The War That Came Early: The Big Switch by Harry Turtledove Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Harry Turtledove
guards even in their own language.
he dreaded call didn’t always come with a knock on the door in the middle of the night. Lieutenant Anastas Mouradian was eating blintzes and drinking his breakfast tea when a hard-faced noncom carrying a submachine gun strode up to him in the officers’ mess and barked, “Comrade Lieutenant, Colonel Borisov requires your presence. Immediately!”
Across the table from Mouradian, his pilot looked horrified. Sergei Yaroslavsky had warned him again and again that he was too sarcastic, too skeptical, for his own good. Maybe Sergei’d been right all along.
Nothing showed on the Armenian’s swarthy face now.
Never let them know you’re worried
, Mouradian thought. And a whole fat lot of good that would do him if they’d already built a case with his name on it. If the powers that be wanted to give him a plot of earth two meters long, a meter wide, and two meters deep, they damn well would, and that was all there was to it.
He got to his feet. “I serve the Soviet Union!” he said in his throatily accented Russian, hoping it wasn’t for the last time.
Russians from Siberia talked about the whisper of stars: weather socold that, when you exhaled, the moisture in your breath audibly froze. They claimed it never got that cold on this side of the Urals. Mouradian couldn’t have said one way or the other. He’d never heard the so-called whisper of stars, but maybe the Siberians were lying about it.
Even without it, the weather seemed plenty cold enough. He was glad for his flying suit of leather and fur, and for the thick felt
valenki
that kept his feet from freezing. The Russians were good at fighting winter—and they needed to be. He often wondered why so many men from the south, where the weather was mostly decent, came up here to make their careers. When it got this cold, he wondered why he’d ever wanted to leave Armenia himself.
But the answer was simple. Armenia and the rest of the Caucasus were only a little pond. If you wanted to see how good you were in the ocean, you came north and measured yourself against the swarms of Russians. It had worked out pretty well for Georgian-born Joseph Dzugashvili, who commonly went by the Russian handle of Stalin these days.
Of course, things that worked out well for Stalin had a way of working not so well for other people. Mouradian glanced over at the sergeant with the machine pistol. The son of a bitch looked depressingly alert. Were a couple of NKVD men waiting for Mouradian along with Colonel Borisov? Would they ship him off to Kolyma or some other garden spot so he could find out about the whisper of stars for himself?
He’d know soon. Here was the wing commander’s tent. The sergeant gestured with his weapon, telling Mouradian to go in. Sighing out fog but no stars, the copilot and bomb-aimer obeyed.
No NKVD men. Only Colonel Borisov, sitting behind a card table that held some papers and a tumbler full of clear liquid. Despite a brazier next to the table, water would have frozen in a hurry. But, knowing Borisov’s habits, Mouradian would have been astonished had the glass held water.
Saluting, the Armenian said, “Reporting as ordered, Comrade Colonel.”
“Yes.” Borisov looked and sounded bleary. Had he started drinking this early in the morning? Or had he been at it all night, so it wasn’t earlyfor him? He stared at Mouradian out of pale eyes narrowed by a Tatar fold at the inner corners. “Are you capable of piloting an SB-2?”
“
Da
, Comrade Colonel,” Mouradian answered. A copilot needed to be able to fly his plane. If anything happened to the pilot—a 20mm cannon shell from a Messerschmitt, say—bringing the bomber home would be up to him. Colonel Borisov should have known that. Chances were he did … when he was sober.
He took a slug from that tumbler and breathed antifreeze fumes into Mouradian’s face. “Good,” he said. “Very good, in fact.” He reached for a pencil—and missed. Not a bit
he dreaded call didn’t always come with a knock on the door in the middle of the night. Lieutenant Anastas Mouradian was eating blintzes and drinking his breakfast tea when a hard-faced noncom carrying a submachine gun strode up to him in the officers’ mess and barked, “Comrade Lieutenant, Colonel Borisov requires your presence. Immediately!”
Across the table from Mouradian, his pilot looked horrified. Sergei Yaroslavsky had warned him again and again that he was too sarcastic, too skeptical, for his own good. Maybe Sergei’d been right all along.
Nothing showed on the Armenian’s swarthy face now.
Never let them know you’re worried
, Mouradian thought. And a whole fat lot of good that would do him if they’d already built a case with his name on it. If the powers that be wanted to give him a plot of earth two meters long, a meter wide, and two meters deep, they damn well would, and that was all there was to it.
He got to his feet. “I serve the Soviet Union!” he said in his throatily accented Russian, hoping it wasn’t for the last time.
Russians from Siberia talked about the whisper of stars: weather socold that, when you exhaled, the moisture in your breath audibly froze. They claimed it never got that cold on this side of the Urals. Mouradian couldn’t have said one way or the other. He’d never heard the so-called whisper of stars, but maybe the Siberians were lying about it.
Even without it, the weather seemed plenty cold enough. He was glad for his flying suit of leather and fur, and for the thick felt
valenki
that kept his feet from freezing. The Russians were good at fighting winter—and they needed to be. He often wondered why so many men from the south, where the weather was mostly decent, came up here to make their careers. When it got this cold, he wondered why he’d ever wanted to leave Armenia himself.
But the answer was simple. Armenia and the rest of the Caucasus were only a little pond. If you wanted to see how good you were in the ocean, you came north and measured yourself against the swarms of Russians. It had worked out pretty well for Georgian-born Joseph Dzugashvili, who commonly went by the Russian handle of Stalin these days.
Of course, things that worked out well for Stalin had a way of working not so well for other people. Mouradian glanced over at the sergeant with the machine pistol. The son of a bitch looked depressingly alert. Were a couple of NKVD men waiting for Mouradian along with Colonel Borisov? Would they ship him off to Kolyma or some other garden spot so he could find out about the whisper of stars for himself?
He’d know soon. Here was the wing commander’s tent. The sergeant gestured with his weapon, telling Mouradian to go in. Sighing out fog but no stars, the copilot and bomb-aimer obeyed.
No NKVD men. Only Colonel Borisov, sitting behind a card table that held some papers and a tumbler full of clear liquid. Despite a brazier next to the table, water would have frozen in a hurry. But, knowing Borisov’s habits, Mouradian would have been astonished had the glass held water.
Saluting, the Armenian said, “Reporting as ordered, Comrade Colonel.”
“Yes.” Borisov looked and sounded bleary. Had he started drinking this early in the morning? Or had he been at it all night, so it wasn’t earlyfor him? He stared at Mouradian out of pale eyes narrowed by a Tatar fold at the inner corners. “Are you capable of piloting an SB-2?”
“
Da
, Comrade Colonel,” Mouradian answered. A copilot needed to be able to fly his plane. If anything happened to the pilot—a 20mm cannon shell from a Messerschmitt, say—bringing the bomber home would be up to him. Colonel Borisov should have known that. Chances were he did … when he was sober.
He took a slug from that tumbler and breathed antifreeze fumes into Mouradian’s face. “Good,” he said. “Very good, in fact.” He reached for a pencil—and missed. Not a bit