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Book One World War Three 1946

Book One World War Three 1946
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Friday, June 1, 2012

One Down (How Many to Go?) by Tallthinkev

His Target, A had just left the college.
He had been watching his target for a couple of days now. It seemed that he had kept the same routine, His old college. Arriving at nine thirty and at one a clock went for lunch at The British Restaurant. He then walked to other places though out Cambridge.

This was where things got a little more difficult to follow him. A knew the town much better than him, having spent nearly four years at Cambridge. This time he did go the route he had taken the previous day. Along the river, stopping to look at the gasworks and the pumping station.

Then further along when he took a left into Garlic Row towards Newmarket Road. From there it was the less than a mile to the Airport.

Instead of going to the airport he spent some time at the cemetery looking a graves, especially the graves from the last two World Wars. But mostly eyeing the aircraft that came in and out of Marshall's.

If A did see him it would not be the end of the world, their paths had crossed a number of times in the war against Germany,when they had both worked for the intelligence services, abet different branches.

The A did see him this time, or the first time he had noticed that he had. And he was not the only one watching the A, he was sure.
He had no option but to walk over and say hello.

'Hello' said A 'been following me, I see. For the last five hours at least.' Longer?' 'Why?'
'Afternoon' he replied 'yes I have been following you. Or should I say following you so I can find the other man who has been tailing you. I thing that is the American expression.'
'And which man would this be?' asked A
'We are not sure yet. Would care to enlighten me?'
With that A punched the man in the stomach doubling him over.

By time the man had stood up A was fifty yards away racing to the gate way and out of the cemetery. His hat went flying as he took off in pursuit. A was now over a hundred yards away now. He had to catch him, and catch him as soon as possible.

Then a little piece of luck, a little Austin van clipped A as he tried to cross the road. However he was on his feet in seconds and run faster than ever. The van stopped and the passenger door open straight into him. He had now been winded twice in as many minutes.

A young man got out of the van and helped him to his feet. He pushed him aside, spilling Tom to the ground. An older man was half out of the drivers side door.

'What the bloody hell is going on here' shouted Jack
'Get out of the van now.' the man shouted
'Bugger off' s houted back Jack
He had now pulled out his revolver pointing at Jack's chest. 'This is government business
out of the way now'
'How do I know you're not a Red?'
'Because if I was you would be dead already. Now get in and drive, I have to catch him.'
Turning around was easier said than done. A convoy of army lorries blocked the way. Jack had to reverse and then overtake them.

A was nowhere to been seen. They continued along Newmarket Road and over Barnwell bridge.
Still no sign.

Then just passed Abbey Road they saw him. He had got a bicycle from somewhere and was now getting nearer the centre of town. Jack was only ten yards behind him now. Suddenly a fast right hand turn.
Auckland Road, a dead end, for cars anyway.
A left hand turn.
The entrance to The Star Brewery.
No way out for A.

'Which way did he go?'
'Towards the boiler room. Who is he?' said Reg Markham
'A commie spy' He and Jack said together.
'Come one boys! We've got a Red in the boiler room' Shouted Reg waving other workers over.
There were now a dozen men out side the boiler room.
'I'll go in alone' said The man 'he knows me.'
Reg asked 'Is that a good idea sir?'
'I wouldn't think he is armed, but I am, and I don't want him hurt. We must have him alive. Is there a back way out?'
'No, just these doors' said Reg
'Right you lot, if he runs for it, stop him but don't hurt, if you can help it.'
Some of the men grinned at this.
'I mean it. Do not hurt him' ordered the man.

A entered the the boiler house.
'Come on.' no answer.
'We can talk this over. No need to run any more, you can't get out. You know that don't you?' Still no answer. The man fired a shot into the air.
A scream of pain, from the back of the room.
'I couldn't have hit him' thought the man.
A came into view, both hands in the air. 'What happens now?'
'I don't know.' was the answer. 'But I do know you will need that hand looking at.'

As they came out of the boiler house a number of the man outside came forward, shouting and cursing.
'No need for any of that' said the man quietly 'Have you got any bandages? He needs help.'
'It would be better if you take him to my house. The wife's there, she'll know what to do, as long as he behaves himself that is.' said Reg.

His house was only fifty yards for the brewery. Half an hour later both A and the man were gone.

Life in wartime was back to normal.

By the next day A had told the services what they already knew and whom they had suspected.

He was an idealist, he was convinced what he was doing was right. Communism was the right way to go. Now Stalin had destroyed everything A had believed in. He now knew his country came first and not his politics.
'What happens now?'

'If you are lucky you be hung' said the nameless interrogator
'And if not?'

No answer was forthcoming.
The man passed the room when the interrogator came out. 'Hows it going? Asked the man.

'Better than we had hoped. He told us a lot more than we expected. He is a middle ranking man, he knows who is below him and who is above him. But no others, quite a good system really. You did a good job there, even though you didn't think you had to come back. Jamaica is nice, I am told.'
'Yes it is sir.'
'One more thing commander keep up the good work.'
'I'll try my best sir.'
With that Fleming strode out of the doors into the garden and into the countryside. Bedfordshire was nice this time of year.

Far East Theater in WWIII 1946 by Ranger Elite

Foreign Personnel Training Field & Forward Airbase
of the Air Force of the Free Republic of Russia
Attached to 5th Air Force
U.S. Army Air Forces in the Far East
Urum-chi, Sinkiang Province, Republic of China

General Yevgeny Rushenko was restless in his cot, constantly pinching himself to see if all this was real. Three short years ago, he was a junior lieutenant flying Yakovlev Yak-3's in the Red Army's Aviation Regiments, was shot down by German antiaircraft artillery over Minsk, and was captured and taken to prison camp where he languished in pain and misery, and where he was recruited to join Vlasov's army in exile, fighting on the side of the Germans. At first, he was apprehensive about turning his back on his countrymen, but that gradually faded as his instinct for survival entrenched itself solidly within him. As time went on, this turned into a conviction that he should help free his Russian brothers and sisters from the yoke of communist oppression and Comrade Stalin's tyranny. Starting as a foot soldier, he was eventually returned to his vocation as a combat pilot, having been retrained to fly the Messerscmitt Me-262 jet fighter. He shot down a few Allied bombers over Germany, before he was again shot down, this time not to return to the air, by the end of the war. At that point, there was bedlam. Everyone scrambling to cut a deal or find some safety, some running to the Allies, some running from them, all not wanting to be returned to the vicious regime of Iosef Stalin, where they KNEW that they would killed, as they were deemed traitors and past rehabilitation. So what are one's choices when you are marked for death?

So he began tramping around, using his talent for languages to lay low among the displaced persons moving about around the world, his only companion being his Mauser HSc .380 ACP pistol. The closest he felt to home was when he once moved with a group of displaced Jews, who had been liberated from the horrors of the Nazi Konzentrationslageren, and came from all across Europe, now making what they called in Hebrew “Aaliyah”, or return to the homeland, to Palestine. They never judged him, or asked him what he had done, they always welcomed his help and he theirs. He got along very well with the Russians from this very diverse group, always reminiscing of a home only now half-remembered, and perhaps idealized far too much. Yevgeny had actually considered going to Palestine with this group, even considering trusting this group and offering his flying expertise to them. And then there was the ambush. When they had arrived in the Balkan Mountains, between Bulgaria and Greece, a large party of bandits attacked the group while he and some of the stronger members of their band had gone foraging and hunting for food. The stark and utter devastation they discovered in the camp upon their return was mournful. He led the survivors from there to Piraeus, so they can find passage to their promised land. He parted ways with them, realizing that, once and for all time, settling down with them was never meant for him. He realized his true purpose in the remains of the broken camp. He would fight to free the oppressed, especially in his own homeland, and fight for the innocent, who are not able to defend themselves. He knew that the NKVD would chase him down like a dog, they would not rest until he had been 'liquidated', they would make him an example for the proletariat masses that they kept enthralled with terror, but he had made the determination that he would turn and fight, fight with greater purpose than he had ever had before.

Yevgeny Rushenko made his way to Istanbul by early December, 1945, stayed a couple weeks with some White Russian expatriates that he came across. In that time, he was able to clean himself, refresh and recharge himself, load up on clean clothes, provisions and ammunition for his pistol, and he was on his way. From Istanbul, Yevgeny signed on as a crewman on a tramp steamer headed to Limassol, Cyprus, then signed on aboard another ship, headed to Latakiya, in the former French protectorate of Syria, having very nearly been caught by undercover agents of the NKVD in Limassol. As soon as he made his way to Latakiya, he started hitching his way east to Ramadi, Iraq, where he was able to hustle an old worn jeep from a couple of RAF chaps in a card game. He used the jeep to drive south, along the River Tigris, to Basrah, then across the Shatt-al-Arab marshes into Iran, travelling and making money along the way, finding Westerners and, either fleecing them in games of chance, or working as a personal pilot to them. He had proven his versatility in being able to fly anything with wings, a tail assembly and a motor.

He quickly made his way through Afghanistan, into India, where he stopped to rest in Delhi, in mid-March. By this time, he was starting to hear disturbing rumors coming out of the Russian expatriate communities strung out through South Asia: the Soviets were massing to wage war on their former Allies, to solidify their hegemony as the sole super-power throughout the world.

Yevgeny was truly disturbed by this, and it was at this point that he decided to make contact with the United States government, to offer them his services and contacts. He was rebuffed by the Americans, and they must have forwarded his location to the NKVD, because he was nearly caught again, so he ditched his trusty jeep, and made a run directly east, to Imphal, then northwest to Lhasa, Tibet.

After languishing in what he thought of as his own version of Tibetan hell, Yevgeny once again started out, attempting to make his way to Shanghai to the huge Russian expatriate community there, where he knew he would be better able to serve his overriding purpose. He made it as far as Chungking on 2 May 1946, when he heard the news that the Soviets had begun to advance in strength across the River Elbe. He knew that he could no longer turn away, for his conscience would no longer allow him to. He sought out the American Legation and repeated his offer to them. He would fly against the Soviets, for the greater good of his Russian, White Russian, Ukrainian and other Soviet-oppressed brothers and sisters in proletarian bondage. This time they agreed. He began making trips all over China, even making trips behind Soviet lines in Manchuria, to recruit pilots of all type and ratings, to fly with him to TRULY free their homes and families, and not for the cult of personality that was Comrade Stalin.

Increasingly, by word of mouth, word of Yevgeny Rushenko's White Russian Air Force spread far and wide throughout the Siberian wastes and the Far East, and as far as smoldering Japan. Soon, he had more personnel than equipment as recruits poured in from all over the displaced person's communities, the Russian expatriate communities, and other Asian nationals, such as Chinese, Indian and Japanese, training to be pilots and aircrew to fill the small number of billets that were opening with the importation of American, British and former German aircraft that were being donated to his cause.

There was nothing that Chiang's government and military could do to stop him from forming his new air force, and as such, tacitly approved its formation and forward operating area. When the Chinese Autumn occurred, Rushenko's forces, not wishing to anger their Chinese hosts, voluntarily laid down their arms, and submitted to Chinese custody, while Rushenko himself went to Peking to negotiate a settlement and pact with the Chinese government, in exchange for asylum, protection and forward operating areas.

This was all agreed upon, on one condition: that Rushenko's air forces subordinate themselves under the United States Army Air Force's 5th Air Force, to be posted to the huge new airfield being built in Urum-chi, in Sinkiang Province, as a bomber penetration force pointing in the directions of the Soviet Far East and Soviet Central Asia. Rushenko agreed to this, so here we are...