Chapter 1072: Without Hesitation

The car started slowly, and with a slight jolt, Stalin couldn’t help but frown. This car was a product of the American Ford Motor Company, said to be the most expensive American car. But after being accustomed to the high-end sedans produced by Mercedes-Benz, Stalin could still feel the shortcomings in the American car’s shock absorption.

As the saying goes, “compare people and you’ll die of anger, compare goods and you’ll throw them away.” Although this American thing looked very nice, in front of a German product, it was just a little bit lacking. In Stalin’s underground garage, there was a car that the German Führer, Akado, had given him. A year ago, it was the car he would invariably ride in when he went out.

Even though it was a car produced by Germany a year ago, it exuded a sense of luxurious refinement in every aspect. It was more than a cut above the mass-produced Ford provided by the Americans. On the one hand, the sources of the goods provided by the two sides were indeed not at the same price point; a German Mercedes-Benz was clearly more than just a little bit better than an American Ford. On the other hand, it did indeed prove that Germany’s car production technology was more advanced than America’s.

Don’t underestimate this small, subtle difference. In the entire industrial system, the industrial gap caused by these subtle differences was a world of difference. Germany, by relying on this meticulous industrial faith in the civilian field, had gradually pulled away from American industry. And in wartime, this distance was reflected in the shock absorption and load-bearing systems of its tanks, in the running gear of all its vehicles, in the engines of its aircraft, in the welding technology of its warships…

And so, German tanks were just that little bit more fuel-efficient than American ones. So, under the same conditions, the engine power of a German tank could be a little stronger, so the armor it could mount could be that little bit thicker, so its cannon could be that little bit bigger—in the end, the Americans could only use the Sherman M4 tank, while the Germans were using Porsche’s King Tiger.

Stalin clearly couldn’t connect all these dots. He just suddenly realized that the car he was riding in was not as comfortable as his previous one. But this was also something he couldn’t complain about. After all, he himself had personally given the order, requiring that officials not ride in German luxury cars before the end of the war.

This ban was a mere formality in many places. Many officials still had no choice but to travel in German cars. After all, they were not like Stalin and the high-ranking officials in Moscow; they had no other means of transport to replace their German cars. Back when they were in their honeymoon period with Germany, many agencies had pulled strings to import German cars and had been proud to be able to get their hands on a German-exported Mercedes-Benz.

The streets and alleys of Moscow were very deserted, because no one liked to go out when a shell could fall at any moment. A dozen or so cars sped through the empty streets. The sound of their engines made a few curious children press themselves against their windows, watching the convoy that had already gone far into the distance.

On a once-wide street, there was a barricade made of piled-up sandbags. Behind these sandbags was a huge camouflage net. Under the net was parked an SU-76 self-propelled anti-tank gun. By the side of the cold vehicle, a dozen or so resting Soviet Red Army soldiers were leaning.

They looked with cold indifference at the sentries who were lifting the roadblock, and watched impassively as the cars drove past them. They paid no attention to the officers who were standing on the side of the road, saluting at attention, as if the big shots in the convoy, whom they could normally only look up to, had nothing to do with them.

War is an interesting thing. Sometimes it can make people forget their own status. Even the humblest of men, as long as they were on the battlefield, could disregard other lives, even if the life they were disregarding was that of a once-powerful and influential monarch… Archimedes had been cut down by a Roman soldier, and his outstanding contributions to mathematics had not saved him.

“Hey, I say, those cars that just passed, who were those big shots?” a soldier, holding a submachine gun, asked his comrade beside him curiously. He was very curious, at a time like this in Moscow, what kind of person could still pull out a convoy to show off their status.

The comrade clearly wasn’t very curious about this. He just, while carefully smoking a precious cigarette, answered his companion’s question with a mumble, “What damn big shots. If they go to the battlefield, they’re just one bullet away! Probably not even as good as those rookie new recruits in the 2nd Battalion.”

A group of old veterans around them nodded in agreement, making comments about how the high-ranking officials in the convoy would run faster than a rabbit in a battle, and then they all had a good laugh. They didn’t know that among those they were cursing, there was a name that had once scared them so much they didn’t even dare to breathe—Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin.

After driving a long distance, the car finally stopped at the exit of a spacious freight station. One after another, the cars formed a protective circle, and one after another, the guards stood stiffly on both sides of the cars, warily observing any movement in the surroundings.

Finally, Zaitsev walked to the side of Stalin’s car and reached out to open the door for his leader. Stalin got out of the car, and then there was a tsunami of applause from the countless officers and politicians who had gathered to welcome him. Vatutin, with his adjutant, walked to Stalin’s front, saluted at attention, and said, “Everything is ready. The orderly has just reported that the train carrying Comrade Marshal Zhukov will be arriving at the station in fifteen minutes.”

Stalin was clearly very satisfied with Vatutin’s arrangements. He patted the other on the shoulder and said, “Very good! Comrade Marshal Zhukov, arriving in Moscow with his troops. This will be the turning point of the German-Soviet war! We will defeat the German army in Moscow and win back the initiative on the battlefield.”

“That is right, Leader Comrade Stalin! I also believe that we can win back the initiative in the war!” Vatutin replied loudly to Stalin. “As long as we can hold out in Moscow for five months, the weather will once again be in our favor. At that time, we will get a breathing spell. And at that time, there will be three months for us to replenish and rest.”

Stalin was very satisfied with Vatutin’s words. What he wanted to hear most right now was for his generals to, from a professional standpoint, come to the conclusion that there was still hope for the Soviet Union. Even if this conclusion sometimes seemed overly optimistic, he still liked to hear this kind of talk.

“Very good! Very good!” Stalin, satisfied, led the way towards the station platform. It was already filled with representatives from various departments, welcoming Marshal Zhukov. Everyone was applauding and cheering, thrilled by Stalin’s arrival. It should be known that Stalin had not left the Kremlin for a long time. These officers and politicians, who were not of a high enough status, had also not been able to see this leader, who called the wind and the rain in the Soviet Union, with their own eyes for a month.

But just as these people were applauding, in a corner, two men in suits were whispering to each other. One of the men was constantly wiping the sweat from his forehead with a white handkerchief, his voice trembling as he spoke. “This matter must be foolproof. Are you sure you can take out the target?”

The other man was clearly even more nervous. He glanced around at the security forces and replied to the other’s question with a quiver. “I’ve done the experiment. Under… normal… circumstances… this… detonation device… is still… still… very reliable.”

This era was not like the 21st century, where you could just buy a phone or get an electronic watch and use it as a detonator for a bomb. It was even more impossible to rig up an alarm clock as a timing device, like in those absurd anti-Japanese dramas. To make a small-sized time bomb, the detonation time would be very unstable. This was a limitation of the era, an unchangeable limitation.

As the two men spoke, they would, from time to time, shift their gaze to the two briefcases that had been placed in the crowd. In order to ensure that they could take out the important target of Stalin, the two of them had each carried a bomb, using a double-insurance to make up for the hidden danger of the unstable bomb fuzes.

The great figures in the distant Chelyabinsk had promised that as long as they could take out Stalin, this stumbling block to peace, then the German-Soviet war would immediately end. Their families in Moscow would also escape the misfortune of the war. As for the two of them, they would also have a good position in the new Soviet government. Thinking of their children at home, thinking of their wives who were cowering in the air-raid shelters, waiting for the shelling to end, they had agreed to this crazy plan.

The facts proved that with the war having reached this point, Stalin’s rule was not an iron plate. There were also dissenting voices within the Soviet Union. Although this voice was still very weak, and the methods it used could not see the light of day, these voices still existed. For the collapsing Soviet Union, this seemed to be enough.

These weak forces were pinning their hopes on using assassination to end Stalin’s era, and then to take his place and, with a clear conscience, to reach a ceasefire agreement with the Third Reich. The leaflets that the German spies had secretly distributed and the news from the Imperial channel that would, from time to time, appear on the radio, all repeatedly proved that their view was the more correct one: Germany was also seeking peace. The only obstacle was Stalin.

Unfortunately, in the past, Stalin had almost never left his nest in the Kremlin, so these weak forces had simply had no opportunity to strike. This time, to welcome Marshal Zhukov back to Moscow was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If it was handled perfectly, they could even buy one and get one free, and take out Zhukov as well. And so they had come, with their bombs, and without a backward glance, they had walked onto this platform, where Stalin would soon be arriving.

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