Chapter 314: Crisis in Egypt
The NKVD's order reached Mexico with remarkable speed.
Mercader walked through the rain-soaked streets in a long coat, a bouquet of flowers held casually in one hand.
At Trotsky's residence, the guards recognized him immediately. By now, he was a familiar face, one of the many political sympathizers who regularly came to visit.
The security personnel examined the bouquet, exchanged a few words with him, and waved him through.
No one searched beneath his coat.
Mercader entered the villa without obstruction.
His eyes swept across the sitting room.
Empty.
His steps slowed.
"Comrade Trotsky?"
No answer came.
A moment later, Trotsky's personal secretary appeared carrying a plate of cake.
"Comrade Trotsky has gone out. He probably won't return until this evening."
She gestured politely toward the plate.
"Would you like some cake while you're here, Mr. Mercader?"
Mercader's fingers trembled.
He immediately tightened his grip on the bouquet to hide it.
"No, thank you, madam."
He forced a smile.
"I'll simply wait here for a while."
"Wait?"
The secretary glanced instinctively at the clock.
It was barely nine in the morning.
Surprise flickered across her face.
Perhaps thinking Mercader had misunderstood her, she repeated herself more clearly.
"Mr. Mercader, I said Comrade Trotsky will not return until this evening."
Mercader's heart tightened.
Suspicion.
Even if it was only slight, he could feel it.
He stood immediately.
"In that case, I won't disturb you."
Suppressing the nervousness surging through his body, he turned toward the entrance.
Then the door opened.
Mercader nearly collided with Trotsky.
The violent swing from disappointment to sudden opportunity made the muscles at the corner of his mouth twitch unnaturally.
Fortunately, Trotsky did not notice.
His attention was elsewhere, his thoughts seemingly occupied by some political matter. When he saw Mercader, he merely adjusted the documents under his arm.
"Comrade Mercader?"
Trotsky nodded toward the staircase.
"Come upstairs. We can talk in my study."
Those words dragged Mercader straight back into suffocating tension.
His heart hammered so violently that every beat seemed to scrape against his ribs.
He said nothing.
He simply followed Trotsky upstairs.
The study on the second floor was quiet.
Trotsky placed several documents on the desk and began sorting them.
Mercader stood behind him.
One second.
Two.
Three.
His right hand slowly slipped beneath his coat.
Trotsky seemed to sense movement behind him.
He turned.
His glasses slid slightly down the bridge of his nose, and he instinctively lifted a hand to adjust them.
That brief instant was enough.
Mercader pulled the ice axe from beneath his coat.
Crack!
He swung with all his strength.
The sound of breaking bone tore through the quiet room.
Blood immediately covered Trotsky's face.
Yet he did not collapse.
Mercader froze for a fraction of a second.
Trotsky staggered forward with a terrible cry.
"Help me!"
He stumbled toward the door.
"Help me! Assassin! Traitor!"
Blood streamed down his face and neck.
He had taken only a few steps when his foot caught the edge of the carpet.
Trotsky crashed heavily onto the floor.
The pale yellow carpet beneath him rapidly turned crimson.
Then came the footsteps.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
People were running upstairs.
Mercader's mind snapped back into motion.
If Trotsky survived, everything was finished.
Without hesitation, he snatched the fallen ice axe from the floor, stepped forward, and brought it down again against the back of Trotsky's head.
The room fell silent.
For several seconds, Mercader stood there breathing heavily.
Then he locked the study door from the inside.
Backing toward the window, he leaned against the wall, fighting to steady himself.
His hands were trembling violently.
After several attempts, he finally managed to pick up the telephone.
He dialed the police.
The following morning, newspapers across the world carried the same headline.
Trotsky had been assassinated in Mexico.
In Berlin, the news provided a brief diversion from Jörg's endless stream of political and military affairs.
"It seems Stalin has finally learned how to be decisive."
Jörg folded the newspaper and placed it aside.
He had originally expected Stalin to tolerate his old rival for a little longer.
Trotsky's growing influence in Mexico was irritating, certainly, and his attacks on Moscow were increasingly damaging to Stalin's legitimacy. Even so, Jörg had not expected the matter to be resolved this quickly.
Less than a month after the Helsinki documentary had shaken the international left, Trotsky was already dead.
On further thought, however, Jörg realized that he could hardly claim to be unrelated to the outcome.
Without Germany's campaign against Soviet public opinion, many foreign leftists would never have begun drifting toward Trotsky.
Without that renewed political influence, Stalin might not have regarded his old rival as an immediate threat.
Perhaps Trotsky would have lived a little longer.
Jörg took a sip of coffee and glanced toward the bright sky beyond the window.
For once, the morning was relatively quiet.
That rare stillness reminded him of something he had almost forgotten.
The System.
He opened the panel.
Two pending rewards appeared before him.
[Congratulations to the Host for completely altering Franklin D. Roosevelt's fate.]
[Rewards issued: 1951 United States Army Night Vision Technology and R-4 Helicopter Technology.]
Jörg's eyes immediately sharpened.
Both rewards were extremely practical.
Night vision technology could compensate for one of the greatest weaknesses of armored warfare after sunset. Tanks were formidable weapons during daylight, but darkness reduced observation range, disrupted coordination, and made rapid maneuver far more dangerous.
Even primitive night vision equipment could fundamentally alter that equation.
The helicopter was equally valuable.
Its immediate combat capability might be limited, but the implications were enormous. Reconnaissance, battlefield liaison, casualty evacuation, command transport, artillery observation, and eventually even air assault operations could all be transformed by rotary-wing aircraft.
The second notification followed.
[Congratulations to the Host for completely altering Georgy Zhukov's fate.]
[Reward issued: 1954 Soviet 6B1 Body Armor Technology.]
Jörg's enthusiasm faded slightly.
Compared with night vision equipment and helicopters, the body armor was less impressive.
Germany's weapons institutes had already begun developing protective equipment for infantry, and several prototypes had even been presented to him recently.
Still, a mature design from the future was hardly useless.
Better to have something than nothing.
After accepting all three technologies, Jörg closed the panel.
He was about to summon Ethan when someone knocked on the office door.
"Come in."
A military staff officer entered and saluted.
"Commander-in-Chief, the North Africa Army Group has reached Libya's Oasis Province."
He placed several documents on the desk.
"British and French forces have concentrated substantial numbers there. General Rommel and General Bock are requesting authorization to begin the final offensive."
Jörg did not answer immediately.
Instead, he asked the question he always asked before authorizing a major operation.
"Logistics?"
The staff officer had clearly expected it.
"There have been difficulties, sir, but they are being overcome."
He unfolded a transport report.
"The French destroyed much of the transportation infrastructure during their retreat. Railway sections, roads, bridges, depots, and port facilities are all undergoing emergency repairs."
"Local horses have been requisitioned in large numbers. The Logistics Department has also transferred additional pack animals to the theater to relieve pressure on motor transport."
Jörg examined the report for several moments.
Only then did he nod.
"Very well."
He set the papers down.
"Transmit my order."
The officer straightened.
"Begin the final offensive."
Jörg's voice remained calm.
"Drive Britain and France out of the Mediterranean."
"Yes, Commander-in-Chief!"
The officer saluted sharply and departed.
Far to the south, in Libya's Oasis Province, preparations for battle had already reached their final stage.
Britain and France had transformed the region into a forward fortress against the German advance.
The French 16th Infantry Division and 10th Tank Brigade had taken up positions there, supported by five additional divisions drawn from British India.
They had fortified roads, dug trenches, established artillery positions, and prepared fallback lines.
What awaited them, however, was Rommel's North Africa Army Group.
After a short operational pause, its formations had replenished ammunition, repaired damaged vehicles, reorganized fuel supplies, and restored their armored spearheads.
The desert army was ready to move again.
Farther east, on the Sinai Peninsula, De Gaulle had finally persuaded Montgomery that the German offensive through the Middle East could not be dismissed as a diversion.
Australian formations had been deployed there.
The last French reserves were also committed, including the 16th Infantry Division and France's final three armored brigades.
Bock saw every one of those movements through German reconnaissance.
He was not surprised.
Years earlier, he had already crossed swords with De Gaulle in the Balkans.
In Bock's judgment, De Gaulle was far too intelligent to fall for the same deception twice.
The German attack toward Oman might deceive inexperienced officers, but not a commander who had already suffered through German operational feints before.
A staff officer hurried into the command post.
"General!"
Bock looked up from the map.
"Berlin has approved the offensive."
The staff officer could barely conceal his excitement.
"The Luftwaffe has completed preparations. The First and Second Carrier Battle Groups are cruising off the Sinai coast, which means naval aviation will also be available for direct support."
The firepower available to Bock's Middle East forces was considerable.
Even so, their priority within the German war machine remained below Rommel's North African Army Group, which had received the heavier concentration of armor and tactical aviation.
Yet with naval aircraft now added to the equation, the disparity no longer mattered much.
On paper, Germany possessed overwhelming superiority across the theater.
Bock did not allow that advantage to make him careless.
"Keep the armored divisions where they are."
The staff officers around the map table looked toward him.
"First, give the British and French a saturation bombardment."
He studied the Sinai map.
"Our objective is not to rush west and shake hands with Rommel."
Bock tapped the center of the peninsula.
"Nekhel."
"That is the first objective."
A red marker was placed on the city.
"The 7th and 14th Armored Divisions will concentrate their strength there after the bombardment."
Another officer asked,
"And after Nekhel falls?"
Bock's baton moved north.
"El Arish."
Then south.
"Saint Catherine."
"We will take the center first, establish Nekhel as an operational base, then expand toward both flanks."
His gaze swept across the officers.
"Do not stretch the front unnecessarily. Rommel has his battlefield. We have ours."
Bock drew a vertical line through the Sinai Peninsula.
"We advance systematically."
"Center first. Then north and south."
He tapped the routes again.
"Once El Arish and Saint Catherine are threatened, the British and French forces deeper in Sinai will lose freedom of maneuver."
Their retreat routes would begin to narrow.
Their reserves would be forced to split.
Their command would be compelled to choose which sector to save.
And every choice would expose another weakness.
Bock lowered the baton.
"Cut their routes of withdrawal."
"Break their defensive structure piece by piece."
"Then take the Sinai Peninsula step by step."
....
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