. Can’t help him much if he’s going to do that.”
Sonia looked stricken. “I cannot tell the general that, Captain. Major Vukonikov is a hero in our eyes.”
“Tell him whatever you want, then, as long as you make it clear that what happened to your precious Major Vukonikov was not my fault.”
In French, J.P. Lambert mumbled, “This is bullshit.” Then he said it in English.
It was Hammersmith’s turn to look stricken. “We all need to stay calm and watch our words very carefully,” he said. “I really don’t think this is something we’re going to negotiate our way out of.”
The general demanded Sonia tell him what their unwelcome guests were saying.
Mischenko had to look down at the floor as she spoke. He didn’t want the Soviets to see the smile on his face, because Sonia was doing them all a great favor. What she was telling the general was far more conciliatory—and far more apologetic—than anything that had actually been said.
Her words had a calming effect on the general, as well. His next statement: “I have decided that joint operations such as the one in which Major Vukonikov has gone missing are hereby forbidden.”
Missing, my ass, Tommy told himself. He’s dead, pal. He fucked up and he’s dead. Better get used to it.
Kozlovsky continued, “In addition, it has been determined that the ME-262 that appears in your gun camera footage was, in fact, brought down due to the heroic actions of Major Vukonikov. He is being credited with the kill of that jet, which will more than assure his elevation to Hero of the Soviet Union. Your bullets, Captain Moon, had all the effect of shooting a dead man.”
Tommy asked, “I’d like that gun camera film returned to me, if you don’t mind.”
“Impossible,” Kozlovsky replied.
Before Tommy could say another word, Hammersmith diverted him with a nudge to the arm. The pleading look on his face could not be misread: Please shut up!
The general wasn’t finished yet. “Furthermore,” he added, “it has become clear that your high command has no intention of honoring our requests for heavy bomber support. You gentlemen have been less than helpful in this effort, doing nothing but playing games like petty diplomats.” He leveled a frosty look at Hammersmith as he said it.
Kozlovsky paused, allowing Alexiev to finish her translation. Then he added, “Therefore, you have no further function here. You will leave this place and return to your own forces immediately.”
After Sonia translated the sentence, Tommy said, “I’ll need gasoline for my plane. Her tanks are practically dry. And we’ll need a transport aircraft for the rest of my people and their equipment.”
It was almost as if the general didn’t need to hear the translation. His head was shaking a vigorous nyet long before Sonia had even finished speaking.
“The general says your aircraft and equipment will remain here, Captain Moon,” she related. “He considers it a gift of atonement.”
“So how the hell are we supposed to get out of here?” Tommy asked. “Walk?”
Kozlovsky laughed when he heard Sonia’s sweetened version of the question. The American obviously hadn’t meant it to sound so polite.
The general’s reply: “You will be driven to your lines. You will depart in one hour’s time.”
Tommy had one more question. “I have some personal effects in my airplane. May I retrieve them before we leave?”
Again, Kozlovsky shook his head. He stood and spoke a few sentences that sounded like they might belong in a political speech. Then he led his staff—all but Sonia Alexiev—from the room.
“The general says you may not,” she said. “The aircraft and everything in it now belongs to the Soviet people.” But she stepped closer and whispered, “If you tell me exactly what it is you’d like to recover, Captain, I’ll try to get it for you.”
“I’d really appreciate that,” he whispered in reply. Then he told her about Sylvie’s picture on the instrument panel.
She nodded, smiled, and then was gone. A guard in the doorway locked them in again.
There were no Germans to fight anywhere near Perg, Austria. Although the Russians seemed excited about moving north into Czechoslovakia and joining the battle to capture Prague, they had yet to receive marching orders. The GIs in Perg—37th Tank among them—were relieved that for once a different combat command of 4th Armored was pushing into Czechoslovakia from the west to prevent the Germans in Prague from escaping the Soviet onslaught from the east. As Sean Moon put it, “We ain’t done seeing the sights in Austria with our new Russian pals yet. Besides, the Reds got skirts in their army...and those skirts are friendly as hell, even if you can’t understand a word they’re saying. All it takes is a Hershey Bar and some good American cigarettes.”
Fabiano added, “Those Red tomatoes are clean, too. Ain’t no joe got a dose from one of them yet.”
“Give it some fucking time,” Sean replied. “That’ll change.”
Even though the center of Perg had been designated the dividing line between the GIs and the Soviets, the effort to maintain that division had broken down before it started in an atmosphere of friendly curiosity. The standoff on the highway now forgotten, each side was eager to have a look at the other’s weaponry, souvenirs, food stocks, and secret caches of liquor. Exchange by barter was rampant. Soldiers from both sides wandered freely all over the city, mingling with little to no restriction.
Fabiano, still in awe of the size and firepower of the Soviet IS-2 tank, wangled his way into a joy ride on one. They even let him fire her 122-millimeter gun on the calibration range that both sides had mutually established outside the city.
“That fucking gun is something else,” he told Sean. “I think I wet myself a little when I pulled the trigger.”
“Just like a super weapon, eh, Fab?”
“You better believe it, Sarge. Makes shooting our seventy-six feel like pissing in the fucking wind.”
Sean wasn’t buying it. “I don’t know, Fab. We did okay with our gun.”
Turnabout’s fair play, though: Fabiano had gotten to play with the IS-2; now that tank’s driver wanted a turn at the controls of Eight Ball.
“I’ll bet he’s still bent out of shape he couldn’t push her uphill,” Sean said. “But what the hell…let’s give him a shot.” He told Kowalski, his driver, “Ski…sit on this Ivan’s fucking head. He tries to do anything stupid—like burn up our clutch—shut it down. You got me?”
With a lot of wasted Russian words and puzzling hand gestures, the IS-2 driver finally got Sean and his crew to understand his name was Venya. It took somewhat less effort for Kowalski to check him out on the levers and pedals that controlled the Sherman. Venya seemed a natural; after all, he was a tank driver by trade, although his vehicle was far larger and heavier.
Eight Ball started off slowly, lurching forward sporadically as the Russian got the feel of her
clutch pedal. But then things smoothed out, and the Sherman clattered down the cobblestones in low gear through the middle of town.
“Take her around the block,” Sean told Kowalski.
That meant a sharp left-hand turn at the next corner. At her sedate speed in low gear, Venya managed the steering levers almost flawlessly. She pivoted into the narrow street with only the slightest of oversteer, which he quickly corrected.
Kowalski asked Sean, “Hey, Sarge…once we’re around the next turn and the street gets wide again, how about I let him shift her out of low? I’m getting tired of listening to the engine scream. All those extra revs are wearing her out for nothing.”
Sean replied, “You sure he can handle her going faster?”
“Yeah, I think so, Sarge.”
“All right, go ahead.”
Kowalski had given the Russian too much credit. With Eight Ball going faster in second gear, Venya’s coordination on the steering levers went to hell. In a matter of seconds, the tank weaved crazily across the roadway, knocking down a sign post, crushing a bench, and sending everyone on the sidewalks scurrying out of her way.
“SHUT HIM DOWN, SKI,” Sean told his driver, who was already in the process of doing just that. Reaching over Venya from his instructor’s perch on the driveshaft housing, Kowalski turned off the ignition switch. Eight Ball came to an abrupt and graceless stop, causing the head or torso of everyone inside the tank to painfully bounce off unyielding steel.
As the crew nursed their new bruises, a crowd of soldiers from both sides gathered around Eight Ball. They could have numbered twenty or fifty or more; no one was counting. The spectators were careful to give themselves enough room to escape in case she suddenly set off on another demolition derby in the streets of Perg.
But Venya had had enough. He began to climb from the driver’s hatch. When the GIs on the street saw it had been a Russian at the controls, they began a mocking round of applause, complete with hooting and hollering.
Our Ally, Our Enemy (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 3) Page 28
