(AN: I hope that every chapter doesn't end up being ten thousand words long. Like, I know that it's probably what you all want, but it's hell to write!)
(Anywho, here we go back to the Soviet's perspective. Also, i was looking up other Soviet-era naval ships and came across the Slava-class cruiser, which is almost identical to the Dreadnought [down to the P-500 cruise missiles]. Also the Polish OT-64 SKOT would probably be a better match for a half-track than a BA-30, in my opinion. Since we're talking about ships, here is something to mess with your heads: in Mental Omega, the Russians get the Akula submarine, in a call-back to the missile sub from RA1, which replaces the Dreadnought for them. Now in real life, the Soviet submarine designated by NATO as "Akula" is the Shchuka, an attack sub, while the one designated by NATO as "Typhoon" is the real Akula, a ballistic-missile sub. Which means that the "Typhoon" sub from Red Alert 2 is not an attack sub, since "Typhoon" refers to the Akula missile sub. But the real attack sub [what the "Typhoon" should be] is, in this story, the Shchuka.)
(Now that i've confused you all to hell, let's get this going!)
Bleed Red
0750 Eastern Time. January 1st, 1982
On board the SSV-33 Ural, Mikhail Lazarev was reading through several papers in the little cabin that had been given him. Though he was General-Major, he wasn't given any stately quarters to match his nominal title: he had to share the same bare, stiff cot that was common to the others under his command. The only thing he had was a little desk and a lamp, which made the little six by ten iron room even more uncomfortably cramped. But he had no time to think of such things, for he also had duties of his own.
On the desk were the plans for the invasion of New York, which Lieutenant Zofia Kulika and he had gone over extensively while in Moscow. It seemed, in Mikhail's mind, that every last detail had been planned and prepared for: this only built his confidence in their victory. So far everything had been smooth-sailing, more or less: from Leningrad they had passed through the Baltic Sea, around Denmark and now passed into the North Sea to join with the fleet and the Kirov airships. Once they passed Scotland and the Faroe Islands, the Atlantic Sea began to trouble them. Aside from sea-sickness (Mikhail, as well as many in the Red Army, had never been to sea in his entire life), there were more than a few storms which forced the fleet to break up or try to withstand the tempests. Even so, they were making good time: the scheduled date had not been changed.
It was almost eight o'clock local time, the hour they were to enter the waters around New York City, the largest city in the state of New York and the site of their invasion point. On the other side of the country, the rest of the fleet and General Vladimir were making their way towards the West Coast: (the Premier never called him by his surname, and many others in high command picked up the habit), to strike at the five o'clock local time, the exact time as the fleet here struck New York.
At last the alarm was sounded. Mikhail stowed the papers in their file, straightened his uniform, then made his way out and down the hall. He had to take his place on-board one of the Zubr hovercraft. The first assault would be by the navy Dreadnoughts, then the Borillos would be sent forward with the first troops on the ground, in addition to several hovercraft dropping off more of the main invasion force.
Onto the main deck of the SSV Ural he climbed, where other personnel were being loaded onto the hovercraft, floating moored to the massive communications ship. A thin, steel ladder led down from the deck of the Ural onto the Zubr. He paused for a moment, looking down at the crashing waves and the tossing hovercraft. One gloved hand went over his mouth; he felt he was going to be sick.
"Davay!" he heard someone shout. Mustering his courage, he climbed down the ladder, landed on board the Zubr and made his way into the cargo hold.
The cargo hold wasn't exactly uncomfortable: certainly less uncomfortable than the cattle car had been. There were lights here, and air-conditioning as well. Two large BA-63 Tsivil half-tracks sat in the cargo hold, their heavy wheels tied down with chain, while here and there were several groups of soldiers playing cards or drinking vodka. They all wore thick brown coats with long tails extending down to the ankles, heavy boots, a gas mask and helmet, and each of them were armed with a PPSh-41. Mikhail noticed that among some of them were black and white huskies, obediently sitting or lying down on the cool metal floor.
"Hey! Moy staryy drug!" a familiar voice greeted. Mikhail saw Boris stand up from a group of those drinking vodka and approached Mikhail, planting a kiss on his cheek and wrapping one arm around his shoulders. "So, you're on this glorious crusade too, comrade...uh...?"
"I've been promoted," Mikhail replied. They hadn't time to reconnect during the party, especially after interrupting Boris and Zhana's fun, and he hadn't seen him during the parade. "General-Major."
"Comrade General!" exclaimed Boris. "Surprised to see you out here fighting also. Must have angered someone in Kremlin."
"Why do you say that?" Mikhail began, but Boris shushed him.
"It not safe to speak," Boris added. "But let us not talk of such things. The glorious revolution has begun! Soon we will land in New York and the fighting will begin! Come, let us drink to our victory."
"Nyet," Mikhail dismissed.
"Come now, Comrade General!" insisted Boris. "You, especially, look like you could use a drink, da?"
As it seemed resistance was futile, Mikhail agreed and followed Boris to the little circle he was sitting at. There was a ruck-sack seated on the ground, and against it was an AK-47 with a laser sight. Onto the side of the ruck-sack was pinned a picture of Zhana in a flight suit wearing a red beret. Besides the ruck-sack sat a Siberian husky that rose from where she had been sitting and knelt before Boris.
"Come, have a seat here," Boris said to Mikhail, gesturing to the ammunition crate that had been used as a seat: Mikhail took his seat and Boris took his next to him, scratching the dog behind her ears. "This is Dasha, my most faithful companion. Say zdravstvuyte, Dasha." The husky lifted one paw and placed it on Mikhail's knee.
"Ah!" Boris noted. "She takes to you! That is good; she is Russian dog, she don't like nobody!"
For one moment Mikhail put his hand on the dog's head. He hadn't owned a pet back in his previous life.
"What's in the bag?" Mikhail asked, breaking the silence.
"What, are you KGB?" Boris began, then broke into fits of laughter that broke off into a hacking cough at the end. "Nyet, nyet, it is joke, Comrade General. Nyet, in there I have ammunition cartridge and radio. Call in my airstrike of MiGs to take out hard targets, da? Remember?"
"Da, I remember," Mikhail replied.
"So, are you ready to kick some ass?" Boris asked.
"I suppose so," Mikhail muttered. He had never been in a real battle, and the fear of the unknown was telling on him. His hands were shaking within his gloves. "On second thought, I will have a drink." Boris handed him a bottle of vodka, which Mikhail drank straight. It burned his throat going down, but he savored the sensation: it helped to calm him down.
Suddenly an alarm was sounded, a red alert light flashed in the cargo hold, and the hovercraft began to move. They were now detached from the Ural. Mikhail closed his eyes, praying that whoever was listening might be with him. Boris, meanwhile, was humming an old Soviet hymn as he closed his bottle and put it back into the ammunition case he had been sitting on: it was half-open and he had been sitting on the closed half.
For almost thirty minutes, the alarm blared and the lights flashed. Boris told Mikhail that when they heard a loud horn sound, the loading ramp would be opened and they'd march across onto American soil. But in thirty minutes time they heard no sound of a horn, and the ramp never opened. At the end of thirty minutes, Boris swore in Russian and then opened his ruck-sack, took out the radio, wound it up and tuned in to the frequency used by the Ural's intelligence center.
"Comrade Kulika," Boris said. "What the hell is going on? Are we going to attack America today or nyet?"
"There have been...complications, Comrade Boris," Zofia's voice replied on the radio. "The Americans have heavily defended the area around the so-called Liberty Island. The Topolov was sunk as it came into position to fire on the Statue of Liberty. Admiral Izmaylov is re-organizing the fleet to attempt another strike."
"Chto?" Boris exclaimed. "A Dreadnought sunk? Is the American fleet already warned of our arrival?"
"Nyet, Comrade Boris," Zofia replied. "While there are some ships stationed around the nearby Ellis Island, we believe the sinking of the Topolov to be the work of an American Special Forces operative."
"Have they no shame?" exclaimed Boris.
"Apparently not, comrade," Zofia stated. "We have postponed the landing for a few minutes while Admiral Izmaylov prepares a new strategy."
One hundred feet below the hull of the Ural, the K-421 Volf, a Shchuka attack submarine, was cruising beneath the waves with a school of other submarines. They were to provide support for the Dreadnoughts in case they encountered resistance from the American navy. During the journey from Leningrad to New York, the subs remained just below the waves: once the Topolov went down, they were ordered to go to silent running and await orders from the command ships above.
Andreyevich Glazkov, the captain of the Volf, paced uneasily at the comm-station, where his communications technician was monitoring for news from Admiral Izmaylov's command ship. The minutes ticked away, and with the sub under silent running, they had no way of knowing if the American fleet were right on top of them until depth charges started blowing.
"Sir!" the technician exclaimed. "It's Admiral Izmaylov!"
"Put him on," Captain Glazkov returned.
"Captain," the voice of Admiral Izmaylov spoke on the sub's radio. "We have detected an enemy destroyer at .0325. We believe the American Special Forces operative that destroyed the Topolov returned to this ship. Destroy it, so that they will no longer be a problem."
"Da, Comrade Admiral," Captain Glazkov answered. The Admiral's channel signed off. "Comrade, open ship-wide channel."
"Channels open, comrade," the technician replied.
"This is captain speaking," Glazkov announced. "All hands man your battle-stations. Firing crews report to the torpedo bays. Helm, move us into position to fire at .0325."
The red alert klaxons roared. The crew of the Volf hustled down the narrow, steel corridors on their way to their stations. The massive nuclear reactor that powered the Shchuka, capable of remaining at sea indefinitely, given the supply of rations, moved the one hundred ten meter submarine into firing position. Within a few minutes, it rose up from one hundred feet to just below the surface, the four torpedo tubes now positioned to fire at the American destroyer.
"We're in position now, comrade captain," the technician announced. "All stations standing ready."
"Fire torpedoes!" announced Captain Glazkov.
Outside the double-hull of the Volf, two torpedoes soared out of the tubes on the bow in a swirl of bubbles. Inside, the technician reported that they had been fired and they waited for a confirmation of a hit. Thirty silent, uneasy seconds passed as no message came back from the Nikolai, Admiral Izmaylov's command ship.
"Uspekh, Captain Glazkov!" the voice of Admiral Izmaylov roared on the radio. "The destroyer has been hit and is taking on water. Our Dreadnought's missiles will finish her off. Hold position for further orders."
Above the waters of the New York bay, the rear portion of the American destroyer burst asunder with the strike of the Soviet torpedoes. The hit was caught on the bridge of the Nikolai, a smaller Slava-class battleship. It had similar purpose as the Dreadnought, with long-range assault capability from P-500 Bazalt cruise missiles. These were about the same size as R-11s, but had farther operational range: meaning that they could strike land targets farther away from the relative safety of the seas that a land-based MAZ-542 armed with an R-11 high explosive missile.
At Admiral Izmaylov's command, two Bazalt missiles shrieked off the deck of the Nikolai, soared through the air, then struck the American ship in a fiery blossom. With a loud shout of triumph, the admiral got on the radio and contacted the Ural.
"What are you waiting for, an invitation from Comrade Premier himself?" he chided. "We've blown up the destroyer that SpecOps b*tch was hiding on! Send out your forces!"
On board the Zubr hovercraft, the alerts blared again. The captain's voice declared that they would be making landfall: this time, she added, it was not a drill.
"V kontse kontsov!" Boris exclaimed. He took another swig of his vodka, then hurried to the side of the inner hull. Half-way there he turned around and pointed at his ruck-sack. General-Major Mikhail, without thinking, tossed Boris the bag and threw him his AK-47.
"Bring Dasha!" Boris added.
Mikhail seized the husky by the collar and dragged her over to the side of the hovercraft. Boris was now hanging onto one of the many hand-holds on the side of the hull to secure the passengers in rough waters: with one hand he slung the ruck-sack and his AK-47 back onto his shoulder. Mikhail, meanwhile, was holding onto the hand-hold next Boris with one hand and Dasha's collar in the other. Quickly he reassessed his uniform, making sure his Tokarev was still in its holster.
"Finally we get to do some killing, comrade!" Boris exclaimed. "Sure beats sitting in tin can hovercraft, waiting to be blown up by Allied dogs!"
"Can't you swim, comrade?" Mikhail asked. He had been thrown into the Laborec once by his tormentors and had learned rather quickly how to swim.
"Nyet, Comrade General!" Boris protested. "I have no need of bath. I am Hero of Soviet Union whether I smell like vodka or not. Besides, Comrade Zhana don't mind: she likes my zapakh."
While they were talking, the radio on Mikhail's belt began to crackle and the voice of Lieutenant Kulika was heard calling for him. With a groan, he let go of Dasha and held the device up to his ear.
"Comrade General," Lieutenant Kulika spoke. "Admiral Izmaylov's ships are moving into position to attack the Statue of Liberty. Your task will be a joint assault on Manhattan Island: one half of your forces will land in the Brooklyn district, while your force will land on Staten Island. There are three crossings for this endeavor that must be secured by our forces: the Brooklyn assault will secure the famed Brooklyn Bridge, while the company under your command will secure the Bayonne Bridge and the Holland Tunnel."
"Understood," Mikhail responded.
"Once you have engaged the American forces in the area," Lieutenant Kulika continued. "Our Kirovs will move into position to eradicate any remaining resistance. We will be monitoring your progress from our forward base on Governors Island. Udachi, Comrade General."
Mikhail put the radio mouth-piece back on his belt, then let go and brought Dasha back to the side of the sub. The husky permitted herself to be pulled there.
"She doesn't let anyone do that to her, you know, Comrade General?" Boris mentioned. Dasha barked. "Tikho. Comrade Commissar's speech is coming up." Boris reached down into his ruck-sack with one hand, he pulled out his ushanka and placed it upon his head.
From over the radio came the speech prepared for the troops under the preparation for the invasion. As his rank as General-Major was nominal, pending his victory in New York, it had been outside of his hand to order a speech. This came from higher up, as always.
"Comrades, soldiers of the glorious Soviet Revolution," the commissar spoke. "Today we take back the world from the capitalist swine that have oppressed you. History will remember every one of your names; your comrades in arms beside you fight with you in this great revolution! Think not of casualties: for every comrade that falls in this glorious crusade, a thousand more stand by to take his place. Your Premier is personally grateful for your volunteering for this revolution: he fights with you and bleeds with you! Give all for the Motherland!"
Mikhail rolled his eyes: doubtless someone saw it, but he was on the front-lines. Such a small gesture might be dismissed if he made it back to Moscow covered in victory; and it wouldn't be of any matter if he died.
The hovercraft surged forward as it leaped over the pier. Everyone not hanging onto the hand-holds on the inner hull were thrown back. Mikhail kept a good hold on Dasha, whose paws skidded on the metal floor with the surge. A loud horn roared and the loading ramp opened down.
"Zaryad!" Boris shouted.
"Vpered, tovarishchi!" Mikhail added. "Dlya Rossii-matushki! V ataku!"
Conscripted men and women of the Red Army, clad in heavy brown jackets and armed with PPSh-41s, charged down the loading ramp. Behind them came the Tsivils, unhinged from their chains, rolling forward to give them support. Urged on by the cries of "Charge!", "Forward, comrades!", "For Mother Russia!" and "To the attack!" from their general and their hero - the real ones fighting with them - they were fearless. Overhead, as they stepped out of the Zubr hovercraft, they could see A-12s, I-76s and massive Kirov airships flooding the skies: parachutes beyond count began to appear beneath them, as more comrades were being dropped in to aid them, along with T-72 Nosorog tanks.
Mikhail and Boris charged out once the last of the footmen left the hovercraft. On either side were armored Borillos, out of which poured more conscripts and the Tesla troopers, all clad in armor with Tesla coils on their right arms. Before them were the tall skyscrapers of the fabled "concrete jungle", taller than the spires of St. Basil's Cathedral in Red Square. In the streets were congested mobs of the citizens of Staten Island, running for their lives from the invaders. The New York Police Department, SWAT teams and scrambled National Guard were forming a blockade down one paved road.
"Comrade General!" Boris shouted. "The Americans cower behind their barricades! Flush them out!"
Mikhail picked up his radio and called to the Borillos. "Charge their line, make us an opening. Bystro!"
The armored Borillo rolled down the street, under a hail of gunfire from the local defense: a futile effort, as the bullets couldn't even penetrate the thick armor of the transports. As it approached the barricade, some of the police fled for cover, while some of the SWAT remained, holding the line along with the National Guard. A stream of ignited napalm burst from the forward cannon of the Borillo, setting the defenders on fire.
"Comrade General," the Borillo driver radioed in. "You have opening in capitalist barricade."
"Well done, comrade," Mikhail returned. He then turned towards the Tesla troopers in his division. "Zaryad!"
The tramping of iron-clad rubber boots was heard as the Tesla troopers made their advance. They marched through the breach the Borillo made in the barricade. Some of the National Guard remained who were not burned in the Borillo's assault, and they fired off rounds at the armored soldiers: most of the bullets did nothing more than cause them to reflexively lurch back or hold their arms over their domed helmets. Most of those behind them saw nothing but a series of bright flashes: the Tesla troopers, with their darkened visors, saw arcs of electricity from their coils shocking the defenders into a short and violent death.
The radio on Mikhail's belt crackled. "Comrade General," Lieutenant Kulika's voice spoke. "We have an urgent message from our Brooklyn division."
"Put them on," Mikhail replied.
"Comrade General?" a man's voice spoke. "This is Captain Moskvin of 1st Tesla division. We have intercepted transmission from the Americans: they have noticed our plans and intend to blow bridges to Manhattan. Be on look-out for American demolition teams."
"Da, ponimat'," Mikhail answered. "Keep me updated on your progress."
Behind the Tesla troopers came the main force of footmen, with General-Major Lazarev and Boris leading the charge. Suddenly there was an explosion and some of the soldiers began to scatter. Others pointed towards one of the tall skyscrapers, where gunfire started raining down upon them.
"Ukryvat'sya!" shouted General-Major Lazarev. The soldiers made their way behind the police cars, SWAT vans and concrete barricade, and began firing back at the entrenched National Guard.
"Yedyat svintsa!" Boris shouted at the building as he unloaded dozens of full-auto rounds from his AK-47.
Behind a police car, Mikhail was providing covering fire for the two conscripts on his either side with his Tokarev: hardly a worthy weapon for such an endeavor. They were pinned down and their Borillo was charging ahead down the street, crushing cars and setting people and buildings on fire. Mikhail reached for his radio, trying to keep his head down from the amount of enemy fire.
"Lieutenant Kulika!" he called. "Where is my armor support?"
"We're setting up our forward command base on Governors Island," Zofia replied. "Once we're set up, we'll send the nearest para-dropped armored division your coordinates. You will have to hold out until then."
"I see," Mikhail responded. He put the radio back onto his belt, then took one look at the garrisoned building through the shattered window of the police car. He saw the bottom floor of the building, around the revolving glass door, was made of glass that was not reinforced with much more than sand-bags around the bottom. Under the cover of the two conscripts on either side, he placed his fingers upon the P-FAAC on his head, and focused on the glass walls.
The glass wall, it is under my control, he thought. This will break at my command. Break. Shatter. Crack. Obey!
The wall burst without any evidence of explosion, only shards of glass going here and there. He looked over at Boris, hiding behind a concrete wall piece with Dasha, sticking an ammunition cartridge into his AK-47, and gestured towards the building.
"Zagraditel'nyy ogon'!" Mikhail shouted. Under the rattling of the PPSh-41s, Mikhail, Boris, Dasha and several other conscripts made the charge across the street and into the broken glass walls. Behind them came a Tesla trooper, unafraid of the hail of bullets from the building's occupants.
"Weapons ready, comrades," Mikhail said, once they were inside. "They'll most likely be waiting for us."
"Find elevator," Boris stated. "We can go to high floors without being heard on stairs."
"Sounds good," Mikhail replied. "You're with me, Boris. The rest of you, spread out and hunt down the American dogs."
"Da," one of the conscripts nodded.
They made their way through the first floor, but encountered no resistance. As they regrouped, there was suddenly a cry heard and everyone went to investigate. They found Boris standing beside two steel doors.
"Elevator!" he stated, a smile on his face. "Go on up the stairs. I will take care of capitalist dogs myself. Give you distraction as you advance."
"But you said the stairs weren't safe!" Mikhail returned.
"Nyet," Boris stated. "But if this works, they may be less dangerous than before." He then waved for a conscript to enter the elevator with him. Here he removed his ruck-sack and had the conscript help him shove it upward.
"Take care of Dasha for me while I'm away," Boris said to Mikhail, then turned back to the conscript and shouted; "Nyet! Podozhdite! Do not hurt radio!"
"What are you doing, comrade?" Mikhail asked.
"I saw this once in action movie from United States," Boris replied. "Udachi, Comrade General!"
With that, the elevator doors closed as Boris waved goodbye to General-Major Lazarev. Mikhail rolled his eyes; it was almost exhausting, how ludicrously fearless Boris was when it came to battle. It was assuring, however, to have someone at his side who was not only congenial, but believed in the ultimate success of the war.
Reluctantly, Mikhail led the soldiers towards one of the stair-wells. With the Tesla trooper and several conscripts in the lead, Mikhail brought up the rear, with Dasha tagging along behind him. They hadn't gone up more than six steps up the stair-well when a barrage of gunfire was heard above their heads. They halted, pepeshas, Tesla coils and Tokarevs aimed up at the stairs. At any moment they expected American soldiers to come charging down the stairs on the attack. The gunfire ceased: then there was a brief pause. The gunfire erupted again, followed by shouts and cries of pain; then there was only unbroken silence.
"Davay, comrades!" Boris called down from the upper story. "People are dead now!"
Mikhail and the conscripts made the rest of the way up the stairs. They came to the top level and saw Boris standing in front of the open elevator: enemy soldiers lay dead all around him. As the elevator doors closed behind Boris, Mikhail noticed many bullet-holes in the back wall of the elevator.
"Yebena mat'!" swore Mikhail. "How did you pull this one off?"
"Like in movie," Boris stated. "They heard us from downstairs, so when they heard elevator on way up, they assumed I was in it. In truth, Comrade General, I was hiding on roof: had comrade conscript open roof panels so I could stay up there with radio. Once they noticed no one was there, I came down and gunned down capitalist pigs like vodka bottles on fence!"
"Otlichno srabotano!" Mikhail chuckled. "We'll share a drink on top story of Empire State building after we've taken the city."
"I'll take you up on that offer, Comrade Gener..." Boris began, but was suddenly cut short by gunfire from the streets. The two looked down a nearby window and saw conscripts being gunned down in the streets below them. No sooner had they appeared but Boris pushed Mikhail out of the way: a hail of gunfire shot up at the window out of which they were looking.
"It's the American commando!" Boris shouted. "She wasn't on ship!" Boris rose up, taking his AK-47 in hand and took cover besides the window.
"Idti!" Boris told Mikhail. "Take the others. Boris will cover you!"
Mikhail cocked his Tokarev and shouted "Davay!" to the conscripts, who formed up behind him as he led the way back down the stairs. As they marched out of the broken glass window, a hail of bullet-fire rattled towards them. The conscripts broke ranks for cover, but some of them fell dead. Mikhail kept his head down, aiming his Tokarev ahead of him as he ran for the side of a SWAT van. Boris' AK-fire roared down from above, and before he could catch a good glimpse of the American commando, she ducked for cover behind the concrete barricades.
A stand-off ensued as Mikhail and the commando exchanged shots from behind their cover. The conscripts started closing in on her position at Mikhail's orders, attempting to flank her, but they did not get far. Every so often, a hand wielding a semi-auto pistol would appear and drop a conscript. No more would the commando dare to reveal, as Boris' covering fire kept her well hidden.
"Ukryvat'sya!" shouted the General: take cover. Those who remained did so; behind cars, phone-poles, newspaper dispensers, or even behind their fallen comrades.
"You fucked with the wrong country, asshole!" a woman's voice shouted from behind the concrete barricade: the words were in Russian, but the accent was of one for whom the language was not first nature.
"You speak Russian?" Mikhail asked, then leaned out from behind cover and fired towards where he heard the voice. By the time he had got off a shot, there was no one there to be hit.
"Better than you do!" she retorted. Two shots were heard and one conscript cried out, having been hit.
"Throw down your guns, foolish American!" Mikhail ordered. "Your country is ours!"
"Not while I'm alive, red!" the commando returned. Three shots ricocheted off the bullet-proof steel of the SWAT van.
"We'll have to do something about that," Mikhail grinned. "Won't we, girl?" With this, he leaned out from behind the SWAT van and began firing. One. Two. Three. Click. He was out of bullets. Above his head he could hear Boris swearing loudly: apparently his AK-47 had jammed. The American commando laughed.
"That's all you got?" she retorted. "And here I was thinking you'd be a challenge. You call yourself a commander?" There was a brief moment of silence, broken only by distant gunfire and the rumbling of I-76s flying overhead. Mikhail reached for a new magazine when suddenly the commando stood up, two pistols in each hand.
"Chew on this, commie bastard!" she shouted. Within moments, Mikhail managed to duck back behind the SWAT van. Bullet after bullet struck the side of the SWAT van, near the gasoline tank. Suddenly from above, he could hear, shouting over the gun-fire, the voice of Boris.
"Get out of there, Comrade General!"
Mikhail ran from the SWAT van, and not a moment too soon. The American commando had been shooting so much that the bullet-proof steel plating was starting to give way. A bullet struck the gas tank and the van went up in a burst of flames, with Mikhail just barely escaping the explosion. As he was rising up, still disoriented from the blast, Mikhail got a better look at the American commando.
She was about average height, with dark brown hair that fell down to her shoulders. She wore gray camouflage pants, and a bullet-proof vest for a top: both arms were bare and bore scratches and nicks from stray bullets. Both hands held pistols, which were pointed in his general direction. Just then a Humvee appeared behind her and someone was shouting at her in English, which Mikhail did not speak. Whatever was being said seemed to anger her, for she kept looking back at him with an angry look in her eyes. At last, she holstered her two pistols and climbed onto the back of the Humvee. The last thing Mikhail saw of the American commando, she blew him a kiss, broadly swinging her arm as she did, four fingers clenching into a fist as the middle one bade him and his company farewell.
Once the Humvee was gone, Mikhail finally recovered and called out for the others. Of the one hundred conscripts behind him as they took the street, only fifty one remained. Of those, many of them had wounds that were more than a little inconvenience. As he was hearing the report of casualties, Mikhail heard Dasha barking from the building. Cursing under his breath for forgetting the dog, he ran back inside, up the stairs and found the husky kneeling next to Boris. He had been shot in the shoulder during the altercation with the commando.
"It is just flesh wound," Boris dismissed. "I've had worse. One time on mission for Spetznaz, I killed seventeen Cossacks while hung-over from big party last night and with bullet in ass and in jajca. This is nichego!"
But Mikhail was uneasy. Even with his P-FAAC, he felt as though he was on fire. The flame of battle-fury was kindled in him, especially from the adrenaline released after the stand-off with the American commando and almost being blown up. He relished the sting, hungry to be back in the thick of it, surrounded by death and battle.
"Can you stand?" he gasped. He hadn't even noticed he was out of breath.
"Da," Boris dismissed, pushing himself up. "I'll make it. There's nothing I cannot do!"
"Khorosho," Mikhail said. "Because we're hunting down that commando and killing her. She'll endanger our mission here."
"Lead the way, Comrade General," Boris returned.
Mikhail, Boris and Dasha made their way out of the building, where they saw the cause for the retreat of the American Humvee. Four T-72 Nosorog tanks, accompanied by six Tesla troopers and a battalion of conscripts, were marching up from the south-west. Boris and those conscripts that survived the commando assault cheered loudly. With this kind of armor, the Americans wouldn't stand a chance.
0835 Eastern Time. January 1st, 1982
Forty-five minutes since arriving in the New York harbor and Staten Island under heavy siege by the Red Army. More troops were being dropped in, some of them behind the lines of defense. But resistance was fierce: tanks were being mobilized along the defensive lines. The light tanks could outmaneuver even the Borillos, and the larger, heavier Abrams tanks, could take on Nosorogs and Borillos on their own.
Mikhail and his company were marching towards Bayonne Bridge by the shortest route. The other roads were congested with civilian vehicles and conscripts trying to breech the American defensive lines. As it began to come into sight, the radio on Mikhail's belt came to attention.
"Comrade General," Lieutenant Kulika spoke. "Be advised. The Americans are stationed along Bayonne Bridge, evacuating civilians from Staten Island. Once the bridge is cleared, they will destroy it to prevent our troops from crossing. We cannot let a mere bridge delay our conquest, Comrade General. I'll divert a group of engineers to be dropped into your area to disarm the explosives."
"Da, Lieutenant, understood," Mikhail replied. "Our advance has been blocked along Jersey Street, Clove Road, Henderson and Forest Avenues. We need reinforcements!"
"Our main force is encountering resistance from Manhattan Island," Lieutenant Kulika replied. "The Americans have established a base there from which we have intercepted several transmissions. We believe this base, designated 'Fort Bradley' by the American radio traffic, is the main center of their defense in the area. Our ground troops are being scrambled to defend our forward command center."
"Do you have anything for us?" Mikhail asked.
"Hold on, sir," Zofia answered. There was silence on the radio for a whole minute before finally Zofia came back online. "Comrade General, I have three Kirovs on stand-by: I'll put you through to them." There was a click, then a man's voice was heard on the other line.
"Kirov reporting," the zeppelin pilot answered.
"This is General Lazarev," Mikhail said. "Our troops are held up at Jersey Street, Clove Road, Henderson and Forest Avenues. We need you to take out the American defensive line."
"Acknowledged," replied the zeppelin pilot. "Relaying orders now, Comrade General." Another minute passed, then the pilot came back on the radio. "Confirmed. We'll be there soon."
The radio suddenly hissed with life again. "Lazarev here."
"General!" Captain Moskvin's voice was heard on the other end. "We have made it across Brooklyn Bridge. Soon we will reach Manhattan and claim this city for Mother Russia. Me and the boys are thinking about renaming this city Novaya Moskva: what do you think?"
"Is that Captain Moskvin?" Boris shouted up from where he stood. His arm had been bandaged, and he seemed to be doing better. "Tell him is good idea."
"Will do, comrade," Mikhail replied. He then spoke into the radio. "Remember our orders: engage the American defenses where they appear. Kill any who resist, but do not kill everyone in your path."
"What, no killing?" Moskvin exclaimed. "That's what the 1st Tesla Division does best!"
Mikhail didn't laugh. He was too high-strung for the merriment that both Boris and Moskvin seemed to be reveling in. The battle-fury was starting to burn out, and he was reminded of the faces of the dead conscripts on New York Avenue, when the American commando had ambushed them.
Suddenly the radio crackled again.
"Comrade General," Zofia's voice was heard. "The Premier requests that you capture the center of capitalist propaganda in New York City, known as the Time Warner Center. He has a message to deliver the American people once the Statue of Liberty has been destroyed."
"Understood," Mikhail repeated.
Riding atop one of the four T-72 Nosorog tanks made traveling the roads of New York City easier. Instead of weaving between endless lanes of congested vehicle traffic, the Nosorogs could crush civilian cars with their treads. The company under Mikhail's direct control led the way down Castleton Avenue, with the four Nosorogs, two Tsivils and one Borillo. From Castleton Avenue they turned south down Port Richmond Avenue, then west onto Walker Street: within a few minutes they would reach the highway that crossed over to New Jersey by way of the Bayonne Bridge. No sooner had they taken the high ground when they heard loud explosions behind them. All eyes turned back east and voices rose up in cheers. Behind them they could see three Kirov airships bombing three of the four streets where the American defensive line had been.
"Ura!" Boris exclaimed. "The Americans are broken!"
Even Mikhail couldn't help but smile. The loud bursts of the high explosive bombs made his heart shake with each boom, but it made him pleased. Four divisions would now join his army, and together, they would pick up the old momentum and march across the country in a massive united force.
Again the radio indicated that someone was contacting him.
"Sir," Zofia's voice said. "I have Admiral Izmaylov on the line for you."
"Put him through," Mikhail replied.
"Comrade General!" Admiral Izmaylov's voice said. "We regret to inform that we are pulling out ship support from the New York bay."
"Chto?" exclaimed Mikhail.
"It appears that our assault on Washington is encountering...resistance," Izmaylov diplomatically put it. "I am diverting all ships to that region to assist in the main assault. Not to worry. We are leaving one Dreadnought and one submarine in your command to destroy Statue of Liberty, da?"
"One ship?" Mikhail returned. "What about the American commando?"
"I'm sure you will have no problems in accomplishing your objective, comrade," Izmaylov answered, then the comm went offline.
"Der'mo!" swore Mikhail. He then held the speaker button on the radio voice-piece. "Lieutenant, status report on forward command center."
"I am pleased to report that all is going well," Zofia replied. "Our forward command center has been established. We have five MAZ-543s in position on Governors Island: we have begun bombarding the American's Fort Bradley, as well as anti-air batteries we have detected on Liberty Island."
"Can you get any of those Uragans to target the Statue of Liberty?" Mikhail asked. "We've had our Dreadnoughts recalled."
"Confirmed," Zofia replied. "I'll have them moved into position at once. We still need you to assault Fort Bradley and take the American television network building on Manhattan Island."
"We'll be there soon," Mikhail replied. He was thankful that at least something good was happening out of the recent turn of events.
Suddenly another explosion was heard: this time it was nearer than the bombing of the Kirovs. All eyes looked northeast, towards the Bayonne Bridge. The Americans had taken it out to prevent the march of the Soviet war machine.
"Blyad'!" exclaimed Mikhail.
"Sir?" Zofia returned.
"Where are those engineers?" he asked. "The Americans took out Bayonne Bridge."
"Hold on, sir," she replied. "Our planes are encountering resistance from anti-air forces on the ground. Your I-76 should be inbound. Estimated time of arrival: one minute and counting."
A massive Ilyushin-76 passed overhead, and three engineers para-dropped out of the cargo bay. Another minute passed before they reached the ground, and another minute again until they formed up around Mikhail's position. The hard part came afterward, as the engineers went to work on repairing the bridge.
The Soviet war machine was brought to a halt on the southeastern New York front. A full bridge repair would take at least two weeks to complete, but the repair had to be done in shorter time. With Mikhail's permission, the engineers removed the heavy shoulder-guards from the highway and used them to make a make-shift skeleton. On top of this they welded larger sheets of metal over them to make the platform. It wouldn't hold, and with enough pressure it would likely cause serious mishaps, but they needed a temporary fix. As it turned out, the soldiers were able to make it across rather easily. But once the Nosorogs started to move, the supports gave way and started to buckle. Mikhail ordered the tanks and Tsivils to remain on this side while the Borillo he ordered to cross the bay and meet them again in the marshland on the New Jersey side. It was still almost twenty miles from the Bayonne Bridge to the Holland Tunnel, and haste would be their greatest asset.
Once they met up with the Borillo, Mikhail ordered his soldiers into the Borillo: as many as could be fit into the passenger hold. However, even with the passenger hold filled to capacity, the force that could move with speed was no larger than twenty conscripts. Mikhail swore: his choices seemed to be march slowly with a strong force and arrive too late, or to arrive swiftly with a small force and risk being ambushed and defeated.
"Captain!" Mikhail said to the operator of the Borillo. "Can we fit anymore in the vehicle?"
"We're already at our maximum," the captain replied. "We couldn't fit anymore inside if we tried."
"What about on the top?" asked Boris.
"Maybe, Comrade Boris," the captain replied. "But forget about amphibious mode."
"That shouldn't be a problem," Mikhail returned. "We'll be on land from here to Manhattan."
Another ten conscripts climbed on top of the Borillo, with three Tesla troopers, Mikhail, Boris and Dasha filling out the roster. The rest of the division would have to leg it after them. Once this was done, they set off on the road again: heavily congested with traffic cars, and running at almost half-speed due to being over maximum carry limit. Nevertheless, forty-three kilometers was not exactly anything to sneeze at: it would mean arriving at the Holland Tunnel in almost an hour, but it would be better than the alternative.
About half-way to the Holland Tunnel, the Borillo passed Liberty Park on the right-hand. This provided them a picturesque view of the Upper New York Bay. The sky was filled with Kirovs, I-76s and An-22s dropping paratroopers. R-11 missiles soared through the air from Governors Island, striking the base of the Statue of Liberty. Suddenly something dawned upon Mikhail Lazarev.
"Comrade Kulika," he spoke into the radio. "Why is the statue still standing?"
"Izvineniya, Comrade General," Zofia replied. "Premier has ordered that you are to have special honor giving order to destroy the Statue."
"Very well," Mikhail said. "Relay my orders to the Urangans and our lone Dreadnought: fire at will upon the Statue."
"Of course, Comrade General," Zofia answered.
Load roars could be heard from the bay as cruise missiles soared through the sky, striking the copper super-structure. Each missile burst into a fiery ball that shattered the integrity of the Statue. One well-aimed missile struck a portion of the Statue's neck that had already been hit. The head fell to the base, weakened from the burgeoning explosions. Again and again more missiles struck the body, sending pieces falling down upon Liberty Island.
"Well done, Comrade General," Zofia's voice spoke on the radio. "The Premier will be most pleased with your accomplishment."
"It's not over until we capture television station," Mikhail replied.
"That is only one objective," Zofia answered. "Destroying Fort Bradley, the center of American resistance in the area, will be your final objective. But, now that the Statue of Liberty is destroyed, we will send troops over to film the wreckage for the Premier's message."
"Understood," Mikhail said. "Our engineers were unable to repair the Bayonne Bridge enough for our tanks to cross. Request a Zubr to get them across."
"I'll send one over there now, Comrade General," Zofia confirmed. "In the meanwhile, press the assault on Manhattan. The 1st Tesla division has already landed and engaged the capitalist dogs."
"Ponimat'," Mikhail replied. "We're on our way now."
0945 Eastern Time. January 1st, 1982
At last the Borillo arrived at the western entrance of the Holland Tunnel. Over one mile of tunnel running beneath the Upper New York Bay lay between them and Manhattan, the location of Fort Bradley. At the entrance, the Borillo came to a halt. Mikhail removed the hatch at the top and called down to the crew of the Borillo.
"Chto eto?" he asked, eager to know what it was that caused them to stop.
"We don't have clearance, Comrade General," the pilot replied.
"What do you mean, to enter the tunnel?" Mikhail asked. "Did Intelligence make a mistake? Isn't it supposed to be six meters wide?"
"Da, sir," the pilot replied. "But it is little over two meters in height."
"That's exactly what Intelligence reported," Mikhail returned. He had memorized the maps and layouts of New York from the month of rehearsal he and the Lieutenant had gone through prior to the invasion.
"Da," the pilot continued. "But we only have clearance for Borillo with no one on top. You'll have to dismount and walk around us."
"Der'mo," groaned Mikhail. Yet another delay had arisen. "Very well, we'll walk." He called out to the others on the back. "Speshit'sya!" At this, Boris and Dasha climbed down while several of the conscripts aided the armored Tesla troopers in their descent. Mikhail then arranged the company that would be walking: three conscripts and one Tesla trooper in the rear guard, two conscripts on either side of the Borillo, and the other three and two Tesla troopers in the front with himself, Boris and Dasha.
Once all was arranged, he radioed Lieutenant Kulika to receive an update on the situation.
"The 1st Tesla division has engaged the Americans outside of Fort Bradley," Zofia reported. "We have also received the footage of the ruin of the Statue of Liberty. As we speak, the film is being edited into Premier's speech, which we will broadcast once the Time Warner Center has been captured."
"Do we still have air support?" Mikhail asked.
"Of course, sir," Zofia answered. "The three Kirovs on Staten Island are still under your command. Due to their size and speed, it will take some time to redirect them onto Manhattan. Furthermore, we believe the Americans are fielding a new self-propelled anti-aircraft platform in response to our air armada. It would be wise to destroy them when possible."
"Da, Lieutenant," Mikhail replied. "We're entering the Holland Tunnel now. Should be in Manhattan shortly."
"Be advised," Zofia stated. "The Americans will attempt to block the eastern exit of the tunnel. We will also not be able to maintain radio contact once inside."
"Relay these orders to the Kirovs," Mikhail replied. "Have them begin aerial assault on Fort Bradley. Will arrive to capture the television station and mop up any American forces in the area once we've reached the other side of the tunnel. General Lazarev out."
"Good luck, sir," Zofia signed off.
About half-way through, all seemed to be going well. Due to the enclosed tunnel, the roaring of the Borillo's treads obscured all other noise. So far they encountered no resistance: the eastbound tunnel had been emptied of traffic with the advance of the Soviet war machine. Soon they would reach the other side and this little delay of having to walk through the Holland Tunnel would be behind them.
Suddenly there was a loud explosion from behind them, magnified to the boom of thunder inside the tunnel. Then came the rattling of gunfire as the conscripts crowded around the armored sides of the Borillo. From all sides came the gunfire, as Mikhail joined the conscripts, taking cover from the fire. The Borillo came to a halt, with the two Tesla troopers from the front acting as shields for those on the sides. Boris was the last to flee from the front of the Borillo, but while he was on his way to cover, a bullet struck him in the gut, sending him down to the ground. Dasha let out a mournful whine as she approached her master.
"Nyet!" Mikhail shouted. A strange desperation came over him: strange in that he had never felt this way about anyone before. Most people in Michalovce he ignored, and those who didn't ignore him he wished would or that harm would come to them. But now he wanted for harm not to come to Boris. Brazenly he broke cover, standing behind a Tesla trooper for cover and firing forward with his Tokarev from behind the soldier.
"It's nothing!" Boris protested. It was, of course, not true. His first wound had only broken skin and drawn a nominal amount of blood. These wounds were deep and still gushing, despite his filthy hands trying to stop the flow.
"They've got us pinned, sir!" a conscript shouted, firing with his pepesha back down the tunnel, where the explosion had come from.
Trapped. Before them lay the exit of the tunnel, which could be discerned by the light from outside. But there was gunfire from that way, bouncing off the armor of the Tesla troopers and the front of the Borillo. Behind them lay where they had come, and where their comrades would be expecting to arrive to reinforce them. But now it was blocked, and possibly by an American tank: maybe even an Abrams tank, one that could actually go toe-to-toe with a Nosorog and whose 120mm main gun could make short work of the armored Borillo. Nevertheless, stray bullets were getting through and the seven remaining conscripts who hadn't died in the explosion were being picked off one by one.
"Der'mo!" Boris swore as he tried to push himself up into a sitting position. "Where is gun?"
Mikhail saw it on the side of the tunnel. After a call of "Prikroy menya!", he ran through the open, picked up the AK-47 and gave it back to Boris.
"Nyet, not yet," Boris breathed. "Need to keep pressure on wound. Reach into ruck-sack, find anti-armor rounds. The heavy ones!"
Under fire, with his friend's life and those of his company in the balances, Mikhail frantically searched through the contents of the ruck-sack, until he pulled out a clip of AK ammo that was heavier than the standard ammo clip of the AK-47. Despite being heavier, it fit just as easily as the standard clip. No sooner had he completed this, but Boris placed one bloody hand on the weapon.
"Push forward, Comrade General," Boris said. "Take care of Dasha. Don't let her follow me." He turned to the dog. "You hear that, devushka? Ostavat'sya."
"Nyet!" Mikhail retorted. "We need you! You're a hero of the Soviet people!"
"I'm done for," Boris shook his head. "If you win today, you will be hero of Soviet people." Boris then pushed himself up onto his feet, though he was still bleeding from the bullet wound in his stomach. Though he was unsteady on his feet, he stood defiant against his mortal wound. He straightened his ushanka, then gripped his AK with both hands. Then he ran back down the tunnel, firing his AK-47 and laughing as he went. Cheers rose up from those who remained around the Borillo. Dasha was barking after her master. Mikhail, meanwhile, was momentarily stunned. Go forward with the mission or risk all to save Boris?
"Vpered, tovarishchi!" he shouted, Tokarev aimed at the light at the end of the tunnel.
The last few meters they purchased with blood. The rest of the conscripts around the Borillo were shot down, but Mikhail, Dasha and the last two Tesla troopers remained unharmed. Once they reached the barricade, the Borillo drove the rest of the way, setting alight the American defenders. The acrid stench of burning flesh and the screams filled the tunnel, causing Mikhail to fear once again for the life of his friend. His hand momentarily relaxed its grip on the leash and Dasha took off down the tunnel.
"Podozhdite!" he cried after the dog. But Dasha did not wait.
The Borillo cleared out the remaining defenders while Mikhail ran after the fleeing dog. The tunnel was silent, for the Borillo had left the entrance and its engine could only barely be heard. Even the sound of gunfire had ceased. Out of the sullen silence came the wimpering of the husky; that sound made Mikhail's heart fall to his feet. Putting forth all of his effort, he ran the last leg of the way, passing the bodies of those that had been gunned down in the cross-fire as well as the conscripts and Tesla trooper at the rear-guard, who had died in the exploding tank shot. A few meters onward he could see smoke billowing from an American tank, and several other bodies lying dead around it. But it was the sight between him and the tank that made his heart stop yet again.
Dasha was kneeling down next to a body lying on the ground, in a small pool of crimson blood. Mikhail approached and saw, to his horror, that the body was of Boris. He had been the first friend he made in his life, and now here he lay upon the ground, lifeless in his own blood. Mikhail now stood before the body: he wanted to look away, but he could not. For all that the commissars and the Politburo called this war a "glorious crusade", it seemed faint and distant: Michalovce and the name of Jozef Tankian were more real than the promises of glory and reward. Instead there was the reality of men dying: men who had living families, friends, loved ones back home that would never see them again.
Mikhail turned away and discharged his morning's rations onto the floor of the Holland Tunnel. The stinging bitterness of stomach acids upon his tongue brought his mouth into a fierce, open scowl. The heat of battle-fury was replaced with cold anger: he wanted to make the Americans pay for what they had done to him personally.
But while he was standing here, plotting his revenge, the world hadn't waited for him. Behind him the Borillo had unloaded the rest of the company, who were now wondering what happened to their leader. Closer at hand, Dasha turned to Mikhail, looking up at him inquisitively. In the dog's eyes he saw one that was afraid, wondering what had happened to her master and friend. Then came back into Mikhail's mind the knowledge that his company awaited him, just as Dasha was now awaiting her new friend.
"We're not done here," he told the dog. Putting the Tokarev back into its holster, he walked over to the dog and patted her on the head. Then, as reverently as possible, he removed Boris' ruck-sack and slung it onto his own shoulders, then took up the AK-47 in hand.
The company waited at the exit of the tunnel. In all of them echoed one question: where were the commander and Comrade Boris? The Tesla troopers told those from inside the Borillo that they had gone back down the tunnel but had not returned. Now they waited anxiously, looking back towards the tunnel, now hazy from the smoke of the Borillo's attack at the entrance, to see if they were arriving. At length two figures appeared, and cheers were heard. The cheers died down as they saw that only one of those figures was human: the other was Boris' dog. The one human figure was their commander, General-Major Mikhail Lazarev, wielding Boris' AK-47. Whispers echoed among the troops as they wondered what might have happened to Comrade Boris.
"Sir?" one dared to ask. "Where is Comrade Boris?"
"He has fallen," Mikhail replied grimly. The soldiers gasped in shock; some hung their heads in sorrow, others turned their eyes to Mikhail. Like Dasha, they were looking for someone to lead them.
"But we will not let his sacrifice be in vain," Mikhail firmly said. "We will take this city for him! Are you with me?"
There was no general cry of agreement, but a grim, solemn nodding. They accepted what had been said and would follow through. Nothing more needed to be said.
1030 Eastern Time. January 1st, 1982
Simultaneously broadcast to every time zone in the United States was the news update from New York City. It wasn't necessarily a news report, though the Cable News Network, headquartered in the Time Warner Center building in New York, had been allowed to remain operational even after Manhattan fell. It was a video message from Premier Alexander Romanov to the United States of America. Among the footage displayed were scenes of Soviet soldiers waving the red flag along Broadway, the American commander of the defense of New York City, one Captain Theodore Lowe, on his knees surrounded by soldiers with machine guns, footage of the skies filled with massive airships with demon-faced painted on their noses.
In addition, the people, from what was left of California to DC, Alaska and Texas, saw the fall of the Statue of Liberty and its crumbled ruin.
"In but a moment's time," Romanov continued, speaking in English for his American audience. "Your once powerful city of New York has fallen before the might of the Red Army! The choice is yours, people of the United States: you can continue to mourn your past, or surrender and join us in the great Soviet revolution. We are the future!"
(AN: I tried to make the New York invasion seem as HUGE as it appears on the box-art and as it feels while listening to "Hell March 2". The one part that i didn't like that i, unfortunately, chose to put in this story was Boris' death. Apparently the Mental Omega team, being SO enamored with RA1: Counterstrike, decided to kill off one of my favorite characters and replace him with generic, emotionless cyborg and his robot dog [i like some of the things they did, but there were SOME things that i didn't like: that was one of them].)
(As you can see, i got to have a character from RA3 appear in this story: Nikolai Moskvin. He's one of the coolest characters in Red Alert 3, just because he's so crazy; he's like a less psychotic version of Ramsay Bolton from Game of Thrones. In this version, he's not a commander, but a captain of the 1st Tesla division [and the one who writes 'Moscow' on the 'Welcome to New York' sign from the box-art of RA2, at least in my version].)
(Also, speaking of cameos, yes, that American commando was none other than Agent Tanya [RA2 version, specifically]. Unfortunately, i couldn't use any lines from RA2/YR for this first showdown, so i ended up using two lines from RA1 Tanya. I'm sure this caused some manner of confusion, since some fans believe that Tanya in RA2 is the same Tanya Adams from RA1. Even if you go by the "official" dating of the two games, which puts RA1 in the early 50s and RA2 in 1972 instead of 1982 [like in Mental Omega, and this story], that would put her in her forties by RA2, assuming she's in her twenties in RA1 [i personally say early 30s, but that's just me]. I know we like Tanya, but she's not Kane! So for the purpose of this story, i'm having that "Agent Tanya" was created after the success of mercenary Tanya Adams from RA1, making her kind of like "James Bond" in that more than one person could be 007 [whether they're Connery, Brosnan or Craig], but not at the same time.)
