(AN: Now we come to the story proper. As I was writing through this first chapter, I realized that this story is going to have an ensemble cast. Aside from our three commanders [all of them OCs], and the characters from RA2 [and possibly RA3, but within reason], there would be quite a few chapters where the events are told from various different points of view. I expect this to be denser than The Dragonborn and the Lioness, though I do fear that happening: I only have three months left to live where I'm at, so I don't know if I'll be able to finish this story.)

(A lot of backstory is thrown into this chapter, especially on the psychic abilities mentioned. The big unanswered question from the prologue will appear in time: I haven't forgotten about it. Before we begin, let's just go over the "ground rules". Once again this one fan's "love letter" to the late Westwood Studios and the Mental Omega team: I don't own Red Alert 2, Yuri's Revenge or anything affiliated with it, those are property of EA [-internal weeping-]. I'm also not affiliated with Mental Omega in any way. Any reference to real-life characters outside of their fictionalized appearances in Red Alert 1 or 2 is purely coincidental.)

(I changed the rating because this chapter involved a bit of language and some rather gruesome depictions of "heads exploding", which I thought merited the new rating. Rest assured, there will be more bloody things to come.)

We Come in Peace

Yuri watched the Revolutionary Parade in Red Square from the window of the Premier's office in the Grand Palace of the Kremlin. The Red Army was off to war with the United States and her European allies. Like a chess player, he watched as the pawns made their first move against the capitalist war machine. There was still a queen on the American side, one which could very well mean the end of the Soviet war machine before it ever reached American shores.

During the 1940s, America had fought a war with the Empire of Japan in the far east, which was swiftly put to an end with the development and use of atomic bombs. While the Great War took place in Europe during the 1950s, the European Alliance was assisted by the Americans with supplies, volunteers and even tactical atomic weapons. At one point it seemed that the USSR could take the upper hand in the atomic arms race, but once the Allies destroyed Temnyy Vsadniky, the main nuclear weapons production facility of the Soviet Union, it was over.

When the preliminary plans for the invasion of America were set forth, Russian spies had been planted in the US at Yuri's request. Most of them were merely intelligence agents, blending in with the people while taking clandestine photographs of military installations and sending them back to Moscow via the Soviet embassy in Canada. During this time, it was discovered that the United States had, in the years after the end of the Great War, made their own 'Dark Horseman' nuclear weapons facility in the western state of California. Three intercontinental ballistic missiles in the Vandenburg Air-Force Base, ironically dubbed the 'Peacekeeper' Defense Network, could be used to wipe out the majority of the Soviet army, navy and air-force before it ever reached the American shores.

With greater access to NKVD than anyone else in the Soviet Union, even the Premier and the Supreme Soviet, Yuri kept this information secret during the planning process. Secrets were not uncommon in the Kremlin, especially among the Party members. Yuri knew that both Krukov and Cherdenko yearned to oust the Tsarist scion Alexander Romanov and sit in his place as the Premier of the Soviet Union, though they both cleverly thought that they kept such matters a secret from the world and from themselves. For the present, neither Krukov nor Cherdenko could be allowed to take the Kremlin. Both of them were uncontrollable, save by means that could not be exercised until the opportune moment. The old, fat fool was safe, for the moment. And as for his 'glorious' crusade...

Yuri closed his eyes, placing two fingers of his gloved right hand against his temples. His left hand picked up a specially designed amplifier and placed it against his left ear: to an ordinary eye, it looked like a black telephone with a strange antenna extending from the top side of the ear-piece. But it was much more than that. Sending messages into the minds of others who were within close proximity was child's play; sending messages over great distances was another thing.

Awaken, proselyte.

0610 Pacific Time. December 31st, 1981

Basil Gregory had been awake ten minutes ago, taken a hot shower and was now standing in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing his teeth in preparation for his departure. On the desk by the bed were two plane-tickets, one for him and one for his wife Anna: later that day, they were taking a plane from LAX to the Jean Lesange Airport in Quebec. Their friends believed that Basil had gotten himself a job as a secretary at one of FutureTech's human resources offices in Canada: since FutureTech was the second-leading technology firm in the world behind Europe's illustrious SteinTech, it was a lucrative career choice, especially for Basil and Anna, who were planning on adopting children.

The truth was much different. Vasily Grigoryev, as he was more commonly known, and Anna Dorokhova were both intelligence agents for the Soviet Union. Their insertion into the United States had been under the guise of fleeing persecution for 'possession of seditious materials.' For five years they had lived in southern California, gone to work, made friends with their neighbors and co-workers, and behaved as one would expect a young married couple would. Vasily had even adopted the anglicized name of Basil to complete the transition.

None of their friends and neighbors suspected a thing. Vasily's cover was as an intellectual; more book-learned than physically dominant, which had been why Anna and he had risked their lives to leave the Soviet Union. He wasn't physically able to survive in the gulag. Though he was a registered member of America's Democratic Party, his friends considered him to be politically moderate; that was why he voted for Michael Dugan during the presidential election. Anna, on the other hand, had been trained as an Olympic swimmer in the USSR and had the body of a warrior. Once they had fled the country, Anna became vehemently anti-communist and often found herself engaged with liberal student protestors outside of UCLA. Different but alike, just as all good couples were.

But even beneath the identities they had created, the Russian man whose name was Vasily was even more dissimilar than Anna.

Awaken, proselyte.

The words appeared in Vasily's mind after he spat the mouth-wash into the sink. His friends would have begged him to talk to a psychiatrist if they knew that he was 'hearing voices'; even Anna had no idea. But these were not the whispers of the mad, but actual thoughts being transmitted as electrical charges into his head.

Command me, master, he thought. It had been too long since he heard that voice in his head.

The war against the United States has begun, said the voice. Once this is known to the American President, he will launch their Peacekeeper ICBMs to destroy the Russian fleet, or even to strike Russia itself. It is essential that those nuclear weapons never leave their silos. I have activated three other adepts of the Psychic Corps; they will meet you outside of the Vandenburg Air-Force base, where the Peacekeeper missiles are being stored and fuelled. Infiltrate the base and prevent those missiles from being launched. Make haste, proselyte; time is of the essence.

I hear and obey, Vasily replied.

At once, Vasily began to think. Anna had slept through the alarm, but would surely be awake soon. He had to work fast to get dressed and leave without alerting her: she was only a spy, Yuri had no commands for her. Vasily was a KGB operative, yes, but there was more to him than merely gathering intelligence on America's strengths and weaknesses.

General-Major Mikhail Lazarev was not the only one with psychic abilities that Yuri had been privately training, in preparation for the war with the United States.

1417 Greenwich Time. December 31st, 1981

Sergeant Alan Hendricks rubbed his eyes. He had been at the radar station on 'Mainland' Shetland since four in the morning. So far there was nothing much to report weather-wise: a few easterly winds and the temperature was remarkably warm for this time of winter. He stifled a yawn; just thirteen more minutes and it would be tea-time, and his ten-hour shift would be over. The coffee machine had run out of beans and, as if someone was trying to torment him, the local supplier was also out.

What in God's name drove me to take the morning shift? Alan thought.

He turned his attention back to the radar screen, only half-heartedly paying attention. As it wasn't football season, he couldn't turn on a game to alleviate the boredom. He reminded himself that he only had thirteen minutes left.

A beep from the console roused him from his half-awake stupor. Lazily he looked over at the phone; it hadn't come from there. As he looked back at the screen, he paused. Again he rubbed the sleep from his eyes: he must have dozed off and imagined seeing something on the screen. But as the line on the screen swung about again, it appeared: a very large object appeared on the screen. He checked the log-book: no ships were scheduled to pass through this part of the North Sea. Thinking it was an unscheduled flight, he tried to radio in on all frequencies: there was no response.

Alan reached across the desk and took the phone in his hand, dialing the number for

"Ministry of Defence, this is Sergeant Hendricks at Brae Radar Observatory in Mainland Shetland," he announced. "We have a problem."

0905 Pacific Time. December 31st, 1981

It's always sunny in California, even in winter. And in southern California, the winter weather never passed lower than sixty degrees. For Vasily, who had spent many years in Moscow, it was almost unbearable: especially dressed as he was in a light jacket and jeans. Just an average person out for a drive in Lompoc; nobody would suspect a thing. At least for the present. There were, of course, other things that might give them away before he made contact with the others.

'Adepts', as Yuri called his PsiCorp troopers, had their heads shaved clean; in the United States, groups of bald Caucasian men were often associated with the extremist group known as the KKK. At best they were shunned, and at worse, especially in liberal states such as California, they could be subject to police attention or violence from the non-Caucasian community. As part of the re-education process of the PsiCorp, the man who bore the name 'Vasily' was taught not to have an opinion on anything or anyone, be it race, creed, government or personal relationship: Yuri's will was the only thing that mattered to him.

Vasily carried no weapon: he had no need for them. However, as his primary cover was as a spy, he was cleared on how to blend in and avoid drawing attention to himself. Until Vasily and the other Adepts were in Vandenburg, they had no choice but to wear hats to conceal their bald heads and blend in.

The road from Los Angeles to Lompoc was a little over two hours, and the early morning work rush (it was a Thursday, after all) made that almost three hours. At last the gray two-door car pulled up at a burger join in downtown Lompoc, the door was locked and Vasily made his way into the restaurant. As Yuri had not told him what the other Adepts looked like, and they, like him, would possibly be hiding, Vasily paused just inside the door and, closing his eyes, began to subtly probe the brain-waves of those around him.

During his training, the Adept that bore the name Vasily had been designated for secondary command and intelligence. As such, he had learned much from Yuri, especially about his innate ability to control the minds of others. According to Yuri, most human brains were receptors for electrical charges, while those with psychic abilities were both receptor and transmitter. Those brains that were transmitters could project thoughts into the minds of others with only rudimentary concentration. True mind control came as a combination of both thought projection and intense concentration, along with intense training to turn one's will to the domination of others. When properly opened, a transmitter brain could send out neutral charges, neither suggestive nor dominating, that could, like a radar, discover the location of other transmitter brains.

It was this psychic sensing that Vasily now tapped into, listening to the brain-waves of the patrons. It was not necessarily 'mind-reading' in the way that people understand in the context of mediums. Memories, hidden secrets and private thoughts could be read with intense concentration, or forced from the one being controlled. All that Vasily was sensing now was the brain-wave activity of those in the restaurant.

Suddenly he detected another transmitter brain among the dozens of receptors. Following the brain-wave patterns, Vasily crossed the restaurant and came to a booth where sat a woman wearing chulla over her head. It didn't take long for her to notice someone had arrived at the booth. There were some odd people in the world who had transmitter brains that had not been nurtured by either Stalin's scientists or the PsiCorps: as such, Yuri had given his Adepts a specific gesture that they were to give to others to discern if they were with them or no.

With his right hand, Vasily made three gestures in the universal sign language that spelled out three letters: R-W-Y. The woman held up her hand and returned the gesture. Clandestinely he took his seat across from her.

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever arrive," the woman said; she was obviously not Russian. But she knew the gesture, and her brain was a transmitter. "I've already staked the outskirts of the base twice."

"I received our instructions this morning," said Vasily; his voice was deep and his accent was Slavic. "Where are the others?"

"They're in the hills outside of Vandenburg, monitoring the patrol routes of the guards," she returned.

"Good, very good," he returned. "Shall we go and meet them?"

"Not yet," the woman replied. "There is a communications array in a small base just outside of town. We should capture it to waylay communications to the air-base."

"We'll need an engineer for that, won't we?" asked Vasily.

"We have one," the woman returned. "He's waiting for us in my car."

"Let's go, then," Vasily added. "The east winds are blowing." The woman nodded, then rose up from the booth and led the way out of the restaurant and to her vehicle.

1620 Greenwich Time. December 31st, 1981

The phone at Number 10 on Downing Street in London had been ringing for the past two hours. The State Defence Secretary had received a call from a military radar station in Mainland Shetland, detecting a large mass passing through the North Sea between the Shetland and Faroe Islands. So far there had been no radio contact established and the Prime Minister had refused to send the Royal Air-Force to intercept the unidentified object.

William Cumberland, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, sat in a leather arm-chair, waiting for his assistant to give him an update on the situation. With the Queen and the Royal Family at Windsor Castle, he was now the most powerful man in the United Kingdom, with executive power over the Ministry of Defence. As such, his office was being inundated with calls from other departments that had heard about the situation, all of them asking the same question: is this unidentified object a threat? And for each of these calls, he was obliged to give them the same response:

"They haven't attacked us," he had said. "So there's no reason to assume that they're hostile. If we attacked anyone who appeared in our waters, we'd be no better than those damn Yanks."

It was no secret that Prime Minister Cumberland hated the United States; this made him immensely popular among the younger generation, as well as the older one that remembered the War in Europe against the Soviet Union. As if to further his point, Cumberland strove to make Great Britain a model of progressive ideology in contrast to what he and the British public viewed as "backwards" America. Aside from the Gladius Defence Network, military funding had been cut by 45%, many of the restrictions on the media that were passed during the 50s were revoked and, with many viewing Cumberland as an advocate of peace and tolerance, like Alexander Romanov, the Prime Minister received more and more executive power, so that he could effect better change in the name of progress.

"Prime Minister," his Manchester assistant spoke. "Brae's on line two. They say they have an update on the sighting."

"Put them on," Cumberland said. "Let's hope the technician's sober enough to give an accurate report."

Perhaps it was the bureaucracy created by Cumberland's growing power, or there was someone intentionally delaying the reports for almost three hours now. Then again, when the call first came to Cumberland's office, he had dismissed it altogether: according to him, the technician, being a Scotsman, was likely drunk and had imagined the image. He still doubted what had been seen, and it wasn't until the Danish government sent over faxed photographs taken from whaling ships from the Faroes, proving that there was indeed something in the area, that Cumberland began taking some of these calls seriously and had the Royal Family moved to safety.

The assistant put him on the line.

"Brae Observatory, this is Prime Minister Cumberland," he spoke. "What's the situation?"

"Prime Minister?" the voice of Sergeant Hendricks said on the line. "Look, can you tell me what the bloody hell is going on? I've been on hold with the Ministry of Defence for almost three hours now..."

"Bloody Scots," Cumberland groaned, with one hand over the phone's mouth-piece. "All they do is complain and b*tch about every little thing." He then removed his hand. "Enough bollocks, what did you see?"

"The Soviet fleet's still holding course," Sergeant Hendricks returned. "They haven't broken off or attempted to make contact with us."

"Wait a tick, Soviet fleet?" Cumberland queried.

"Yes, Prime Minister," Sergeant Hendricks answered. "A Faroe whaling ship caught sight of them while I was on hold. The Danish government faxed me a picture to send to the Ministry of Defence: the ships bore the Soviet flag. Sir, there's a bloody great big lot of blips on my radar, so I'll be frank with you: what does all this mean? Are we under attack or something?"

Cumberland sighed. "Listen, man, there's no reason to be alarmed. Monitor the fleet and call this office if anything changes. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Prime Minister," Sergeant Hendricks warily replied.

Cumberland gave the phone back to his assistant, then rose from his chair and walked up to the curtained window. For a whole minute he remained at the window, silent and un-moving. As the youngest member of Parliament, he had been known for his aggressive, some would even say 'cutthroat', action when it came to his political opponents. Though none of this had changed, he rarely spoke of his own thoughts or shared his plans with any. Even his assistant couldn't ascertain what he was going to say or think at any given moment.

"McKenna?" he spoke to his assistant.

"Prime Minister," she returned.

"Get in touch with the Soviet embassy," he ordered. "Let's hope it's not too late to salvage this catastrophe."

Evangeline McKenna, the assistant to the Prime Minister, made her way to the phone. But she had heard the conversation that went on with Brae Observatory, even if it was only this end. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong indeed, especially if the Prime Minister was contacting the Soviet embassy. In the past three years, most former Russian embassies in the Allied countries, reopened after the War in Europe came to an end, were abandoned; only Canada, whose President Jacques Thoreau was determined to keep his country on equally friendly terms with America, the European Union and the World Socialist Alliance, maintained a Soviet embassy in their capital city of Quebec.

But what catastrophe was the Prime Minister talking about? Surely the USSR wasn't thinking about making a naval assault on the British isles! Not since William the Conqueror in the 11th century had any foreign army managed to successfully invade Britain: even the 'Man of Steel' Josef Stalin had been unable to do so when he had France in his grasp and Britain alone remained to oppose him. Furthermore, everyone knew Alexander Romanov was a pacifist, a man of peace whose political platform rested on giving humanitarian aid to impoverished third world countries.

Yet she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong.

1010 Pacific Time. December 31st, 1981

The truck was now pulling up to the communications base. The woman was driving while Vasily, two other Adepts and a technician sat in the covered back of the vehicle. As it turned out, the 'car' that she had spoken of was a military transport vehicle. No one would suspect a thing. They came to a stop at the gate, where two armed guards approached the vehicle. The female Adept had carefully concealed herself with a military cap and a large pair of Aviator sunglasses. The guards didn't even recognize that the driver was not the one they were familiar with.

"You're clear," one of the guards said. He then gave the signal to the operator in the little booth to the left of the gate, and the red and white gate-bar was lifted, allowing the truck to pass into the little base.

It worked, the man called Vasily thought.

Of course it worked, the woman replied. The real problem will be Vandenburg. It's an hour from here on foot, and you'll have to go on foot. If the air-base realizes that something's wrong, they will send someone here to investigate; the guards have already seen the truck, it won't take them long to piece together where we are, especially if we're on the main road.

What about patrols in the hills? Vasily wondered. Surely you've thought of that also.

Have faith in the power of your mind, she returned. Yuri would not have selected you if he didn't know you were capable of accomplishing this task.

The truck now pulled up to the garage next to the communications center. The woman was the first one out of the vehicle, looking this way and that before she came to the back of the truck. She opened the door and the other four climbed out of the back.

Now remember, Vasily thought: only the engineer could not hear the voice unless Vasily concentrated his thoughts on him. Our primary target are the missiles. If you must kill, make sure it is out of the way and keep it clean. We don't want a manhunt to start before we've reached the Air-Base.

Understood, the others returned in thought.

"You, come with me," the woman said to the engineer. "We're going inside."

With the woman leading the way, the little group walked around to one of the side entrances of the communications array. At the side of the door stood two armed guards; it wouldn't be that easy, obviously. The group continued walking towards them, without flinching or acting suspicious. The guards noticed their group, and one stepped towards them from his post, his hand on his weapon in its holster.

"I'm gonna have to ask you to leave," the guards addressed. "This area's restricted to public access."

With a quick side-ways glance at the Adept to his right, Vasily then turned his attention to the guard who had spoken and looked him in the eyes.

Listen very carefully to me, Vasily thought. Your mind is clear. There is nothing else in it, only my voice. My thoughts are yours, and your thoughts are mine. Take your hand off the gun and open the door for us.

"My mistake," the guard groaned, his eyes wide open. With that he removed his hand from the holster and punched in the code at the little locking terminal beside the door. The other guard seemed dazed, standing motionless with both hands hanging idly at his sides. A chime from the door sounded and the first guard pushed open the door.

"After you," Vasily insisted.

The group, led by the two guards, entered the door and passed down a hallway. None of the Adepts had been here before, but Vasily and the woman, who had control over the guards, were controlling them, feeding them imperative orders to lead them to the control room. Because they had them at the front of the group, they knew exactly where they were going.

After a few turns, they came to a door where the guards came to a stop.

"Why have we stopped?" Vasily asked.

"The control room's beyond this door," one guard said. "It requires a key-card and a pass-code. We don't have either of them."

"Who has them, soldier?" Vasily asked.

"Captain Fuller," the guard returned.

Suddenly something happened that made the woman and the other two Adepts start with alarm. The guard Vasily had been speaking to suddenly drew his gun and pointed it directly at Vasily's head.

"Hands above your heads!" he shouted. "Do it, now!"

Fool! You've let him slip out of your grasp! the woman's thoughts were raging. But Vasily did not respond; he merely raised his hands calmly, as if nothing was wrong.

The first guard kept his gun aimed at Vasily while his left-hand picked up the CB on his belt. "Captain Fuller, this is Private Donovan. Report to the control room a-sap."

When he comes, brother, Vasily projected to one of the other Adepts. Take control of him.

In about a minute, the sound of boots walking down the tiled hallway could be heard. More than one pair of boots, by the sound of it: and from what their minds could sense, more than one person was coming down the hall to meet them. Vasily pointed up to the ceiling, where a security camera was aimed at the door. Quietly they stepped underneath the view of the camera, as the two guards took out their guns and slowly began to walk back the way they had come and make a right turn. Three gun-shots went off, then two more followed and both guards fell dead on the floor. Two Marines in blue uniforms and their captain, a broad-shouldered man with a light-blue beret, appeared, each of them armed with M9 Beretta pistols aimed at the dead guards.

"What the hell's going o..." the captain began, but was cut short.

Captain Fuller, I presume, one of the other Adepts thought. Would you be so kind as to open the door to the control room?

"Uh..." stammered Fuller, seemingly confused.

Look deeply into my eyes, the Adept continued. You are used to following orders. Now you follow mine: what could be simpler? Open the control room door and stand guard.

There was silence for a moment, as Captain Fuller's face was furrowed. He seemed to be struggling with something, though no words had been spoken since they appeared. Suddenly he placed his gun in his holster.

Before you do that, Vasily interjected. There is one thing that must be done. Stand in front of the security camera and inform your surveillance personnel that all is well. You will obey.

Fuller walked over to the camera and, picking up his walkie-talkie from his belt, opened a channel. "Fuller to Security. All clear. Over."

What was that about? the woman thought. Weren't we supposed to avoid combat?

I noticed the security camera as we arrived outside the control room, Vasily retorted in thought. I improvised a way to cover our tracks. Now, shall we go?

What 'Vasily' had revealed to the female Adept was not entirely true. He did improvise the plan to have the guards killed, making it look like they had let them in and shot at Captain Fuller. But the real reason was one of greater tactical importance, and only a little bit of pride. Due to the great amount of concentration needed to dominate someone's mind, only one brain at a time could be controlled by one psychic at a time. There were only four Adepts in the team, so no more than four people could be controlled at once. If a small platoon came after them, they might find themselves in trouble if they opened fire in a hallway with no cover. True, they might be able to cause a little chaos by turning the platoon members against each other, but that would only last so long before they were subdued or killed: or until the Adepts were killed themselves.

Pride was also a factor, especially the admittance that someone of such power could be outdone or overwhelmed. Even the great teacher Yuri found such frustration with his latest attempt at proselytizing a new member of the Psychic Corps. So great was his annoyance that 'Vasily' could feel it in his thoughts from over a thousand miles away.

Once they were inside the control room, a large room with rows of computer consoles reminiscent of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration's Mission Control center, the engineer took a seat at one of the row of communications consoles and went to work. Meanwhile, another Adept came behind the technician operating and brought him under control. Behind them, Captain Fuller and his men were dragging the bodies of the door guards into the control room.

What about the captain? thought the woman. We can't take him with us.

Come into the control room, ordered Vasily.

Captain Fuller and the two Marines, having brought the bodies into the safety of the control room, now stood before Vasily along with the technician. Suddenly they all gave a loud cry, bending over and clutching their temples as if in pain. The technician fell first, blood dripping out of his nostrils, while Captain Fuller and the Marines, who were trained to endure great levels of pain, were brought to their knees. One of the Marines reached for his gun, then he gave a cough and blood began to pour from his eyes and ears. The other one had something pale and grayish coming out of his eyes that was certainly not tears.

Vasily, meanwhile, was glowering over them with a look of profound annoyance. The technician had fallen quite easily; why were they not dead already? He closed his eyes and placed both of his hands upon the sides of his temples. There was a loud cracking noise and splattering, then Vasily gave a sigh and relaxed. Before him lay Captain Fuller and the other Marines: all of them had most of back of their heads, from the back of the neck to just above the eyebrows and around the ear-lobes, in bloody pieces splattered across the walls and floor of the control room.

None of the Adepts needed weapons, not even in these espionage missions. Among the Adepts of Yuri's Psychic Corps, they were each taught a special and dangerous ability to use if they happened to be surrounded by enemies. In such instances, an Adept could unleash a torrent of psychic energy into all the receptor brains around him or her. At low levels of intensities, which required only moderate concentration, those affected received severe nerve damage in most, if not all, cortices of the brain, similar to a lobotomy: at higher levels, the entire brain would become so overwhelmed with intense brain-waves that it would explode. Any who survived the low intensity 'psi-wave', as Yuri called it, were brain dead; 'vegetables' as some would put it. No living being had ever yet survived a high intensity psi-wave.

"We're in," the engineer spoke.

"Very good," the woman said. "What's the status of the Peacekeeper missiles?"

"They're still in their silos," the engineer replied, examining the images on his computer screen which he had hacked from the central core. "It's still an estimated forty-five minutes until they're fully refueled."

We should move soon, Vasily shared with the other Adepts. It's an hour from here to Vandenburg. If the Soviet navy is spotted, we'll have to reach the base and make sure the missiles never launch.

I'll stay here and guard the control room, the woman replied. We can't afford to lose communications while we're in the field. I'll let you know if anything takes place.

Yuri guard you, Vasily thought as he and the other two Adepts made their way out of the control room.

1828 Greenwich Time, December 31st, 1981

Four hours had passed since the Soviet fleet was first detected at the Brae Observatory. Four hours of trepidation and nervousness at 10 Downing Street. All calls sent to the Soviet embassy in Canada were sent back disconnected. Prime Minister Cumberland was pacing the floor of his office, quiet but seeming to brim over with pent up rage. He couldn't take it out on his assistant: how would that look if the British Prime Minister, the face of the Labour Party, exploded in rage against his female assistant?

The phone had rung almost constantly, with various other radar installations from Scotland and Northern Ireland calling in with reports about spotting the Soviet fleet. As yet there was no word from the Brae installation. In between them came calls from the RAF and the Royal Navy; they had called for the Queen, but had been told by Buckingham Palace that the Prime Minister had been given emergency powers in this instance. They asked about the rumors of the Soviet fleet, and some of them had even seen planes and large dirigibles. Did they have permission to engage them?

For each of these, Cumberland told them to stand down and await further instructions. No further instructions as yet came from his office.

Finally the phone rang. McKenna answered the phone and breathed a sigh of relief: it was Brae.

"Prime Minister!" she called from her desk. "It's Brae!"

"About bloody time," Cumberland murmured as he came to the phone. "Cumberland here. You better have some good news for me, you overpaid, haggis-guzzling fuck. My whole department has been waiting on your report since tea-time!"

"Uh...sir," Sergeant Hendricks stammered. "The Soviet fleet's gone out of radar range. They've moved southwest into the Atlantic Ocean. None of their ships have broken off."

"Thank God," McKenna breathed quietly, hoping that her boss didn't hear her. That was another thing Cumberland hated as much as America.

"Listen to me, sergeant," Cumberland spoke. "I want you to forget about what you saw today. Don't tell anyone else and don't share it with anyone, not even your fifth cousin's grand-mum. Failure to do so will be charged as willfull endangerment of public safety. Am I clear, sergeant?"

"Very, sir," Sergeant Hendricks replied.

With that, Prime Minister Cumberland hung up the phone. His face was unreadable to his assistant.

"McKenna," he spoke to his assistant.

"Yes, sir?" she asked.

"I want you to go home," he said. "Have a nice hot dinner, chat with your friends, do whatever it is you do on your weekends. Do not speak a word of what was said in this room to anyone else. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," she nodded.

"I don't think I need to tell you, of all people, what would happen if word of this got out," he replied. She nodded, and, picking up her coat, made her way to the door. But as she reached for the handle, she turned about and spoke.

"Sir."

"Yes, Eva?" he asked, using the shortened form of her first name.

"What about the fleet?"

"Not a word," he reminded her.

"I understand, sir," she returned. "But, well, what are we going to do about it?"

"That is no longer the concern of this department," Cumberland evasively replied.

"But, sir," she continued. "What about America?"

"What about them?" he returned, sighing in annoyance.

"Well, that fleet is moving south-west," McKenna returned. "Shouldn't we inform the United States government? I mean, it could be heading their way."

"And it could also be a shipment of food bound for Cuba," Cumberland replied. "You know me as well as anyone: do you think I give a damn if they're headed for America?" McKenna shook her head. "Now, then, if this asinine line of questioning is over, you are dismissed. Remember; not a word spoken here is to leave this room, understood?"

"Yes, sir." McKenna nodded, then went out the door.

Once she was gone, Cumberland walked over to a small refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of champagne. It was too early to be celebrating the New Year, but there was something else that William Cumberland felt was worth celebrating as he poured himself a glass.

1050 Pacific Time, December 31st, 1981

Vasily and the Adepts were now half-way through the hills. They had kept a healthy pace and managed to avoid any patrols in the brush. Despite his light frame, Vasily could cover a lot of ground at need. Now the need was great, for there were only five minutes left until the Peacekeeper ICBMs were fully fueled. If the Soviet fleet had been spotted, it would be the end if they didn't infiltrate the air-base before then. Periodically, Vasily would hear the woman's thoughts in his head, directing him one way or another to avoid patrols.

As they approached the base, thoughts in Vasily's head transmitted from the female Adept revealed that Vandenburg was heavily guarded. Patrols with guard dogs roamed the outer perimeter, and inside were dozens of companies of soldiers doing their morning drills, and a surveillance helicopter roaming overhead as well as several tanks. Not the M41 Bulldog light tanks, but the massive M1 Abrams tanks: the main battle tank of the United States Armed Forces. Though it had been produced after the War in Europe ended, it was boasted that an Abrams tank could go toe-to-toe with the double-barreled Mammoth tank of Stalin's Red Army.

The three Adepts were now within sight of the base, hiding behind a stunted tree near the fence, arrayed with cyclone razor-wire. From where they could see, there wasn't much chance of marching up to the base and entering without being spotted. The helicopter gave a full view of the entire base from above, which would spot them in an instant. It also flew so high that controlling the pilot was not an option without some kind of device to amplify the range of the transmitter brain's affect.

We're in position, Vasily thought.

Alright, her thoughts returned. The southern entrance is nearby. Just inside is a stack of cargo trailer boxes: you should be able to hide from patrols there. Across from that is a small power relay station guarded by a surveillance tower. North of that are three ventilation shafts that lead to the underground portion of the base: these are outside of a fenced-off area where the three missile silos are located, with another three shafts on the north side. At the north-eastern end of the silos, about six hundred yards from your position, is another communications center. The engineer says that it communicates directly with the missile command center in the underground base.

Understood, Vasily returned. We're on our way now.

They waited until they saw a vehicle approach the base entrance, which was about fifty feet away. While the guards examined the truck, the three of them made their way into the base as quickly as possible. They hid behind the guard shack for a moment, as Vasily closed his eyes and tried to reach the mind of one of the guards. All he needed was a few moments of distraction, then they would be in the base. The second guard, who would be looking in their direction if they moved from behind the guard house, suddenly and inexplicably, looked to his left. In that brief moment, two figures walked into the base, quickly followed by another one. They hid behind a large stack of cargo trailer boxes.

Vasily tried to remember the calming exercises he had learned. If he was agitated or filled with excitement from the rush of infiltration, he would lose focus. He had to remain focused, especially to effect greater control over those who came in his path. Once his breathing and heart-rate were back under control, he turned his eyes from the gate and towards the rumble and squeal of a loud engine roaring away nearby.

An Abrams tank was rolling into view.

Though he could not see anyone inside, he could sense their brain-waves. Closing his eyes, he reached out and found not one but four brains inside of the vehicle. Controlling something as simple as a civilian automobile was easy when there was only one driver. But operating a tank with four crewmen would be impossible for one psychic to accomplish, attempting to control all of them simultaneously; without eye contact, the control wouldn't even be very potent. But the tank was large and would provide an excellent distraction, especially since they had six hundred yards to cross in a short amount of time.

His mind found one brain that was operating frequencies related to subconscious thought. Taking a chance that this was the driver, Vasily extended his thoughts towards this mind.

Listen to me, he thought. You are in grave danger. Your superior officers will betray you. They're planning it now; the moment your vehicle stops and you exit, they will kill you. I am your escape to freedom, but you must obey everything I tell you. You are in an armored tank; they won't be able to stop you. Make your escape now, stop for nothing and for no one. Obey.

One long, uneasy moment followed. The Apache's spinning blades overhead filled the air with noise, and the distant shouts of the drill sergeants as they led their companies was only barely audible beneath the roar. Vasily wondered if he had controlled the wrong mind.

Suddenly the roaring of the Honeywell AGT1500 engine of the Abrams tank was heard and it took off at full-speed. Voices were heard shouting after it and several others began running that way as well. A loud crash was heard as the tank ran full-on into another vehicle farther down the base. Overhead, the helicopter moved towards the rampaging tank.

"Go!" whispered Vasily to the others.

Three men, unnoticed in the chaos caused by a very large tank running head-long across a road in Vandenburg Air-Force Base, made their way to the base of the watch-tower by the power relay. If they could make it to the other side of the ventilation ducts without being seen, they could hide behind them for most of the trek to the communications relay. It would be a long hike, but their five minutes were now down to three minutes. Inaccurate intelligence, whether accidental from error on the missile-fueling procedures or intentional from someone pushing for promotion, could mean that the missiles may already be fueled and ready to launch.

Suddenly an air-raid siren began to roar in the base: they were on alert. Vasily hoped that it was only the chaos caused by the tank and made the mad dash across to the vent-shafts. Now, like madmen, they jogged the rest of the way, heedless of who might see them running away from the tank-driven madness. They passed the first one unseen, and the second one was already well under way. Adrenaline was now pumping through their veins as they made it to the last vent-shaft: they were almost there.

The air-raid siren roared on. They had no care anymore: they were almost there and the tank was still causing chaos. Suddenly another noise, near at hand, caught their attention. It was the barking of a German shepherd.

"Get on the ground!" a voice shouted.

Vasily groaned in defeat. So close and yet so far. He turned around and there stood two soldiers: one had the guard dog on a leash, who was madly tugging at it, barking at the intruders with all vigilance. The second soldier had been the one who spoke, and his Beretta was aimed at Vasily's head.

"Get on the fucking ground!" the guard returned, his voice intensifying as he gave the order, ready to kill if not obeyed.

Sitting adjacent to the communications array was another watch-tower. Even if Vasily managed to control one, or they'd be shot down by those in the tower. Dog brains could not be dominated in the same way as human brains, though their heightened hearing could detect the brain-wave activity. If this German shepherd was anything like the huskies he had encountered in Moscow, it would attack if it thought its master was in danger.

1055 hours beeped on the watch on Vasily's wrist. The American Peacekeeper ICBMs had finished fueling. He had failed.

1355 Eastern Time, December 31st 1981

The Oval Office of the White House. Michael Dugan had a busy day ahead of him, for there would be a New Year's party this evening, at 1800 Pennsylvania Avenue, one that he would be hosting. As for the planning, he left that to his secretary Angela White, a Harvard intern. On most days he would be found at his desk, reading over bills from Congress: running the Free World was a task which he took to with sincerity and integrity, and that hadn't changed even into the second year of his second term.

But today, at this hour, New Year's parties and energy bills were the last thing on this president's mind. Less than two minutes ago, he had received a call from General Benjamin Carville, the FORSCOM General currently visiting the Pentagon in Washington. The call was about a large assault force from the USSR making its way towards the United States: warships had been spotted in the Atlantic and Pacific, and there were reports of sightings along the Mexican border.

It didn't make any sense. Alexander Romanov was widely known as an advocate of peace: if anyone should know that, it was President Dugan. He had suggested his appointment to the position as Premier of the Soviet Union to the United Nations back in 1966, when he was the US ambassador to the UN. After telling Carville to verify with North American Aerospace Defense Command, he got on the wire to Moscow from the little red phone on his desk.

The call only confirmed what he had been told. Romanov refused to answer for why there was a large military force moving on American shores, and his demands to have the Russian Premier call off his troops were met with silence. Dugan had only one card left to play, and he prayed that he could bluff his way to a resolution. No nuclear weapon had been used by the United States against another sovereign nation since the War on Japan in 1945.

"You know we'll retaliate," he spoke into the mouth-piece, reminding Romanov of the precarious situation he was putting himself into.

"Oh, don't be so sure, Mr. President," the Russian Premier replied. There was a loud click, then only a dial-tone was heard on the phone. Dugan placed the phone back on the hook.

Romanov, usually congenial and warm, had called the President's bluff. It didn't sound like the 'Alex' that Dugan knew, but the presence of an invasion force certainly contradicted that. The intercom next to the phones shone red: Line 5 was making a call.

"Do we have verification?" President Dugan asked.

"You bet your ass, sir," Carville replied in his Texan drawl.

"Sweet Mother of God..." the President murmured in amazement and disbelief.

Then it was true. Dugan was now faced with an impossible choice. One phone call later and the Peacekeeper missiles would be on their way to Russia. Doubtless there were many civilians who would be killed in the heat blast and the fallout afterward, even if they exclusively targeted military installations. For the first term of his presidency, Dugan had enjoyed almost bipartisan support, and had one of the highest percentage of votes for his second term re-election. Many political pundits viewed him as the one that could unite the Republican and Democratic parties. If he made that call now, he would lose the support of one or both of those parties, and quite easily the American people. To say nothing of the moral burden he would now bear.

He sighed. He knew the choice that Truman had made in 1945; it was either use the atomic bombs or sacrifice five hundred thousand American and upward of nine million Japanese lives in a land invasion, one that might not even end the war. Now he, Michael Dugan, was faced with the same impossible situation; use the Peacekeeper ICBMs or sacrifice three hundred million American lives in an unprovoked invasion.

"It's time to hit back," President Dugan decided. "Make it happen."

"Yes, sir," Carville answered. The line went down as the General made 'the call.'

President Dugan then sat back in his chair at the Oval Office. He had made the impossible choice. During the first year of his office, he had been briefed on the Peacekeeper Defense System. In the unlikely event of an invasion, a primary target for a nuclear strike to cripple any potential military strength would be the industrial center of Stalingrad. One million Russians for three hundred million American lives. Dugan hoped that Romanov would see reason and another strike wouldn't be needed.

God be with them, Dugan sighed, praying for the Russian people. He wondered if He would understand the situation he was forced to make, or if He would forgive. He hoped that God would forgive him, for he knew that the American people certainly wouldn't.

1055 Pacific Time, December 31st, 1981

"On the ground!" repeated the guard. "This is your last warning!

Vasily looked at the Adept at his right, then gestured with his eyes towards the watch-tower. They only had a brief moment to act, or they'd both be dead and even this last-ditch, likely futile, effort would also be in vain.

There was a shot fired, then the dog yelped, fell to the ground, pawing at its head. Both soldiers fell to their knees, hands upon their heads. Another shot was fired. The soldiers cried out and there was a loud crack of skulls. The air-raid siren continued roaring in the background, hiding their screams but not the sound of the guns. The watch-tower was now empty and close at hand there were three bodies; two Marines with their heads caved in and a German shepherd lying on his side. His eyes were closed, his tongue was lying out of his open mouth, and blood was pouring from his ears.

What happened? the female Adept thought. The base is on alert, there's something about Defense Readiness Condition going up to one.

We're too late, Vasily projected. The fueling has been finished. The missiles are ready to launch.

Don't give up, not yet, the woman replied. They haven't launched yet, for all that we know. Don't forget, proselyte, Yuri is still with us. If you can get inside the base, you can prevent the launch.

With that, the Adepts ran the rest of the way toward the comm center. The outer door opened and they made their way down a hallway. Several people ran past them, but for the moment they were ignored. That was good for now, but they needed someone. One technician was going down the hallway, when suddenly he noticed the newcomers.

"Hey! You're not supposed to be here!" he announced. But no sooner had he spoken but Vasily had him in his control.

There is no time, he ordered. Take me to a communications relay. I must speak with the underground missile base. Obey me.

The technician led the way into a room with a key-card lock and pass-code entry. He must have worked here quite often, for he had the card on him. Once the door opened, the four of them entered the control room.

"Is this the communications relay?" asked Vasily. "Answer me in truth."

"This console reaches the missile command base," the technician replied, gesturing to a computer console with a phone at it. "But it requires a code to access the lower base."

You will give me the code now, Vasily demanded.

"Victor Mike Charlie zero zero one," the technician quoted. No sooner had he spoken but he collapsed to the floor, brain dead. Vasily strode over the body, picked up the phone and typed in the code: VMC-001. A busy signal rang for about a minute; a minute too long for his liking. The missiles might already be on their way to Russia. Suddenly it went from busy to ringing, and no sooner then but it was answered.

"Missile command here," the voice on the other end answered.

Listen to my voice, Vasily thought, projecting his thoughts over the line. Those missiles must not leave this base. Do everything within your power to stop the launch. You will not hesitate to kill to prevent this launch. You will not hesitate to allow yourself to die to prevent this launch. No matter what happens, the missiles will not launch.

The ground suddenly shook. Vasily had spent enough time in California to know of the frequency of earthquakes. But the shaking didn't stop. Vasily feared that they were too late, that the missile silos had already opened and the ICBMs were on their way to Russia. Urgently he ran outside of the communications relay and saw the entire base in chaos. On the other side of the fenced area, three columns of smoke were rising up from where the missile silos once lay.

It is done, the woman's thoughts spoke in Vasily's mind. This will make Yuri proud. This victory is the first of many to come, proselyte.

Yuri will be proud of us, Vasily returned.

Now, go, the woman replied. You were designated for command. You must survive and tell Yuri of our success.

What about you? he returned.

The Americans must not know of the existence of the Epsilon Psychic Corps, said the woman. Not yet, not until the time has come; Yuri will find us!

"Nyet!" Vasily shouted, using his own words in addition to his mind. But there was no answer: the brain-waves of the Adept merely vanished. He sent his thoughts out, but they were not answered. He tried to contact the others, but they were not coming in either. Still filled with adrenaline from his mad dash to stop the launch, Vasily ran back into the control room of the relay station. Lying on the ground were the other two Adepts, both of them dead.

2200 Moscow Time. December 31st, 1981

It was two hours to New Year's Day, the biggest celebration in Soviet Union. Less than five minutes ago, Alexander Romanov had gotten off the phone with the American President. The Americans were aware of the invasion force. He was now waiting on the next move from his adviser Yuri, who had told him not to worry himself about the American Peacekeeper Defense Network.

As for Yuri himself, he held to his ear the amplifier, sending his thoughts across the vast miles and the many time zones to earlier this day on the other side of the world. According to NKVD, the LGM-11 Peacekeeper intercontinental ballistic missile could strike the USSR within an hour of its launch. But his rook was now into position and he wanted to know what had happened in Vandenburg.

Master, the proselyte Adept known to the KGB as 'Vasily' replied to Yuri's mental query. The missile silos have been destroyed. The American Peacekeeper missiles have been taken care of.

You have done well, proselyte, Yuri thought. Our Russian comrades have been spared from the shame of defeat. I have need of you back in the USSR: follow through with your initial orders to return to Russia by plane from Canada. There is much work to be done, proselyte. Soon the world will learn...

Meanwhile, Premier Romanov had been waiting for his adviser's success. He had been assured over and over that there would be no reason to fear the American's Peacekeeper Missile Defense Network. Now the fate of the Soviet Union, of the glorious crusade against the United States, hung in the balance.

"Is it done, Yuri?" Romanov asked.

Yuri removed the amplifying device from his ear and turned to the Premier, speaking in his characteristic whispering tone:

"No, Comrade Premier: it has only begun."

(AN: Hope this got everything off to a good [and VERY lengthy] start. If you missed the prologue, then let me reiterate that this is slight AU, meaning that some things will be different than in RA2. Of course, some things may still be the same.)

(The Adept who was designated as "Vasily" in this episode is the one whose voice you hear in Yuri's Revenge as the intelligence officer for Yuri's Army [called the Epsilon Army in this fic]: I say "designated" because that's not his real name. Also, since i'm delving into "mind control" here, it seems kind of odd that an Adept [or PsiCorp trooper if you prefer the more familiar term] could mind control a tank, or even a Humvee. Think about it: most military vehicles have a driver and a gunner, and it is implied that mind control only works with one Adept per victim [therefore, an Adept couldn't mind control everyone in the vehicle all at once]. So I found a way to get around that for this instance. Obviously the genetically modified brains of a Mastermind or a super-control device like the Psychic Beacon are able to assert greater control, but that will be discussed in time.)

(Don't worry; we'll introduce more of the Allies in the next chapter.)