The Dogs of War

by Konstantinsen

Chronicling the events unfolding from the 1908 Tunguska Incident, through the tense days of the Cold War, amid the battlefronts of the Third World War, until the rise of Kane, the sons of Russia and the rest of the world will learn that peace for our time is not necessarily peace everlasting. Soviet-centric.

NOTE: I wrote this originally as a short fic after playing the Yamantau level of Black Ops I. Then I added in CnC characters and it blossomed from there. I know, it's long but I hope you can have the patience to read 'til the end. Thanks.

Also, regarding the title, for now, I don't know what else to title this. I don't want to deceive readers by giving them the image that they might be reading across a similar tone as that of Frederick Forsyth's book The Dogs of War. I have not read the book but I know the story. For now, I'll just title this as such because I can't think of anything else to fit this.

---

1908 – Tunguska, Russian Empire

The tribesman saw the black evening sky evaporate into bright midday. A mighty flashing light piercing through the clouds, leaving behind a massive wake that lingered overhead. He knew his eyes were not deceiving him and had full faith in his vigorous and youthful frame. Before he realized his actions, his feet had already taken him through the underbrush.

Bursting out into the clearing, he shoveled his arm before his eyes as the horizon beyond the tundra erupted.

Deafening. Powerful. Destructive.

Not a moment too soon, he was already off the ground. His face registered dirt and he woke up from his fall slightly bruised but daftly shaken.

The next three nights were marked by vibrant auroras that colored the Siberian eves.

The tribesman would later recount to his offspring of the night that became day. Eventually, a good number of years wiser, he found himself being forced to disclose every detail of the experience to the Imperial soldiers who came to visit this so-called 'peculiarity in the Tunguska region.'

---

1927 – Tunguska, Russian S.F.S.R.

Lieutenant Yevgeniy Timoshev looped around the collapsed trees to the campsite of the expedition. Yousseff Caine followed shortly thereafter alongside the motley crew of Evenki hunters who had previously agreed to lead them around the valley.

Professor Leonid Kulik greeted them before they stepped through the perimeter. "What have you gathered so far?"

"The same sight," Timoshev replied. "More trees, almost all uprooted. The blast radius goes on. We might be close to the epicenter."

Kulik nodded. He turned to Caine. "What is your assessment on our secondary objective?"

"If we are able to confirm the presence of minable meteoric ore, then I am sure we would be able to secure more proper support for a possible early harvesting effort."

"'Harvesting'?" Timoshev questioned.

Caine smiled. "Yes, comrade. Or would you rather prefer more technical terms?"

Kulik waved his hand. "Yes, yes. Come now. There is still much to be done here."

Both Caine and Timoshev nodded with the former casually striding off to his own quarters to organize his papers to appease the infantile bureaucracy of this fledging Soviet empire. They were all the same, really. It was just a transition of names and leaders. If anything, these new 'revolutionaries' shared much in common to their deposed czarist 'oppressors'.

At least Yousseff was smart enough to keep his thoughts to himself. Perhaps a change in leadership would help him step-up and finally plant his mark on the history of this chaotic race. That is, as soon as they would be able to harmonize the power that he could feel from the epicenter of the impact.

It was obvious Kulik was aware of the ore but not of its potential properties. Yousseff strolled to the edge of the camp in the direction of the crater.

---

1942 – Moscow, Russian S.F.S.R.

It was a tad shame that Professor Kulik had taken up arms for his country. It was even more disappointing that he had passed away from typhus in a prison camp miles away. At least, that was what the spies had said. A good mind, but having already proven his worth, it seemed not to matter anymore.

Caine straightened himself and approached the table. "Comrade Stalin?"

Josef Stalin put down his cigar. "Yes, Yousseff?"

"Would you like to hear the reports about the Tunguska incident?"

"What relevance does it have to our situation?"

"Mineral ore for our industries," the Soviet administrative adviser replied, "perhaps impenetrable armor for our tanks and aircraft."

Stalin looked him over. Then he checked the faces of his other advisers and generals around the table. "I will give it some thought. At this moment, we are to focus on engagements against the Germans. The lines have been broken at Brest-Litovsk. Alarming, yes?"

"Yes. I understand, comrade."

Yousseff stepped back into the corner, away from the rest of the staff. He would have to wait for this war to blow over and—hopefully—the Soviet Union to survive before he could let these useful minds look into his interests. What a waste of time…

But necessary to prove his worth to these indifferent wads. At least Stalin had the sense to listen to his commanders, unlike that egotistical Hitler fool, and with Zhukov scratching his head every now and then; maybe it was appropriate that he suggest a few of his own counter maneuvers against the Nazis. Caine maintained his impassivity; they were all predictable, especially so in war.

---

1945 – Yalta, Ukrainian S.S.R.

Caine kept behind the cameras. The "Big Three", as they were so aptly called by the international media, emerged from the meeting room, smiles on their faces and waving at the journalists while their subordinates flanked them on from every angle except the front.

Roosevelt waited for the lull in the fanfare. As soon as the flashes ceased and the peskiness of the world's eyes retreated, he wheeled himself a little closer to that pip-squeak Stalin. The man's bald Soviet advisor gave him close observation which slightly unnerved the American president.

"You have a unique choice of staff," he finally remarked.

The translator was quick. Stalin heaved a haughty chortle preceding his reply. "Of course, I screen out the best and put them in my personal tool box."

"That's one way to put it," Franklin muttered. "Say, there is something that I have been meaning to ask. If you don't mind, that is."

Josef nodded. "Ask away."

"Your man over there looks awfully familiar. Where did you get him?"

The translator finished his run with a gesture to Caine. Roosevelt caught the strong man withdraw for a good moment. After a thoughtful contemplation, he replied in kind. "He came to me. From Siberia, even. Though where exactly, I never bothered to ask."

Franklin nodded. "Okay. I was just curious. He seemed to pop up in a few photographs and newspapers in America."

"Oh, so he is that famous in your country as well?"

The president could tell that the surprise was partly genuine. "Well, when I was a kid, I saw a man looking just like him in newspapers and magazines. And that was many years ago. He just looked familiar to me."

Josef laughed. "Ah, yes! Some of my own advisers tell me the same. He must resemble his father. Or maybe a coincidence!"

Roosevelt shared the chortle. "Yes, yes. Maybe."

Across the yard, Caine disappeared behind the journalists. He did not need a translator to read their lips. At least Churchill was not privy to everything. He just hoped that the American would not prod Stalin too much else much would be jeopardized.

---

1950 – Moscow, Russian S.F.S.R.

Stalin skimmed over the documents. "Are you sure, Yousseff?"

Caine beamed. "This is a prime opportunity to spread our banner across the world. They have the numbers and the zeal. We have the equipment they need to surpass the capitalists holding their south."

Josef sighed. On his desk lay the intelligence reports, the papers guaranteeing support, the letter of authorization awaiting his signature. Caine had been prodding him for days. He had been instrumental against Hitler, true. He guessed it was better to listen to his instincts and offer his ears to him again. Caine had never failed him before.

"I will take your word for this, Yousseff." Stalin picked up the pen.

A few hours later, the high command of the Korean People's Army in Pyongyang initiated the post-preparatory mobilizations across the 38th parallel.

---

1961 – Novosibirsk, Russian S.F.S.R.

Akademgorodok was as impressive as it was on the blueprints that had seen the foundation of the educational hub in Siberia. The leading scientists had already filed through the main doors of the headquarters for the Siberian Division of the Academy of Sciences and into the conference hall where they were met with the political representatives headed by Yousseff Caine, a man who most of the attendees and liaisons considered to be gifted with delayed aging.

"You look as youthful as you once were all those years ago," Professor Timoshev greeted, shaking the advisor's hand with his own wrinkled one.

"I consider it a blessing," Caine replied.

"Ah, but how I wish that such blessings could be equally distributed among us, eh?"

Both men took the last moment before the meeting to laugh.

"Come now, we will begin."

Caine led Timoshev to his seat closest to the podium. The presenter began flashing the cursory slides and began speaking on the most clandestine research branch conceived by the Ministry of Defense.

At the end of the session, the sky outside was bathed in a bright orange glow. Timoshev followed his associates to the gardens where they discussed the prospects of this new initiative. If it worked, that is…

"Kulik's endeavors were not in vain after all," the professor began.

"It seems that we have to look back at Tunguska. There may be more of that 'magic mineral' that they so described. Sounds less inconspicuous, I guess," an expert in geology remarked.

"As long as we can control its properties, then maybe this so-called 'mind control' prospect would not be as fantastical as it may sound," the youngest among them, Gyorgiy Deshov, said.

"Maybe you might be the first volunteer if it came to that."

The scientists laughed. "You heard the name: 'Project Yuri'. Who knows? It fits you."

Gyorgiy smirked. "My wife calls me Yuri."

---

1967 – Ural Mountains, Russian S.F.S.R.

It was the latest project in the long list of projects that the Russians had been fielding since the death of Stalin. Had it not been tagged as the recent brainchild of armaments minister Anatoly Cherdenko, it would have been spared the obnoxious nose of the greatly paranoid CIA.

The strike teams could not really blame their handlers even as they allowed the current of the Siberian river to carry them to their destination. What mattered the most right now was finding out how to stall its progress—sabotage it even—before any major milestone could be reached. And any major milestone marked a hundred more cartographic miles on the strike range of the Russians on the United States.

-BREAK-

The cannon discharged an estimated two thousand volts of electricity into the dummy, reducing it to a pile of ash before the scientists could power down the suit.

Tessadiy remained firmly in place regardless. It was clear that he was as awestruck as he was fizzled by the excess voltage. He wiggled his arm and was met by the constricting hull of the Tesla gauntlet. The smell of burnt jelly was unsurprising but he wrinkled his nose nonetheless. He allowed the yeomen to lift the heavyset helmet off his shoulders along with the rest of his suit, piece by piece.

The former Red Army sergeant glanced at the windowpane where he was sure the chief of the project was watching, with his cronies and their clipboards with their notes and their pencils…

-BREAK-

Anatoly was smiling alongside Professor Karpov and Colonel Bovilyev.

"Comrade minister, the feasibility of fielding the Tesla magnums are absolutely high," Karpov began. His lips reached from ear to ear. "The drafts for the Tesla shock trooper are already on your desk for approval."

"They look so cumbersome," Bovilyev noted.

"Comrade colonel, that is why we train our soldiers with steel plates," Cherdenko replied enthusiastically. He turned to the academician. "You can expect my review next week."

The look on Bovilyev's face was not as enthusiastic. "Comrades, I must press my stance. You know, after all, that I have concerns. We have concerns."

"I understand. That is why we forwarded the drafts to Dzerzhinsky."

The KGB liaison hid his surprise very well. "And they forwarded it to the Kremlin."

"Exactly," Arkadiy concluded with a wide grin. "I can see a bright future for the Rodina."

"Very bright, yes."

-BREAK-

The strike teams emerged from the water under the foundations of the facility. Breathing steady and on the near verge of loosing the epidermal nerves from the severe cold, they nonetheless hefted themselves out of the canal and onto the firm snow-covered soil.

"Come on, we've only got ten minutes."

"Right, Cap."

The Captain wasted no time in unrolling the map. "Sievert, you're with me. Cal, Neiman, move up. Bravo, take the catwalk. Charlie, up the hatch."

"How much C-4 we got?"

"Enough to blow this place to hell when shit goes south."

-BREAK-

Tessadiy took in the air with relief. Immediately, his eyes began searching for the nearest door. "I need a smoke."

The assistant thumbed the fire exit.

"Spasiba."

Tessadiy emerged onto the outdoor catwalk and was greeted by the menacing breeze of the seasonal Siberian winter. The cigarette sparked to life under his palm. And the light from the fire revealed his position to the outlying sentries on the ridge across the building.

They waved at him. And he waved at them. Below, where a thriving river once flowed onto the winter basin, the dots of his uniformed comrades crossed the surface of the frozen lake. He shook his head. If the plumbing would freeze over again, they would have to drill through the ice for something to drink. The last time someone melted the snow for a cup of coffee, he ended up in the medical ward with a nuclear diagnosis.

The former Red Army sergeant yawned. The tobacco had finally burnt out and he flicked the spent stick over the railing. Over fifty feet of cryogenic stone stretched below the grill. It would be a frightful fall to an impactful death.

"Tessadiy, what a mind you have," he muttered to himself.

He glanced once more at the dots on the frozen lake before retiring back inside.

-BREAK-

"What the hell?"

The Captain panned around. "Sievert…"

"There's no one here."

"There has to be. Blizzard must be kicking in."

Sievert grumbled. "Well, I don't feel a blizzard on my face, Cap." The pipes above their head offered enough cover for passing sentries to ignore them. The problem was that there were no sentries, let alone anyone, since insertion.

The Captain fiddled with his earpiece. "Bravo, do you copy?"

Static.

"Shit." He refused to meet Sievert's gaze. "Bravo, do you copy?"

-BREAK-

Tessadiy stiffened. The three top officials looked him over.

"At ease, comrade," Cherdenko said.

The sergeant deflated. He smiled only after they did. "Comrades?"

Anatoly tapped his shoulder. "Keep up your faithful participation and you might just be the commander of the first Tesla division."

"From sergeant to colonel?" Bovilyev questioned.

Karpov stared at the lieutenant. "And you might be assigned to them if you're lucky," he allowed, letting the disapproval drip slightly.

Cherdenko passed between them. "Comrade sergeant, you don't have to worry about such matters this early on."

Tessadiy put on his best face and watched them leave through the main doors. He exhaled deep when they disappeared. He then looked at the lab rats but they ignored him and went back to their work. Stranger days were happening the longer he stayed, it seemed.

Well, if the minister was true to his word, he might find himself in charge of a battalion of literal shock troops. A smile curled on his lips.

"Shock troops… What a term…"

-BREAK-

"Cap, I don't think we're in the right place."

"Can it, Sievert."

"Just sayin', Cap."

Alpha team passed under the fifth exterior walkway and emerged onto the open courtyard. The Captain dropped prone while Sievert and the two other members of their squadron began assailing the stairwell onto what appeared to be the control room.

The moment they opened the door, however, it dawned on them that they had weaved themselves into the spider's web.

The Spetsnaz commandos dropped from the ventilation shaft above them. Resistance was tough but futile; Sievert kicked against his captors until the butt of a rifle knocked him out of his senses. His last sight was of the Captain slummed against the controls, a clean hole in the back of his neck and crimson pooling below his feet.

-BREAK-

Bovilyev waited for the zhiguli to leave the complex. When the cone towers disappeared behind the mountains, he leaned over.

"The trap worked. We haven't lost any men."

Anatoly's expression was already grim. "And theirs?"

"One dead: their commanding officer. We have captured all four teams and their escape crew. They were carrying bombs and were planning to leave by the river."

"How far were they again?"

"From us?" He stretched back and flicked his arms. "Twenty miles."

The Minister of Defense nodded. "Maladyets."

---

1968 – Moscow, Russian S.F.S.R.

"Comrade minister?"

Anatoly glanced up from his desk. "Da?"

General Bovilyev stepped into his office. "May I ask why our American friends are being moved out of Vorkuta?"

"Prisoner exchange."

The KGB liaison stared at him. He did not know whether to be surprised or angered at the sudden compliance. "Prisoner exchange? Who authorized this?"

Cherdenko flicked a single finger upward. "I only agreed to it."

Bovilyev snarled. "And what do we gain from it?"

"Information."

He cocked his head. "Who exactly are we bargaining for?"

"The same man you sent off five years ago."

Bovilyev's eyes widened. His brows receded and the bridge above his nose creased. "I thought he turned."

Anatoly finally met his gaze. "You don't know your own men?"

"Comrade, you have a good enough idea how we run things at the First Chief Directorate."

"Anyway, the people we are pulling out have been doing their job even after being incarcerated." He snickered. "Can you believe? They even infuse capitalist comforts in their prisons. No wonder crime is so rampant."

"That is irrelevant. What does he have? What exactly?"

Cherdenko drew out a folder and laid it on his table. The KGB officer flicked over the cover and was one of the few Soviet men who had laid eyes on the development blueprints of the latest Allied technology. It was not a direct deterrent to their Tesla brigades but it did sound a lot like a rival on par with such: reflective laser mirrors.

"We have Tesla. They have…Einstein." Bovilyev scowled. "He died years ago. What makes him so important all of a sudden?"

"The latest updates to his weapons research."

"Great. We should have bagged him when we had the chance."

"What is done is done. Let us focus on the present, comrade general."

Bovilyev simply stared at him.

---

1969 – Moscow, Russian S.F.S.R.

Premier Anatoly Cherdenko was the first man to stand up when the pallbearers came in to relieve the casket. Leonid Brezhnev had been on display for a good few days now and the bouquets adorning his corpse were becoming more of a nuisance than a tribute to his leadership.

Together with everyone else, he followed the late General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union to the Kremlin Wall where many a great men were entombed.

Brezhnev's death was an unfortunate event in the history of their country. And although he had nothing at all to do with it, he was grateful that the disgruntled efreitor who actually managed to shoot the convoy carrying them did not miss. No doubt the assassin would be savagely prosecuted but he had to thank him for sending him to the top of the food chain.

Cherdenko paid his final respects and walked away. Marshal of the Soviet Union Nikolay Krukov straddled up beside him as they followed the sidewalk towards the Kremlin.

"What are you planning now?"

Anatoly paused to stare at him. "Rearrangement."

---

1970 – Washington D.C., U.S.A.

"What do we know?"

"Mister President, Premier Cherdenko is showing no signs of stopping his reforms. He has very strong supporters both in and out of the Communist Party and the likelihood of the opposition even stalling him is minimal at best," Secretary of Defense Clark Clifford reported.

Richard Nixon leaned back on his chair. "So the Soviet Constitutional Crisis is going to end badly for us, huh."

"The way this is going, it most definitely would, sir."

The President of the United States scanned the room. The faces from his other advisers showed the same emotion: anxiety. No one had ever anticipated this sudden chapter in the Big Red Land. And frankly, no one knew exactly what was going to happen next.

Cherdenko was an enigma. It was entirely unclear whether or not he would adapt an aggressive stance towards them. The sudden change in leadership coupled with the high-stakes meddling in the internal affairs of the U.S.S.R. was seen as a characteristic that defined the newly elected Premier as a domineering revisionist. A darker clone of Khrushchev yet frighteningly unpredictable. And given the recent news, most likely unwelcoming of the West.

"What are the chances that he is not going to bite us in the ass?" Nixon asked.

Clifford glanced at his fellow advisers. A few harried whispers and some uneasy nods.

"Well?"

"Mister President, if Cherdenko stays at the top at the end of this, we might be looking at another Josef Stalin."

---

1975 – Hanoi, D.R.V.

Krukov genuinely appreciated the spirit of the Vietnamese. He really did. They would pour everything into the unification of their country. This was their Great Patriotic War. And they won. With assistance from the USSR, of course.

The majority of Soviet aid had come in the form of second-hand equipment; mass-produced small arms, armored vehicles, and a selected batch of 'expendable' heavy units. Krukov was grateful that the Chinese left the experimental Tesla shock troopers alone what with all the isolated incidents along their borders and the rather 'accidental' electrocution of several dissident Chinese.

The visiting Soviet general followed Le Duan and his translator outside the Ho Chin Minh Mausoleum.

"If he could see us now," Krukov mused.

Le Duan fastened a wide grin. "Yes. We have a bright future for our people."

"What do you think of our equipment?"

The General Secretary of the Communist Party of Vietnam bowed a bit. The reply was slow and carefully articulated. "They were very instrumental in the liberation of the south from their capitalist overlords. We have lost far too many sons and daughters but we honor all sacrifices. Of course, we could not have achieved these accomplishments without your assistance."

Krukov was not satisfied. Nonetheless, he nodded emphatically. "How were our 'shock' troops?"

Le Duan registered the term and his grin widened even more. "We did not have to worry about burying any more bodies."

Both men laughed.

---

1982 – Leninsk, Kazakh S.S.R.

"What do you think, comrade?"

Yuri rubbed his beard. The large rocket sitting on the launch pad in the middle of the Baikonur Cosmodrome was awaiting the countdown to its departure into space. It would shuttle a satellite specially modified to serve as an outward guidance system for the missile stations scattered across the Soviet Union and was outfitted with special mirrors as a part of its secondary function to deflect a sort of energetic discharge from a modified solar station in Stalinabad in the Tajik mountains.

"I personally believe that this will be our finest weapon yet."

"I am impressed by your confidence," Yuri remarked, his voice deep and subdued.

The overseer glanced at the visiting specialist whose tubes hanging off the back of his head symbolized the excess of Soviet experimentation into the recesses of the human mind. Some of the reports often used words like 'psychic' and 'mentalist'. Being a man of science, he often substituted them with 'deception' and 'ventriloquism.'

"You do not believe in the reports," Yuri stated.

The overseer was startled. "I am tempted to say that you read my mind."

"I understand that it is difficult to accept my capabilities, no?"

"I am not saying such things."

Yuri looked at him. It took a moment for a smile to form on his lips. "I was sent here on a separate agenda, comrade."

"Yes, yes, of course. This way to the laboratory."

Gyorgiy "Yuri" Deshov allowed himself to be escorted down the south wing towards an elevator that descended ten floors down. The underground facilities were very much like the testing centers underneath Akademgorodok in Novosibirsk: white coats and white walls with the scent of noxious fumes filtered through the ventilation shafts. The experimentation chamber was just down the corridor…

Yuri sat down on the chair and waited for the scientists to affix the skullcap onto his shaven head. Up in observation, the overseer checked the readouts on the monitor and gave the cursory thumbs up.

The technician flipped the switch.

-BREAK-

Yuri tightened the glove around his wrist, feeling for the galvanized modules affixed on the fingertips. Until his psychic powers could be fully realized, he would have to rely on this rubber gauntlet to help him maintain control over a human mind.

"The experiment was a success but not without complications," the overseer reported.

"There is always room for improvement, comrade." Yuri locked his gaze onto the scientist. There was a connection, yes. He could feel it, yes. The movement of the neurons in his brain, yes! He flexed his arm and the man's pupils dilated. Yuri looked away.

The overseer stood dumbstruck for a good minute. Then, as though abruptly resurrecting from the dead, he blinked and rubbed the saliva dripping from his mouth.

"How did—"

"I don't know."

"Right…sorry, about that. I must have been thinking of something else. Sorry. Here, the summary of the results."

Yuri took the folder. Both men exchanged salutes before leaving.

-BREAK-

The zhiguli carried another passenger.

"Marshal Krukov," Yuri greeted with little surprise, slipping into his seat.

Nikolay nodded. "I take it everything went well?"

"Not without incident. There were some complications but our scientists have assured me that they will be settled soon."

"Harasho, harasho." Krukov settled back into his seat as the vehicle eased out of the driveway and squeezed between the convoy. "You understand that in the coming days your abilities will be put to the absolute test."

"Which tests, comrade general?"

"Field tests. Against our enemies."

Yuri etched a short smile. "I am eager to see how far I could go."

Krukov grinned. This was very promising. Cherdenko's shadow puppy, Yanvar Kane, was right about this man. And to think that telepathy and the sorts were nothing more than science fiction for the capitalist masses to be drowned in.

---

1988 – Budapest, H.P.R.

Lissette Hanley waltzed through the doors of the watering hole with the stride of a practiced whore, her bland yellow dress glistening under the glass chandeliers. The men found her aura dazzling and, though intoxicated, had the mind to keep their hands away lest the observing police officers detain them (again) for sexual harassment.

Hanley downed her drink of the night by the bar and quickly departed for the comfort rooms in the back. As she pulled down her skirt, she reached below the rim of the toilet and found the parcel taped under the porcelain.

She left the bar before the hour ended and by the time she reached her apartment, the diplomat was waiting with the faux-filled suitcase, a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, and some East Bloc condoms that she hoped were of quality brand. Not that they were important—getting pregnant on the job was an absolute no-no.

Come morning, the diplomat was at the United States embassy where the code breaker was busy with his typewriter. His face was drenched in sweat and not because of the humid (and terribly unventilated) conditions of the janitor's closet.

START Operation Furnace confirmed BREAK Soviet high command planning massive offensives BREAK three million reservists called up BREAK confirmed targets BREAK FRG BREAK France BREAK Denmark BREAK Finland BREAK Italy BREAK Spain BREAK Portugal

The code breaker stopped. "Oh, God, no…"

BREAK UK BREAK strategic rocket forces in redeployment BREAK first strike initiatives confirmed BREAK nuclear ordnance confirmed END

He leaned back on his chair, his shirt sticking to his skin. "My God…"

---

1989 – Berlin, D.D.R.

The crisis had escalated rather quickly. Both sides had a sizable garrison ready to meet the other, if they had the gall to make the first move and assail the barrier.

They did not have to, though. Under Premier Cherdenko, the first move would decide the final direction of the Cold War. The experienced Tesla divisions under General Tessadiy spread out on even formation along the trenches aligning the base of their side of the Berlin Wall. Each man had his gauntlet charged. Each waited for the signal to send the highly lethal bolts over the barbed wire.

On the other side, Colonel Warren Fuller spread out his share of riot shield volunteer peacekeepers along the perimeter. His superiors, who had command of the more battle-ready and combat efficient troops, had congregated close to Checkpoint Charlie. The American and German tank divisions were spread too thinly while their Soviet counterparts had almost each nook and cranny covered.

Donning his binoculars for the nth time, he could see the hulking juggernauts that helped to violently suppress resistance in Afghanistan. It looked as if they were preparing for something other than added security.

His heart raced. And the Tesla troops raised their arms in the air. The shimmering light was enough to send him dropping off the sentry perch and running frantically to the command post.

He was too late.

---

Brussels, Kingdom of Belgium

The NATO forces that stubbornly remained to defend the city were easily overwhelmed. Those who survived were addled with anger and confusion as to why the NATO high command welcomed the invading Soviets with open arms; some decorated staffers were even waving small red flags as Russian tanks rolled into the compound.

Eventually, a jeep parked in the courtyard where the captured soldiers and victorious conscripts stood in formation far apart from each other separated by an empty pole. Yuri stepped out and personally saluted the men holding the folded Soviet flag.

Five minutes later, it waved high above their heads, a significant milestone in this glorious campaign.

By the end of the day, the prisoners-of-war were transferring construction materials out of supply trucks. Some of them were further puzzled by the strange curvatures on some of the metallic radar dishes.

Yuri watched them work. Such fragile little minds they had. Enslaving NATO high command through tapped phone lines had proven to be far easier than he expected. Installing the beacons would enhance his telepathic range allowing him to bypass all the blockages in the Allied communications system and tap directly into the people manning the controls.

But first things first, these fine folk toiling under their banner…

-BREAK-

The prisoners were marched into the courtyard, in front of the odd tower they were forced to construct over the past few weeks. What the hell it was or what it did made for evening speculation in the barracks.

In the observation deck atop the main offices, Yuri turned away from the windows and nodded. The officer sent the order down to the technicians in the basement. One of them heaved down the massive switch mounted on the wall.

Slowly, the panels atop the beacon began to turn. As soon as it attained the standard ninety-revolutions-per-minute, the prisoners-of-war found themselves subdued by a strong force…in their heads. They dropped to their knees, throbbing, gnashing, screaming, crying…until one by one, they stood up and (robotically) pledged full allegiance to the Soviet Union.

Yuri smiled. Crude but nonetheless efficient. The psychic emitter was a success.

---

1990 – Madrid, Spain

General Artemy Korovalov did not like the orders he received from Moscow. Nonetheless, he proceeded to carry them out like the faithful servant of the Motherland would. He looked at the screen where his liaison Lieutenant Dasha Fedorovna forwarded the list of names of the Allied prisoners held at Uncastillo.

He thanked her brusquely, running his finger along the numbers. These men and women would never see the end of this war.

-BREAK-

The train from Zaragoza was largely intact though scathed by the ceaseless Allied bombing runs. He watched his troops unload the prisoners from the boxcars. Haggard, dirty, emaciated… He pitied them, he truly did. But orders were orders and as much as he wanted to lobby for their lives, he believed that Moscow knew best.

Korovalov swallowed his doubts. Fedorovna voiced her appreciation for his unquestioning obedience. She did not know how good he was at maintaining his professional mien in the face of his superiors.

"Comrade General, we have unloaded the last of them," reported a soldier.

Artemy nodded. "Keep them in the holding cells. We have until next week."

"Da, tavarisch general."

"Six thousand men and women," Dasha chirped from the display feed. Her lips were stretched from ear to ear. "We will make an example of them. Those NATO dogs are a fitting tribute to our comrades who have sacrificed themselves for the Motherland."

Korovalov smiled back. He genuinely appreciated her blind enthusiasm. He just wished that she did not go any higher up lest she loose the last of her innocence.

-BREAK-

The pits were as exposed as the field they were dug into. He looked up at the sky for a brief moment. Then he checked his watch. If the information from the KGB was accurate, the American surveillance satellite would now be passing directly above them and be taking photographs of the latest crime of the Soviet Union since Katyn.

"Comrade General!"

Korovalov resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His Chekist aide was quick to condemn him for failing to shield the mass graves. He waited until the bastard would shut up before replying that they were not supplied with tarps and such to do so.

"Improvise! We are smart not dumb!"

"Tavarisch, even we did, we have nothing to get from. Our own trucks need the sheets for obvious reasons. And the supply trains have been giving us little in the way of supplies. Not to mention how cratered the whole country is." It was mostly true; the aggressive Allied aerial bombardment campaign had been straining their logistics and uprooting swathes of concealable forest canopies.

"We will see what Moscow thinks of this!"

The general watched him stomp off. Report or no report, he was confident that Moscow could not stand to lose its best commander over a minor infallibility as this.

-BREAK-

International media had caught on with the Western demonization of the Soviet Union. The propaganda blitz was relentless and no doubt he had played a significant part in antagonizing his own country.

Moscow refused to relieve him despite pressures from the KGB. He was after all, the driving force behind the swift spearhead into Europe. With Spain divided, it would be a matter of time until they would reach Portugal and eventually swallow the rest of the continent in one big red hug.

"How are we doing on the Basque Country?" Korovalov asked.

"We lost several pilots but we kept them at bay so far," Zhana Agonskaya replied.

"Harasho." Good. "Do we have enough reserves for the next offensive?"

"We do. I can guarantee you that we have more than enough aircraft and manpower to support you, comrade."

Artemy smiled. "Thank you, Zhana."

Yes. Clear domination of the skies is within reach and they still had several close-air support groups to spare. Securing the rest of Spain would be quick. Zhana's bombers were already within range of Gibraltar and the last report indicated the loss of a good number of Allied ships.

By autumn, they would be marching in the streets of Lisbon and would have secured the British stronghold in the south. He just hoped that he would not have to pull off another Katyn. The message to his superiors was as clear as the skies on the day that he ordered the mass graves to be left exposed.

---

Tokyo, Empire of the Rising Sun

His subjects bowed until their backs hurt. Emperor Yoshiro dismissed them with finality and by the time he was alone in the tapered hall of the Imperial palace, his son Tatsu took their places in the center.

"Father, what do you think of this war?" he asked after a bow.

Yoshiro stood from his place and walked to the back. He opened the rear doors and entered into his personal quarters where the majestic gardens, cared for by generations of loyal servants, shone under the bright auburn sun. "An opportunity for us to stake our place in history."

"Father, I worry of…repetitions."

"You must not think of the past, my son. They are but lessons for the coming generations to learn from."

Tatsu followed his father into the gardens. He watched him draw a pair of cutters and trim off the leaves of his favorite bonsai. "The recent reports from our shinobi say that the Soviets still maintain their minute fleet in Vladivostok."

"A small fleet, yes. Not large enough to hinder us, though. We are more than capable of withstanding their heavyset arms."

"I worry of their numbers."

Yoshiro sighed and put down the blades. "You do not cease to pester me at times, my son. But I assure you: we surpass them with technology. Their numbers mean nothing to our superiority. Now, is there anything else you wish to ask of me?"

Tatsu saw the futility of further debating with his father. He acknowledged nothing more and left him in the gardens.

Three hours later, he was in Hokkaido, monitoring the mobilizations of the First Imperial Guards regiment and their auxiliary mechanized divisions. The Soviets have been reefing their forces across the Kuril Islands. It was time to strike back and set the record straight. And punish the Russians for their arrogance.

---

Coimbra, Portuguese Republic

"Who is leading their defenses?" Korovalov demanded.

Dasha flipped the images across the feed. "A coalition of American, British, and Canadian forces under the command of General Warren Fuller. He is supported by another field officer…"

Korovalov could hear her typing across her keyboard even as the artillery barrages continued to punctuate the evening atmosphere. "Lissette Hanley? She is an espionage agent! How can she be an army officer?"

"According to the records, comrade general, she has been relegated to military service after her tenure as a French spy." The liaison officer cringed. "She has been suspected of several successful attacks against us. Most of which are sabotage but it is confirmed that she was behind the theft of classified information."

"How much?"

"Several databanks, comrade general."

Korovalov cursed under his breath. He quickly drew a pencil line across the map on the table. "Dasha, I want two tank battalions covering our forward assault. I want a blocking force to cover our east flank. Have our motorized rifle brigades stationed just behind to support. Get me a direct line to Zhana. She has to target the Allied strongholds across our south…"

-BREAK-

Hanley perused the interactive battle plan across the screen. She heard Fuller whisper another cuss as another report indicated another couple hundred NATO troops KIA/MIA on the front. She knew for certain that Lisbon wouldn't hold out for long unless something had to be done. The main concentration of Soviet forces had been so far established in Coimbra to their north. Korovalov was driving the momentum and he was, in her opinion, giving the Allies a good solid beating.

"Lisbon falls, London is all on her own," Fuller said.

"I know, General. That's why we need to act subversively," Hanley suggested.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, we strike at where Korovalov is at his weakest. So far, his current strategy has been to push forward while covering his sides. We haven't been able to break the Red Army's advance since he's been at us."

"So?"

Lissette pointed at some of the upper Portuguese municipalities. Most notably, she had the municipality of Tondela encircled. "He's not expecting a boot up his own ass. The Reds are pushing hard and though they might have their sides covered, their back end is as bare as a redneck on a rodeo."

Fuller raised a brow. He looked over the battle plan. He huffed. "You might be onto something. So what do you think? Toss in the airborne?"

"It's the only way for our boys to get in without rushing them."

"What about their anti-air batteries?"

The highest ranking female military officer in the Allied command pool took a deep breath. "Acceptable casualties."

Warren looked her over. "Alright. I'll check up on Giles. He's not going to be happy about sending bombers into the meat grinder. I'll also ready up some transports. Be sure to have those paratroopers ready."

"Give me some armor too. If the Russians can drop tanks out of their planes, so can we."

-BREAK-

The feed erupted. "Comrade General! Our supply convoys are under attack!"

Artemy froze. "What!"

Dasha frantically brought up the report. "Paratroopers are landing around Tondela. We have spotted heavy equipment alongside their infantry!"

Zhana immediately occupied an inset on the upper right corner of the screen. "They diverted my MiGs!"

"I don't want to hear it," Korovalov snarled, "Dasha, withdraw the fifth army from our right flank! I want those paratroopers dealt with."

"But the—"

"We'll hold them off if they break through. Right now, they will cut us off. I want a solid logistical line to Spain."

"Yes, comrade general." Dasha clicked off, leaving Zhana taking up the whole feed.

The air commandant was apologetic. "I am diverting my pilots to your position."

"It's too late to shoot down their transports. Can you provide us close air support?"

"Our Ilyushins are still on the ground but I will try."

Korovalov did not return the salute even after the screen went black. He made a quick turn-around and marched outside. Binoculars in hand, he scouted the valleys ten miles northeast of his field headquarters. NATO aircraft were disappearing overhead. The darkened canopies of the Allied paratroopers, mushrooming behind the clouds, further multiplied.

"Blyaaaaaat…"

-BREAK-

"Our boys are in," Hanley said.

Fuller adjusted his headset. He waited for the static to clear and the voice of the field colonel to register. "Lancer, this is Base. Do you copy? Over."

"Loud and clear, Base. Over."

Lissette beamed. Insertion worked. With Giles keeping the MiGs occupied, their ground forces were free to wreak havoc on the affably vulnerable Red Army. "Alright, let 'em loose."

Warren slid towards the battle plan. The blue dots that appeared above the thick red lines were now pulsating. "Lancer, report. Over."

"Base, we have already dug in here eight hundred meters northeast of Tondela. Mechanized equipment still being secured but we have a sizable division ready to strike."

Fuller glanced at Hanley. She nodded. "Lancer, commence operations as soon as you're ready. Break their flank. Over."

"Understood. Over and out."

Soon enough, the ticks and clicks of engagement echoed through the wires. Fuller withdrew from the screen and handed Hanley the headset. "They're all yours. I'm getting another one so we can coordinate a pincer."

Lissette planted her head under the earphones. "Coimbra is a short drive from where they are if I recall correctly. You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Fuller shared her smirk. "Let's cap this son of a bitch."

-BREAK-

Dire was the situation. Annihilating the paratroopers had fallen out of the question. The main concern now was holding them off long enough to withdraw from the front lines and regroup farther back up in Vila Real. The red flags in Viseau had been torn off by the Allied soldiers regrouping from Lisbon and with a depleted stockpile, Korovalov was faced with options of defeat lest he act quickly and decisively.

It was strange and somewhat amusing at how the odds were reshuffled. Three days after the paratroopers had landed, and at the peak of intense fighting, his forces, the powerful army of the People had been effectively blunted back into the defensive and were now loosing grip on what they had fought hard to attain.

"Comrade general, I cannot help you now! The airbase has been destroyed! My pilots have already returned to Madrid to rearm and refuel." Zhana hollered over the feed.

Artemy waved her away. "Yes, yes! Go!"

He watched the blank screen until the revving of the jeep's engine resonated from outside his tent. The general and his accompanying subordinates hastily boarded the vehicle and watched with disdain as the ground they fought so hard to retrieve was now being taken away from them.

A good few hours later, the last of the Soviet frontiersmen had escaped from Coimbra. Korovalov's order for retreat resonated far and wide among their ranks and they understood well enough to follow else they would fall prey to the vengeful Allied armies.

---

1991 – Moscow, Russian S.F.S.R.

Cherdenko looked over the reports from the Far East. The Empire of the Rising Sun was pushing ever so deeper into Siberia. The garrisons in Vladivostok had been overwhelmed and even their Oriental allies were unable to come to their rescue. It was time to relegate his best generals to the Far Eastern front. Krukov would have to mop up the rest of Europe by himself from now on.

"Generals Korovalov and Moskvin are already on their way to Tunguska, comrade Premier."

"And Marshal Krukov?"

"Marshal Krukov is onboard the V. I. Lenin. Our Baltic Fleet is sailing unopposed across the English Channel."

"Thank you, Dasha."

The feed terminated and Cherdenko was once again alone in his office. So much for a Russian blitzkrieg…

-BREAK-

Sievert's voice filtered through the static and into their earpieces. "Can you hear me loud and clear?"

The strike team was alight with suppressed joy. "Affirmative, sir."

"Good. What does the Kremlin look like over there?"

Bowler and Dominic allowed a prideful grin. "Cold and bland as ever, sir."

They could hear the old man laugh. "Alright boys. You know the objective. Let's give 'em hell."

The men echoed a soft chorus of 'uras' before settling down to take in the important details of their mission. Not that they needed it anyway; they had practically memorized everything.

From their window, they could see the red bricked walls of the Kremlin and the colorful cupolas of Saint Basil's Cathedral towering over the office of the Premier. If Plan A failed, there was always Plan B. Plan C was hoping that Cherdenko's cronies would snatch the reins from his hands before Britain falls.

-BREAK-

Bovilyev grunted. "Those fanatical samurai are not to be taken lightly, Anatoly."

"Oh? And why should they be feared?"

"I did not say they should be feared. I am just advising caution."

"What do we know about them?"

"Their military or their fascist leadership?"

Cherdenko snorted. "Fascinate me with both if you can."

The Chairman of the KGB snatched the unopened bottle of vodka and poured both glasses. "Emperor Yoshiro is a wise fool. He already has a foothold in the Far East but he cannot overwhelm us. Siberia is enough of a challenge even for us."

"What are you saying then?"

"Wait for winter to grind down his assault. Our forces could then strike back and drive them out. Should we be lucky, we could even conduct our own invasion of the Japanese home islands."

A wry smirk formed on the Premier's lips. "How confident are you in that strategy lest I regret not having you in the army than in the KGB?"

"Not entirely sure, to be honest. But basing on what we already know about them, I can assure you that the Japanese would be halted before they reach the Urals." Bovilyev downed his first shot of the day. "Their technology is impressive and, yes, beyond anything neither we nor the Western Allies could ever field."

"They have weaponized robots. Have you seen them?"

"Hah, da. Cartoonish but very effective. We will see what happens when their so-called 'Oni' giants meet our Apocalypse tanks."

-BREAK-

"Chopper secured," Bowler acknowledged over their frequency. Dominic proceeded to dominate controls of the Hind.

Their Soviet uniforms were more than enough to bluff their way into the arsenal of the Taman Guards. The helicopter slowly lifted off the ground—in full view of the aptly deceived ground crew—and headed in the direction of the Kremlin.

"Sit-rep on Alpha," Sievert ordered.

"I see Alpha," Dominic replied. His breath hitched and the sound of sporadic gunfire echoed into their earpieces. "Shit! Alpha has been compromised! I repeat: Alpha is compromised!"

Sievert cursed. "Go, go! Proceed with the objective!"

Bowler steered the Hind over the walls even as their fellow commandos were getting shot to pieces below by the surprisingly alert KGB guards supported by the bastion of heavy Tesla shock troops.

-BREAK-

Cherdenko and Bovilyev leaped off their seats.

"We are under attack! We have to get out of here!" Bovilyev screamed.

Arkadiy did not protest. He rounded his desk but stopped when the deafening sputter of the helicopter blades blasted through the balcony doors behind him.

Bovilyev quickly registered the threat. "Get down!"

The Hind strafed the office just as both men dropped to the floor.

-BREAK-

Outside, the anti-air sentries calibrated their shoulder-mounted flak cannons to the rogue helicopter hovering in front of the Grand Kremlin Palace. The charges went off quickly, disintegrating the gunship. Down below, the heavy Tesla golems discharged the final blast that reduced Alpha team to ash.

Immediately, the head of security rushed to the Premier's office. His horror was manifest as he checked the bodies sprawled across the floor. There was so much blood.

Before dusk, two ambulances had been squeezed through the fortress checkpoints: one to treat the severely wounded Cherdenko and the other to ferry away Bovilyev's corpse.

---

Brighton, U.K.G.B.N.I.

Colonel Bealan McAliffe scanned the mess of ships scattered around the English Channel. Dozens of smoldering wrecks, some half-sunk, some still afloat, the rest on British soil, burning after the biggest defense ever mounted by the British Armed Forces against the formerly invincible Soviet armada under Marshal Nikolay Krukov. What a battle this was…

No doubt, the recovery efforts would yield a grim reaper's crop. Tens upon hundreds of thousands of dead sailors and soldiers, he thought, would mark the shallow graves to be dug along the southern coast. Even more would remain under the depths of the Atlantic, sealed in their eternal tombs.

Bealan heard the static buzz on the feed. He held down the receiver switch. "How are you holding up over there?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing," Royal Air Force veteran and Air Commodore Giles Price remarked. "Badly shaken but we're alright. God, what a bloody mess…"

"We're going to need the whole city to help us mop up here. Volunteers and transports."

"I'll take care of the transport craft for you."

"Thanks, Giles." McAliffe released his hold and Price promptly clicked off. He watched the silence on the feed until the shuffling of boots woke him from his musings.

"Everyone deserves a medal," a private said.

You think, private? "Even the dead?"

"Yes, sir. A medal for us for holding our ground. A medal for them for coming out here to die like men." The kid planted his rifle on the ground. "Request permission to speak freely."

"Granted."

The private—he had freckles on his cheeks but wasn't as green as he looked—nodded. "These boys are just like us. Some of them didn't want to be out here but they were. And they sure as hell bloody paid for it."

"Even the bastards leading this crusade," McAliffe added.

The private looked a particular grazing dot in the distance as it disappeared under the sea. He followed the general's finger. "Sir?"

"See that? That there is the V. I. Lenin. Dreadnaught. Largest and most important capital ship of their armada."

"We sunk it?"

"Yep. Got the rotten eggs too."

"The chief admirals?"

"Marshal Krukov."

The boy paused. Bealan saw a small smile creep across his lips. "One snake down. A million more to go."

"Bloody right you are, mate."

The private made to leave. He hesitated and quickly handed him an envelope. "I almost forgot to give this to you, sir. I don't know why they wouldn't use the wire but I guess they wanted you to take it personally."

Bealan waited for the youth to disappear before allowing a bittersweet smile to edge across his face. I'm a general now. 'Major General Bealan Laudier McAliffe'; now don't that sound official? He looked across the water. It takes a hundred thousand soldiers to die for the officers to climb higher. "Thanks for the promotion," he whispered to the sky.

---

Buryatia, Russian S.F.S.R.

Supreme Commander of the Imperial Japanese Expeditionary Forces Shinzo Nagama entered the refuge of the bunker, finally escaping the brutal cold of the Siberian winter. Though most of their invading forces had been stationed in Hokkaido for a period of a year to have them adapt to the cold conditions, the severe temperature drops here were more than what many of them could not handle.

He hoped not to deal with another report concerning another hundred soldiers who collapsed from hypothermia. The momentum gained from the speedy rush through Vladivostok and Sakhalin had quickly dulled on the onset of the Russian winter season.

General Kenji Tanzai met him on the threshold to the strategy center. "Sixty-eight."

Nagama cringed. More men to clutter the overloaded sickbays. "Anything else?"

"Our shinobi have returned."

Nagama motioned for his subordinate to follow him into the bustling hall where the large monitors displayed their version of the NATO interactive battle plan. "What have they gathered?"

"Assassination attempt on Premier Cherdenko."

Shinzo froze. "Come again?"

"The Allies conducted a suicide raid on the Moscow Kremlin. They targeted Cherdenko but failed, instead killing the head of their security agency." Tanzai had the photographs displayed on the widescreen. "Despite this, some of the armies in Europe are being relegated to fight us."

"Surely this would have weakened them."

"I see no effect as we speak."

Nagama frowned. "We need reinforcements to prepare for their counterattacks."

"I have already requisitioned for the transfer of some of our heavy mechas from the Home Islands."

"You take command of them. I am expecting a build-up along these lines." Shinzo ran his finger across the jagged blue streak across the mid-Siberian topography. "They are more adept here, Kenji."

"We can handle them."

"I genuinely admire your resolve. But consider the strengths of our enemies as well."

"Our mechas are stronger."

Nagama faked a smile. "Yes. They are."

---

1992 – Vladivostok, Russian S.F.S.R.

General Winter had ultimately been the downfall of the Japanese as had been for the Hitlerite Germans of the Second World War. Severe cold had not only broken the physical bodies of the Imperial foot soldiers but also weathered down the mechanical equipment of their formerly impervious war machine.

The Soviet high command in the Far East had been waiting for this moment and seized the opportunity for a winter counter-offensive. The scale of it was massive and eastern Siberia's double-edged cruelty had ensured high losses on both sides. It was not long before the smoldering piles of Soviet armor and Japanese mechas became a common sight for the passing conscripts.

But with reinforcements finally breaking through from Juche Korea, Mongolia, and Maoist China, there was nothing the retreating Japanese forces could do but hold down the fort at Vladivostok.

Nagama, plagued by a grievous injury from an artillery barrage, limped over to the battlements of the stone fortress that had been built in the time of the Russian czars. The ships sailing from the Home Islands carried with them vital supplies—food, weapons, ammunition, and fresh parts to at least fix their crippled Onis. They were the only source of joy and hope for him in this dark hour.

The vessels loomed closer towards the docks where they would be received by the battered, weary, and worn-out Imperial forces. They had already lost the war of attrition during snowfall. However, the possibility of holding out against the red hordes was not as dim as many observers thought.

Nagama smiled finally. Then, in the following instant, that very same smile was wiped clean off his face.

One after the other, the Japanese convoys erupted in balls of fire and smoke. The shock of the disruption finally crippled him with the screams of his second-in-command falling on deaf ears.

Tanzai soon realized that his superior had lost control of himself. Quickly, he gave out orders independent of Nagama's supervision, to deploy the remaining flotillas of mini-submarines to engage the Communist wolf packs. No sooner had the word reached the pens when naval bombers from Pyongyang commenced raids on their exposed surface fleets.

Tanzai screamed another set of orders at the airfields and the pilots quickly scrambled out of their cots to man their jets and mecha-tengus. The MiGs zooming out of Manchuria ensured that only a third of the Japanese air force left their hangars.

It was not long until Kenji Tanzai saw the fruitlessness of their resistance.

---

Tokyo, Empire of the Rising Sun

The sturdy burnt ember poles that once held the walls of Edo Castle were all that were left standing. The failed assassination attempt of the Japanese emperor was quickly preceded by an all-out Soviet invasion of the Japanese Home Islands beginning with the capital of the Empire of the Rising Sun.

Over three hundred thousand paratroopers were dropped all across Japan in the first hours of dawn followed shortly thereafter by marine landings at the Kuril Islands, southern Sakhalin, and finally Hokkaido. Imperial resistance was expected and the battles all throughout the island chain were fierce.

At the end of the first month, a good handful of Kirov airships littered the skies over Tokyo which had been mostly reduced to rubble following intense house-to-house fighting complimented by the unyielding bombardment from the Soviet Navy.

With the dusk skies bathing the city in glows of orange and grey, the occupational Soviet forces quickly picked through the remains of the Japanese Imperial Guard. The corpses would have to be identified to ensure that a Soviet-backed leadership of the crumbling Empire would remain unchallenged.

The Soviet generals loomed over the remains of what was once the home of Tokugawa Ieyasu with a uniform thought in mind: this front of the war is over. The only downside was the opening of a new front with the Allies in the Pacific but so far, they had been too stretched and too preoccupied in Europe to even bother here (with exception to the few American reconnaissance aircraft that were shot down near Sapporo).

Not like the Japanese had any friendly relations with the West since Yoshiro came to be.

As the cadre of military officers rounded the ruins, the orders from Moscow materialized on the printouts back at the command tent. Accompanying them were two more high-ranking generals who insisted that they conduct an emergency meeting in one of the submarines docked by the pier.

-BREAK-

"This is absurd!" Nikolay Moskvin screamed.

Oleg Vodnik slammed his fist against the table. "I will not return to Moscow!"

Zhana Agonskaya made a long drag on her cigarette. "At ease, comrades. As much as I respect our leaders given the recent attempt by the West, I cannot accept these orders myself."

The door opened and the three high-ranking field commanders of the Soviet Armed Forces turned their heads to welcome the most severe victim of Premier Cherdenko's paranoid measures. Artemy Korovalov pulled up a chair and finally sat down, planting his decorated cap on the table.

The officer's cabin aboard the Akula K-170 attack submarine had been designed with soundproofed walls and a special safe usually holding the orders from the higher-ups concerning fleet operations for the submarine. The captain and his whole crew had since been swayed into their cause ever since the political officer suffered a mental breakdown and had to be restrained at the sick bay with sleeping pills capable of putting out a horse.

"Chyort, Artemy. You look worse for wear!"

Korovalov rubbed his face tiredly. "Cherdenko has gone insane."

"You have seen the directives, yes?" Vodnik said. "He wants us to step down and face a court martial. Court martial! We have been fighting this war since the year before it began and he wants to feed us to the dogs!"

"He thinks that we are indirectly responsible for the attempt," Agonskaya calmly explained. "He thinks that we are the cause for the Kremlin assault."

"He wants to purge the Red Army…again," Artemy concluded.

Moskvin threw his hands in the air. "I thought that shit was over. Blyat!"

"Calm down, comrade general. I am on your side." Dasha stepped into the room, her chin high with confidence. She sealed the door shut and spread out the blueprints of the Moscow Kremlin alongside the detailed patrol notes of the Taman Guards Division assigned to the round-the-clock security of the fortress. "I have my sources within the snakes' pit."

"We have no other option then," Vodnik remarked, planting his arms over the maps. "We have to put down a rabid dog before he causes anymore harm."

Moskvin rubbed his chin. "What is our approach?"

"Our armies are already divided. Marshal Tessadiy is holding our European front with little more than half the reserves. Everyone else is here in the Far East."

"Tessadiy will keep the Politburo busy. He is the only one, since Krukov, who has the highest authority over our forces in the West," Oleg grunted.

Dasha nodded. "True. But we still have standing divisions waiting for your exclusive orders. They have already surrounded the capital."

Amid the dawn of realization came the slow smiles that crept into the generals' faces. Moskvin huffed. "And their loyalty?"

"The bulk of our troops are tired of Cherdenko. The men and women who have volunteered to serve us have already shed their allegiances. I have no doubt that we will meet minimal resistance should we march to Moscow."

"March to Moscow?" Agonskaya questioned.

"A coup. The only resistance we have to worry about is the Taman Guards. The KGB has been weakened by its ties to Cherdenko but I am sure that they will be able to stall the militia to prevent their involvement."

"You are very confident about your information, Dasha," Korovalov said.

"I am liaison to many officers," the lieutenant beamed.

"Hopefully you will continue to be for us." Agonskaya stood from her seat and stubbed out the cigarette on the floor. "Cherdenko does not hold the air force under his control directly but I am still the supreme commander of our pilots. You can expect air support as long as the air fields are protected from any more dissidents."

"We are the dissidents now, Zhana," Vodnik reminded.

Agonskaya shrugged. "It does not matter anymore."

Korovalov leaned back. "We march to Moscow then. This will be a bloody coup."

---

Madrid, Kingdom of Spain

"Turn on the news!"

Commanders Lissette Hanley and Warren Fuller flipped the screen to the exclusive TASS coverage of the smoke pillars rising above the Kremlin.

"What in God's name is…?"

Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces Robert Bingham let out an audible gasp from his command center in London. "My God…it's happening."

"What's happening?" RAF Air Marshal Giles Price demanded.

"It's…it's a coup," Hanley deduced.

The screen flickered as the reporter struggled to regain his footing after an artillery shell landed a little too close for comfort. He continued to spurt out his dialogue until another bombardment rocked the cameraman, allowing a prolonged shot of Soviet tanks rolling down Red Square alongside scores of infantry. Overhead, several helicopters hovered over the bright crimson bricked walls. Their main guns stole the show.

Sprrrrt! Sprrrrt! Boom!

The Allied commanders realized it before the reporter could say it. "They broke through the Kremlin Wall."

Fuller planted his arms on his hips. "Who the hell is leading this charge?"

"Best guess?" Hanley exhaled. "Might be the handful of generals that Cherdenko has slated for the axe."

"Just in time for the next purge. Who specifically?"

Lissette shrugged. "Korovalov is the first guy I could think of who would top his shit list. He's not the only one though."

"A bloody uprising," Price remarked through the feed. "This is going to change everything then. I'm unsure if I want Korovalov to assume leadership though."

"Whether or not it's him or someone else, Cherdenko's days are pretty much numbered," Fuller concluded.

"If that is the case, then let us just hope that whoever emerges at the top will be more rational than that madman," Bingham added grimly.

---

Brussels, Kingdom of Belgium

"In position," the strike team reported.

"Understood. Blow 'em up," command ordered.

The signal was uninterrupted in its transfer from the dishes atop the buildings in London to the communications satellite to the transceivers built into the specialists' headsets. The multiplicative coating was strong enough to override the mind waves generated by the endlessly rotating beacon, the foundations of which were already marked by blocks of C4.

The operatives nodded at each other. The sapper twisted the clamp on the detonator. Light traveled far faster than sound and force; the explosion was magnificent, eating up the beacon in an expanding fiery ball. They felt the shockwave a good second later.

"Target neutralized," they radioed back.

Over their earpieces, they could hear the waves of relief washing over everyone in the command center back in London.

"My God, look at all of them," the sapper remarked.

"What do you see?" Sievert asked through the wire.

The strike team huddled over their perch. Bodies had fallen all around, even those miles away from the blast radius. "Everyone. Just fell over… That's it. Like they were flies or something."

"Well, at least we know that Yuri's mind control is out. We just have to find the bastard himself to make sure he doesn't set up another one," an operative said.

"Alright, you know what to do. Pull out immediately. We'll be waiting for you. Good job, boys," Sievert bade.

"Yes, sir," the strike team replied before clicking out.

"Boy, the Reds are going to be in for a surprise," the sapper chided, packing up his end of the search-and-destroy equipment.

---

Berlin, D.D.R.

The Brandenburg Gate had once been the symbol of power for the German people. Now barely standing as a result of intense shelling between the Communists and the Free World, it had become the only official entryway into fully-controlled Soviet territory. The solid line of defense had been unbroken since the destruction of the psychic beacon in Belgium.

With a majority of the NATO command structure free from their direct control, the fragmented Allied forces had regrouped, recovered, and successfully pushed the Red Army from Iberia with the front lines returning to France.

Marshal Tessadiy rode back across the ruins of the Berlin Wall where he had once led the first strike that sparked the war. His leg had been severely burnt from a malfunction in his power suit while a half of his Tesla shock corps was decimated by the Allied counteroffensives. Needless to say, he was a very bitter man.

Upon disembarking from the jeep, he was greeted by an aide who beckoned him into the tent propped up on the side of the road where the buildings behind it had been reduced to rubble. The new set of orders was printed out in case the feed failed to display it.

Tessadiy snatched the printout from the aide's hand. He scowled. And growled.

Limping outside, he hollered, "All men who are not traitors to the Motherland, follow my orders! They are direct from the Kremlin!"

There was confusion at first. Then when the soldiers and several minor officers had gathered around him, he relayed the directive from Moscow. There had been a change in leadership…and a change in grand strategy.

---

Geneva, Swiss Confederation

The delegations from all sides congregated inside the majestic conference hall where one too many treatises had been haggled over, ratified, rejected. Since the armistice signed a few months earlier in Milan, very little had been accomplished in the wake of the end to the Third World War.

The Western powers were now weary and reluctant after the stalemate in France. The Land of the Rising Sun was already balkanized: though conquered by the Communists, several 'independent' territories lay in the hands of the feudal overlords who refused to surrender even after the death of Yoshiro and forced capitulation of his son and successor Tatsu.

Much like the previous wars, the Allies were bargaining even amongst themselves. The Americans wanted the absolute withdrawal of the Soviet Navy from the Atlantic, the British and the French wanted the complete disarmament of the occupational Red Army in Western Europe and the restoration of all pre-war boundaries, the Japanese wanted their continued existence as an independent nation…

Premier Artemy Korovalov wanted an aspirin and a reason to leave the sessions for good. The Moscow siege, the failed invasions of Britain, and the bloodletting in Tokyo had taken so much from him. He surmised that these talks were going to really be the death of him before he got anything done.

"Comrade Premier, I advise caution on the American proposition," Yanvar Kane whispered.

Korovalov looked up at his top adviser and chief diplomat, Kane's bald head reflecting the light of the chandeliers adorning the grand hall. "We will withdraw our battleships and aircraft carriers from the American coast but the majority of our smaller ships are to maintain a controlled sea lane in the Atlantic."

"Giving the Western powers time to recuperate?"

I do not know if that is even my intention. "Yanvar, this war has ended. No more hostilities are necessary."

"I understand, comrade Premier." Kane straightened himself and his tie before facing his counterparts across the table.

Korovalov watched the man work. He noted how his silver tongue ensnared some of the rather virulent demands of the Europeans. He wondered why he never had him as his military adviser before the war. You could have been as useful as Agent Yuri…but the times have already passed.

Strange. He was overcome by a strong sense of déjà vu when he first met him not too long ago across the long march through Siberia. Kane had immense knowledge of the Tunguska event and the top secret research projects that branched out from it, most notably Project Yuri. Then again, the Tunguska ore—as they were officially called—had since been depleted following the Japanese invasion of Siberia.

The premier checked his watch as inconspicuously as he could. Two more hours before the end of the day…

"Premier Korovalov?"

"Da?"

"The Americans are not pleased by your decision to hold a blockade of the Atlantic," Kane reported.

"I did not mention specifically a 'blockade'. I told you that we are to maintain a controlled sea lane. What then do they want?"

"Total withdrawal. They want an ocean to command. Their ocean, I would say."

Arkadiy sighed. "I will give it some thought. This is a collective decision and one that I did not make alone. Tell them that. The Politburo has voted that the main Atlantic sea lanes are to be monitored by our submarines and destroyers. I want them to hear that loud and clear and not misinterpret it for anything other."

"They might assault you for that," Kane warned.

"What? Ad hominem? Nyet. They are too sophisticated for such an argument."

With a final wave of his hand, Korovalov settled into his seat and waited for Kane to finish bickering with the Allies until the Swiss mediators stepped in to end the discussions. It was still Wednesday, though, and negotiations might take until Friday or Saturday. If it gets worse, it would take months and I don't need more of this shit to bog me down. I have a nation to feed!

-BREAK-

The Swiss guardsman struck the ancient copper bell. It was time to leave. Again, talks had reached another roadblock with Korovalov unwilling to give in to most of the Allied demands.

"He is one tough cookie, I'll give him that," McAliffe remarked.

"For a man who's been through a lot? No shit, he has," Fuller replied with a grunt. "Whoever is backing him up does not want him to let go of what they already put in place."

"Why are we even here? We already signed the damn treaty months ago."

"I know, Beal. I just want to go home. My wife's had it up to here with the trips and the jet lag."

Bealan strode to the water dispenser. His ears were privy to the footsteps shuffling close behind. Cup full, he whirled around face to face with none other than his Soviet counterpart.

"Premier Korovalov."

"Commander McAliffe." Artemy lifted his own cup and took a sip. "It is a pleasure to finally have a chance to meet with you in person."

"Your English isn't all that bad, sir."

He chortled. "I would rather have my diplomats do all the talking."

McAliffe diverted his gaze away for a moment, realizing that everyone else was finding their personal conversation a little too (out of the moment?) awkward. Fuller had his eyes locked onto them with rasp attention while the rest of the attendees were whispering amongst themselves. Great; all that was missing was a nosy cameraman or some snotty journalist with an overlooked pass.

"Aspirin?"

Bealan snapped back at the premier whose outstretched palm revealed an extra tablet. He politely declined.

Korovalov offered an equal smile. "Good for you." He downed the pills and finished the rest of his drink in one gulp. "At least you are not plagued by rampant headaches."

"Like these?"

"If you were the head of state but still relied to the word of a large body of representatives…like say, your American Senate…well, I would not wish my pains on anyone."

Bealan arched his brow. "What do you wish?"

Korovalov chortled then replied, "Mir. Peace. It's a shame we have to argue for days or months just to sign a piece of paper that would be burned in someone's fireplace come the next fifty years or so."

"Quite a view of the world, don't you think?"

Artemy tapped him on the shoulder. "I am a realist. Sometimes, I just hope that I am wrong."

Both men eyed each other, the moment passing silently amidst the echoed ruckus of the crowded hall. Given the rarity of such a coincidence, Bealan decided to clear the air. He cleared his throat.

"Zaragoza. Why'd you do it?"

For a split second, the Belfast-born Allied general caught the genuine guilt that was rare among the Soviet leadership. Even as Artemy Korovalov retained his omniscient smile, he knew he had pushed the button he wanted to push. He just hoped it was the right one.

"Commander McAliffe. I did what I did. I followed orders."

"It was sort of the answer I was expecting. But why? Why did you have to show the world? You could have just covered it all up. You had the resources, the manpower... I know that you know that we had satellites rounding around the planet taking pictures of everything—"

"Exactly."

Bealan nearly choked. "Pardon?"

Korovalov slightly arced his head inwards. "I was sending a message to Moscow. I told them that from that day onwards, I would never do such heinous acts as massacring captured servicemen for no particular reason even if such a thing had been ordered by the Politburo or Cherdenko himself."

He stood silent. Artemy's smile flickered on and off like a faulty lightbulb.

"We should get together sometime. Have some tea or coffee. Maybe play chess?" the Soviet premier said.

McAliffe gaped. It was the oddest thing he had ever heard from the least person to ever say it. "You want me to play chess with you?"

"Yes," Artemy deadpanned. "You have a brilliant mind, Commander McAliffe. I would like to know such a mind."

"Well, it would be a pleasure, sir."

Bealan received an odd tap on the shoulder by the head of state before he disappeared into his mess of advisers and bodyguards. It was then that the Dublin-born general realised he had been on the receiving end of one of history's largest secrets. God forbid, I am a lucky bastard. Today had been an awkward meeting. But informative, nonetheless. Bealan slept calmly that night.

---

1993 – Washington D.C., U.S.A.

The cameras flashed ceaselessly, capturing every moment, every second, every pen stroke that defined the agreement between the powers of the Free World headed by the United States and the members of the Communist International restored by the Soviet Union. By the time President George Herbert Walker Bush and Premier Artemy Ignatievich Korovalov set down their pens and shook hands, it was declared by an upstart news anchor that the formation of the Global Defense Initiative had been officially ratified.

In the banquet that followed, both leaders conducted the ceremonial toast of unity between East and West amid the cheers and smiles of the attending delegates. It was what many radical groups interpreted as a front for the bitterness that was still harbored by some of the veterans of the Third World War who watched the event from their televisions in their homes across the world.

Still, there was hope for this so-called GDI. A pooling together of resources, assets for the common good of man against the plagues of terrorism, hooliganism, and other 'universal' ills—Korovalov knew the risks he took and had since realized how giant the leap was. The Politburo had finally agreed to this after months of pressure.

"First order of business: we deal with our overstock," Bush remarked, leaning from his seat. "You know what I'm talking about."

"There is no kill like overkill," Artemy said haughtily, having picked up the term from some nerdy pop culture stigma that many of the Soviet youth had taken onto. "I am ready to deal with the matter."

"Now that is something that I enjoy hearing."

"This GDI…they might make good use of such things, don't you think?"

Bush pursed his lips. "Maybe, maybe not. But that's what the public wants to get rid of."

"As do ours." Korovalov took a sip from his wine. Not too strong. Not too shabby. Not much like vodka.

Both men were glad that there were no cameras around that could read the minute movements of a man's lips. As long as they didn't get close enough that any analyst would have liked, they continued to discuss the fate of the nuclear arsenals of both superpowers.

ICBMs seemed rather outdated for this brand new GDI system. Maybe something from the satellites orbiting the earth would be the big game changer, an upgraded missile shield from space, a sort of solar weapon…

---

1994 – Langley, U.S.A.

CIA Director Jonathan Sievert handed the dossier back to his aide and rolled himself further down the nerve center underneath the building. Already the faces of the United Nations' most wanted appeared on the screen.

"Tell me again why the KGB sent us this stuff."

"They believe that he has taken complete control of the Yugoslav government," Brigadier General James Solomon reported. "By buying all their assets and having prominent members as high up as their head of state…it's kind of a no-brainer, sir."

Sievert looked up at the screen. This 'Kane' fellow sure had an ageless look to him. Looked identical to many previous Soviet advisers dating as far back as Stalin. Nonetheless, this historical wannabe had built up quite the following. More dangerous than any breakaway group or sleeper cell in the history of human kind…

"'Peace through Power,' he says."

"The Brotherhood of Nod is fragmented but they have significant pull in a lot of the third world states."

"More of them, less of us," Sievert grunted. "Seems like yesterday that the Reds were the bad guys."

An aide grinned. "Time sure flies, eh, boss?"

"Sure does, kid. And I'm getting too old for this."

---

1995 – Tiber River, Italian Republic

The meteor impacted with such force that many harkened it to the Tunguska incident close to a hundred years passed. The spread of its glowing mineral ore further complicated matters by fascinating the world with its properties. In the days that followed, the Tiber River had become a haven for minds, militaries, and delegates from the world's great powers.

Among the masses of people crowding the Italian peninsula were the agents of both the GDI and the Brotherhood of Nod. Their confrontations in the backstreets and alleyways were often clandestine, sometimes mild and often violent. But their goals were the same: secure the 'Tiberian' material.

President Bush and Premier Korovalov were both effectively held down by the bureaucracies of the United Nations and the GDI. The United States and the Soviet Union, their economies slowly recovering, their armies gradually healing, their people vocally tired of war, were effectively pacified…or at least, their far-reaching arms stayed for the time being.

In Rome, the heavily guarded convoys ferried the latest batch of Tiberium to the testing and research centers hastily constructed and managed by the UN. Though a majority of the trucks reached their destinations, quite a few were diverted from their routes to the underground Nod compounds scattered across the Italian countryside.

Supreme Commander of GDI Forces-Europe Bealan McAliffe followed the catwalk built over the mineral fields. The riverside had been effectively cratered like honeycombs by the expanding Tiberium deposits. Carrying the authority and power of the UN coalition, he had succeeded the late Robert Bingham as the symbolic head of the Free World in Europe.

Eventually, the catwalk descended to a command tent where the main terminal feed displayed several landmarks, each tagged with an inset of general information. He eyed them over, analyzing the footnotes more than the captions under the surveillance photographs.

"What about Nod?" McAliffe asked.

Brigadier General James Solomon strode over with a full folder. "Less and less. They're wising up to us."

Bealan flipped over the documents. Nod personnel equipped with the latest in modern weaponry, adorning high-grade body armor, guarding minimum wage harvesters. One grainy picture, captured from the camera hidden inside a long coat, exposed the vital insides of a Nod Tiberium-processing facility.

"Same as us. But these are machines that we don't have."

"And personnel we don't have," Solomon added. "It's a race. As much as it pains me to say it, they are two steps ahead. Maybe three."

"How soon do you think you can get more support for the ops here?"

"I can't guarantee you it'll be coming in next week, Beal. I'm trying."

McAliffe sighed. "I know you are." If it's not the Communists, it's Nod. "God, if our luck doesn't turn out… Damn. We might have to place a phone call to Comrade Korovalov."

Solomon scoffed. "We're that desperate, huh."

"Hey, we're going to need all the help we can get if we're going to beat Kane."

---

ORIGINALLY WRITTEN: October, 2014

LAST EDITED: June 6, 2015

NOTE: Feel free to critique this. I may have missed some events (like the Cuban Missile Crisis or the African and Middle Eastern theaters of the real Cold War) and I may have ignored other key figures but I simply did not have the patience or energy to include them or incorporate them into the narrative. Other than that, I hope you enjoyed reading.