Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [138]
SIGNED:
Colonel Neal Hazzard, Commandant American Sector by authority of Major General Andrew Jackson Hansen, First Deputy Military Governor.
Marshal Alexei Popov was awakened from a deep, vodka-induced slumber by a phone call at his Potsdam mansion at the unlikely hour of eight o’clock.
“What do you mean, American troops are at the Hitler Barracks?” he yawned.
“They have proclaimed it as American Headquarters, Comrade Marshal.”
How could they invade, he thought, they don’t have enough troops? “How many?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen! Fifteen Americans declaring a headquarters! Fifteen!”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal. Fifteen. What shall we do?”
Popov stretched, scratched his head, and squinted at the clock. What an uncouth hour to start trouble. “Send up a battalion of tanks and stand opposite them. Have a battalion of infantry see that there is no further movement in or out of the area.”
Popov slammed the receiver down, wrestled out of his pajamas, wended his way to the bathroom. His soldierly figure belied sixty years of age. He shaved, doused his face, combed his great full head of soft silver hair, of which he was quite proud, dressed, and called for breakfast in his room, calculating the true meaning of the problem.
The simplest thing to do would be to lift the phone and ask Commissar V. V. Azov for instructions. That would, however, be a sign of weakness. Popov had worked his way through every rank in the Red Army, was among its founders, had survived the purges. He had not come this far just to prove to a political commissar that he was unable to deal with fifteen Americans. Obviously, the Americans had something up their sleeves. What was it?
An aide came in with word that Russian troops had the Americans completely cut off and a field phone was in operation. He put in a call to his commander at Hitler Barracks.
“Marshal Popov speaks here.”
“Good morning, Comrade Marshal, Colonel Vanyev here.”
“What is your situation?”
“I have ten tanks and a hundred men deployed opposite the Americans. The streets are blocked off. They merely stand before the door of the building.”
“Send someone across the street and rip down their proclamation.”
“And what if they open fire?” Vanyev asked.
“Call back for instructions.”
He finished his coffee, stood before the mirror, struck a small pose. The Americans called him the Silver Fox. Not bad at all, he admitted to himself. The phone rang, Vanyev reporting.
“Did you rip their proclamation down?”
“It was attempted. One American opened fire, wounding our soldier. Fortunately, we have a good photograph of him. Do you have further instructions, Comrade Marshal?”
“Stand by!” he said as he set down the phone, now frowning with worry, “Call my car! Reach the Americans and tell them I am on my way to speak to General Hansen,” he snapped at his aide.
He was driven under siren-shrieking escort into the Babelsberg Kaserne, marched with a trail of aides up to Hansen’s suite, ordered them to wait in the hall, and entered. Neal Hazzard was in the outer office.
“Good morning, Marshal Popov,” he said. “What brings you out so early?”
“My business is not your business. I demand to see General Hansen.”
“Sorry, sir. General Hansen is not available.”
Popov blanched. “It is advisable that he becomes available.”
“Yes, sir. If you will have a seat I will attempt to get the message to him.”
Hazzard left the room. For the next thirty minutes the Russian cooled his heels. The instant he saw General Stonebraker return in Hazzard’s place he realized he was being fleeced at his own game of musical chairs. Popov’s voice lowered ominously. “I demand to see General Hansen without further delay.”
“He is not available.”
“General Stonebraker. Please believe me that my patience is at an end. If I do not see General Hansen in exactly two minutes I will order my troops to open fire.”
Hiram Stonebraker sat behind a desk, opened a file of papers, began to read through them as though