The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [188]
Already a dark cloud was forming over Europe, the very reason for this voyage. His destination was Potsdam, near Berlin, a formal summit with Churchill and Joseph Stalin. Truman winced, thought, Old Joe has made it pretty clear that his best interests are in his best interests. Our best interests are an inconvenience. Tough nut, this one. Screw this up, Harry old boy, and we could find ourselves in another war. Europe needs a little quiet for a change, a few cities allowed to rebuild themselves, the people allowed to find some kind of life again. No one needs the kind of crap Stalin is inflicting on those people. How in hell do I stop that? Do I? With Stalin you either need extraordinary diplomacy … or a baseball bat. I think he’s bigger than me, so the bat would have to be a surprise. But so far, every communication I’ve had with the man tells me he’s got the big bat, and the big glove, he owns the ball park, and the umpire’s in his pocket. Thank God for Churchill. At least he knows the man, knows how to talk to him, knows what to expect. But we’re not getting any respect from the Russians for what we did to the Germans, for the help we gave Stalin’s people. Respect? Hell, they don’t even acknowledge us. That’s not blind pride either. It’s calculated. He’s going to push us as far as he can, and that might mean he’s going to push us right out of Europe. That won’t happen. Can’t. Churchill knows that, but he’s not in a position to stand up to the Russian tanks like we are. From what they tell me, Old Joe has one hell of a lot of tanks. We have Ike, Marshall, Bradley, good people. And a few tanks of our own. Tanks. He pondered the sight of that, what it must have been like for the Germans to watch a sea of Russian armor pouring into Germany, crushing their army, their cities. We did most of that kind of work from the air, I suppose. Germans learned the hard way, that no matter what your boss is telling you, you aren’t going to win a war when your factories are getting blown to hell every night. And the cities. And the people. Tough decision, there, Franklin. How do you bomb cities and not accept that you’re bombing the civilians right along with the munitions plants? Churchill pushed FDR hard on that one, had every right to. Hitler was happy blowing London to hell, and we had to return the favor. It was sure as hell the right decision. And it worked.
And now we’re going to do it again. Been doing it, of course, those puff-chested boys out there in their B-29s, torching every square mile of Tokyo and anywhere else they can find a target. Keep it up, that’s all I can say. That’s working too. Now … it might work even better. I’ve given them the okay, and if what they tell me is accurate, this war oughta be over pretty damn soon. If they’re wrong, we’ve gotta send a whole bunch of American boys into Japan, to fight the most fanatical people who’ve ever tossed a grenade. No, not we. I.
Batter up, Harry.
He turned, looked up at the lights from the bridge, could see more lights beyond the bow of the cruiser, beyond the pair of three-gun turrets that aimed past the Philadelphia. The warships had no need to run in darkness, a wonderful change from the days of the U-boats. But there were no other escorts close by, no aircraft overhead, no great fleets of patrol boats keeping an eye on the new Boss. I wanted this trip kept secret as long as possible, and, by damn, they obliged me. I rather like that, asking for something and nobody arguing about it.
Truman caught a shadow, a brief flicker of movement back near a row of steel drums. He knew it was a Secret Service agent, knew there were more, and