Chapter 1
NORTH American Aerospace Defense COMMAND.
Cheyenne Mountains.
Colorado, USA.
June 1st, 1989
"Thanks for the coffee, man."
"You got it." the other missileer said from his station. It was another usual night waiting in their bunker in the Cheyenne mountains, watching the screens and waiting to see if the President would give the order to blow the USSR and it's Warsaw Pact Satellite states in Eastern Europe.
It had been a quiet shift so far. John sipped his coffee and scanned the various radar screens and readouts once more. Everything appeared calm and routine.
Across the command center, some of the other missileers chatted casually as they monitored their stations. A few played solitaires on their computers to pass the time. In the break room, others relaxed over fresh pots of coffee.
John stifled a yawn. The midnight hours often dragged on without much happening. Still, they had to stay alert in case of any anomalies. You never knew when tensions could flare up overseas and things might suddenly get busy.
For now, all looked peaceful. Satellite imagery showed no unexpected military movements from the Soviets. Early warning systems were silent. It was shaping up to be another quiet night. John settled back in his chair, content to watch the computer screens while occasionally chatting with his fellow crewmates. Just another routine shift so far at NORAD, protecting America's skies through the long dark hours.
And then the ground started shaking. John spilled hot coffee down his coveralls and screamed, "Son of a bitch!"
Alarms began blaring as radar screens flickered and went black. "We've lost all satellite feeds!" someone called out.
The rumbling grew more intense as ceiling tiles rained down. Consoles sparked as equipment shorted out. The emergency generators kicked on, flickering the emergency lights on and off.
"Earthquake!" someone yelled over the din. It was the biggest tremor anyone had ever felt in Colorado. Files and papers flew everywhere as the bunker shook violently.
As suddenly as it started, the quake ended. But the damage was done. Every screen was dark. Nothing was responding.
"What the hell just happened?" John cried. An uneasy silence fell over the command center, lit only by the stuttering emergency lights.
Then the radio crackled to life. "NORAD, this is Cheyenne Mountain. We just got slammed by an 8.5 earthquake and some kind of massive electromagnetic pulse. The whole base is down. Sending a damage assessment team your way."
An EMP? John and the others exchanged nervous looks. That could only mean one thing - a nuclear attack. But nothing had shown up on radar. Was this the opening salvo of a sneak Soviet assault on America? They could only wait in the dark for answers.
Duga Radar Array.
Chernobyl
Ukrainian SSR
June 1st, 1989
Major Efim Sergeevich Nechayev sighed as he watched the radar screen. Another boring night monitoring the Duga radar array. Then suddenly, the entire base seemed to lurch sideways as the ground violently shook.
Alarms blared as every screen in the radar control room flickered and went dark. "Earthquake!" someone yelled. But this was like no quake Nechayev had ever felt - it seemed to go on and on.
As quickly as it started, the shaking stopped. An eerie silence fell. Then panic set in as operators tried in vain to restart dead consoles. "REPORT!" Nechayev bellowed.
"Some kind of power surge, Comrade Major," said the head technician. "It overloads the entire electrical grid. Backup generators are not functioning."
Nechayev swore. Without power, the massive Duga radar array was blind. He radioed the nearby Chernobyl nuclear plant. "What is happening over there? We need emergency power now!"
But there was only static. Nechayev grew more concerned - had America launched an electromagnetic pulse attack, knocking out Soviet defenses? Was this the opening move of WWIII?
As backup generators were manually started, Nechayev could only wait anxiously in the dark for answers. Whatever had happened, both military and civilian infrastructure seemed crippled. It would take time to assess the full scale of the damage.
V.I Lenin Nuclear Power Plant.
Chernobyl, Ukrainian SSR
Viktor Petrovich Bryukhanov ran out of his office at top speed, an EMP had occurred, along with an Earthquake no less, worse, the Duga Array was nearby, they were probably contacting them too, he would send a man out to check.
"Report!" he shouted above the din. His deputy stumbled over, covered in cuts and bruises. "Some kind of massive electromagnetic pulse, Comrade Director," he shouted in Bryukhanov's ear. "It's overloaded every electrical system in the plant."
"Mother of god, 8.5 on the Richter scale, unbelievable." That crossed out the Americans attacking, a freak accident then?
He sent men to check the diesel backups. No response. Batteries were dead too from the power surge. Without power, cooling for the reactors would be lost. They had to act fast.
"Use telephone lines to Duga," he ordered. "Find out if they are responding. And get emergency generators started, now!" Men raced to comply as Bryukhanov surveyed the damaged control room with rising panic.
If power wasn't restored quickly, they were looking at a core meltdown that could poison all of Europe. But with infrastructure across Belarus and Ukraine potentially shut down too, help seemed a long way off. By whatever freak act of nature had caused this disaster, Chernobyl was now locked in a desperate race against time.
Leonid Toptunov ran to the jeep, he had to get to Duga, fast! They must have information, and why weren't they responding. He floored the jeep as it bumped and slid across the darkened base. Finally he screeched to a halt outside the radar operations building.
Sure enough, the duty officer was standing outside, smoking a cigarette by flashlight in the eerie silence. "Well?" Leonid demanded as he jumped out.
"We've had better nights, Comrade," the man replied dryly. "That quake knocked out all our systems. Generator won't catch either."
Leonid swore. "And communications? You didn't answer the plant."
The man took a long drag. "Phone lines are down. Radios dead too from the EMP burst. I sent a man to check our transmitter but he ain't returned."
A cold weight settled in Leonid's stomach. No power, no contact with the outside. Just then, shaking flashlight beams appeared out of the darkness - it was the repair team, carrying something between them.
"You'll want to see this, Comrades," said the technician grimly. They lowered their burden - it was the transmitter crewman, neck broken at a horrible angle.
Leonid paled. An accident in the chaos? Or something more sinister blocking their calls for help in the blacked-out zone? He realized with a shiver that out here, cut off in the night, they were utterly alone.
SHAPE Headquarters.
Brussels.
"God almighty," General Rogers muttered as he pored over the reconnaissance reports. As SACEUR, he was meant to be ready for anything, but this bordered on the absurd.
Cities merging overnight alongside existing ones was simply unheard of. And now the news out of East Germany - the collapse of the Berlin Wall and Honecker's government within hours of the initial disturbance.
He gathered his top commanders. "Gentlemen, this situation threatens to spiral out of control quickly if not handled with restraint. What's the status of our forces?"
"All NATO units are on high alert as ordered, sir," replied his operations chief. "But we've lost communications with many of our liaison offices and observers throughout the Eastern Bloc."
Rogers sighed. His mandate was clear - protect Western Europe. But with opaque intentions from these new players and the Soviet withdrawal underway, any false move could be disastrous.
"Pull our forward units back across the old Inner-German border for now. And get me the Pentagon - we need Washington's guidance on engaging with these newcomers. The last thing we want is an accidental clash that ignites broader conflict in such a volatile environment."
All they could do for now was hang on to stability along the lines they knew, while groping in the dark towards understanding in lands reshaped beyond recognition. Rogers prayed diplomacy could outpace escalation in the coming days.
Democratic People's Republic of Afghanistan
40th Army HQ.
Kabul
1989
Major General Boris Ivanenko frowned at the banks of dead radios in the command center. Without contact with Moscow or their forward bases, the 40th Army was blind in this dangerous country.
"What's the status of our units?" he barked at his chief of staff.
"All divisions report being out of contact, but remain at readiness. The Afghan Army is also affected and tensions are rising in some areas. Without directives, our advisors are having difficulty maintaining order," the officer replied tensely.
Ivanenko rubbed his temples. After years of grinding counterinsurgency, the last thing they needed was uncertainty sowing instability. Both sides could see opportunity in a perceived power vacuum.
"Send my liaison to Dr. Najibullah," he decided. "Inform him we are temporarily unable to coordinate but remain committed allies. Advise restraint on all sides until communications are restored."
"Comrade General! See what we've found!" Ivanenko looked up to see 2 VDV, followed by two Afghanis dragging something that suspiciously looked like a body.
On closer Inspection, Ivanenko found it to be a young teenage girl, unconscious. She was wearing what looked like a Khaki British uniform from the Great Patriotic War no less, and were those animal ears on her head? She wasn't wearing any pants, and yet strange engine-like contraptions were strapped to her legs.
He stood up, "You there, Leytenant, what the fuck is this?"
The young man grinned "We found her in the desert!"
"Have you tried removing those...things."
"We tried sir, they're strapped on by some means." the boy did not lose his smile. "But that, is an Inglandski, RAF, no?"
"Remove the things, please." Ivanenko ordered. The men got to work at once, loudly making noise.
"Gently, gently!" snapped Ivanenko as the paratroopers fumbled with the strange contraptions. The unconscious girl stirred but did not wake.
Ivanenko examined her curious outfit more closely - the material and seams were unlike any standard uniform, although familiar because it was cotton. And those ears...was she wearing a prosthetic disguise of some kind?
A clanking made him turn. One of the Afghans had picked up a fallen...propeller? of shining metal. He tried turning it uselessly with a grin that faded at Ivanenko's icy stare.
"Enough foolishness. Take her to the military hospital - carefully. No one touches anything until the doctors examine her. And you!" He glared at the grinning paratrooper. "Grow up and do your duty or I'll have you cleaning latrines till we leave this cursed country!"
As they hurried away, Ivanenko ran a weary hand over his face. In all his years in service, he had seen much, but never anything like this bizarre girl. He prayed she brought no further ill omens, and those communications returned before more mysteries arose in this ominous dark. For now, duty was maintaining order in uncertainty.
Daoud Khan Military Hospital
KGB Officer Yeknov
Major Vitaly Bohdanovich Yeknov made his way through the hospital tent (it was a shortcut) when a patient caught his eye. She looked English, though very young. She was unconscious and was wearing a hospital gown. He walked over to a doctor, a Lithuanian chap. "Get me her things, if any were found. Her clothes, everything"
The doctor arrived with...a khaki British uniform top from the second world war. It looked terribly authentic.
"Where is the rest of it?"
"This is all she was wearing when she was found, comrade. As well as her panties, would you like me to bring them too?" the doctor asked sarcastically.
Yeknov merely glared at the doctor's insolence. He examined the strange garment more closely, taking in the accurate craftsmanship of the garment as per British wartime procedures.
Two questions burned in his mind - who was this mysterious girl, and how did she come to be here half-clad with technology looking like jetpacks attached to her body?
He turned to the still unconscious patient, gazing at her youthful face framed by catlike ears. Something told him this was no ordinary missing POW case.
"Keep me informed the moment she wakes. I must report this finding to my superiors and get their guidance." Yeknov folded the uniform carefully. "Until then, see she comes to no harm. And doctor - not a word of this to anyone. Am I clear?"
The doctor nodded curtly. With the nation incommunicado, Yeknov knew discretion was paramount to avoid panic. But getting answers on this stranger who had seemingly materialized from thin air was now his top priority. The KGB left nothing to chance - and this mystery demanded clarity.
"Valery Yakovich, what can you tell me about this?" Yeknov asked a tailor of all people. However, this army tailor was also horribly well versed in Second World War History, and uniform's.
"Hmm...Standard British desert uniform, most often seen in pictures of the North Africa Campaign. And it's weathered too, where did you find this? Most of these are usually in museums" Valery Yakovich Gerasimov asked.
"That is classified." Yeknov replied.
The tailor laughed. "I wish"
"Tell me more about this uniform." Yeknov demanded.
"Well, for a supposed relic that I assume you "found" somewhere here in Afghanistan, it is in surprisingly good shape. One would expect that this garment is in such good shape that it can be worn right now."
"Some of the people who found this said it is authentic. Is that true?"
"Hmm." Gerasimov ran practiced hands over the fabric. "It appears to be authentic khaki wool, the correct color and weave for a British PLCE desert uniform, mid-20th century. Buttons are proper aluminum style."
He pointed to faint stamps on the interior. "Markings indicate made by 'Sewgood Ltd,' major army kit supplier at the time. Stitches are tight and uniform - this was quality tailoring."
"So, in your expert opinion, this is an authentic British uniform from the time period?" Yeknov pressed.
Gerasimov ran a hand along the short hem. "Da, authentic materials and tailoring. Yet..." He peered closer. "No fading, no wear on hems or seams even after decades. Impossible for a dug-up relic."
Yeknov maintained a neutral façade but inwardly cursed - the tailor was too canny. "Perhaps it was stored carefully all this time."
"In the Afghan desert?" Gerasimov raised an eyebrow. "And found intact, with not a spot of dust? Forgive me, but I know relics. This shows no aging whatsoever."
He fixed Yeknov with a probing stare. "Where exactly did you obtain this, comrade?"
Yeknov held his gaze steadily. "That information is classified, as I said. All I require is your expert opinion on authenticity. Can you confirm it or not?"
Gerasimov sighed. "Da, by all outward analysis it is a genuine example from the time period. But I warn you, Colonel - this uniform's condition tells another story. One I think you are not sharing." He handed it back carefully.
"That is none of your concern, Valery Yakovich, especially at your age."
The tailor shrugged. "I joined the army in December 1945, too late to take Berlin."
"Pah, we all have our roles to play in this war, comrade," Yenkov replied coolly.
"And some see more than they let on. But no matter - I'll keep this uniform safe until my tour is over, da? Perhaps one day I return to Mother Russia and donate it, as you say."
He ran an appraising eye over Yeknov. "Though by the look of you, secrets here may outlast us both. So, stay vigilant, tovarisch. Wars have eyes in strange places."
Yeknov's face darkened. "You overstep, old man. My business is for my station alone. Yours is hemming pants, yes?"
Gerasimov smiled wryly. "For now. But this old tailor still has sharp eyes and ears, even this far from home. So, watch that tough KGB hide of yours doesn't crack under pressure."
With a scowl, Yeknov took his leave, uniform in hand. But in his heart suspicion lingered - had the old sabaka sniffed more than he let on? He would file this wrinkled interloper away, just in case, "Does this Pertain to the young girl in ward 13 of the military hospital?" Gerasimov slyly called out.
Yeknov's head snapped back. "Eh?"
"Mitya, a younger tailor here was visiting his friend who was admitted there. He saw a girl being wheeled in."
A chill went through Yeknov at Gerasimov's words. He turned slowly, eyes steely.
"You seem well-informed for a tailor. Tell me, do all your fellows share gossip so freely?"
Gerasimov met his gaze calmly. "We all keep ears open in an army, tovarisch. No harm meant, merely connecting details."
Yeknov descended the steps in a few long strides, until his face was mere inches from the tailor's. His voice came in a low rasp.
"There are no 'details' to connect, old man. You would do well to forget anything your friends may have seen or heard regarding that patient. Do I make myself clear?"
For a fleeting moment something dangerous flickered in Gerasimov's eyes. But then he blinked, smile returning gently as fallen snow.
"As clear as your concern, comrade colonel. My loose tongue shall wag no more on this matter. You have my word. As long as you don't make my friends disappear."
A long, tense moment passed between them. Then Yeknov gave a curt nod and strode away, leaving the tailor alone with his curiosities and the mystery uniform.
The Pentagon.
June 1st, 1989.
POTUS, Ronald Reagan.
The president lifted the lid of the jellybean jar and took one out. Strawberry, he mused before popping it into his mouth. Replacing the lid, he turned to look at the Joint Chiefs and his other advisors who summoned him.
"At approximately 1 AM, Washington Time, an 8.5 earthquake was felt all around the world." General Henry Walters, his Chief of Army, read off of the folder open in front of him. In front of the large table, a single projector showed various maps and other such documents. "While our first guess was an EMP strike due to the Colorado missile complex going offline. The fact that we're still sitting here alive and Colorado coming online hours later rules out an EMP and that what we just witnessed was a very big earthquake."
"Where did this earthquake begin?" Reagan asked.
"An Island somewhere in the Pacific."
"If this is just an earthquake." George W Bush spoke up. "Why did you call the president here?"
It was SecDef who answered this time.
"Because whatever this earthquake is or was for that matter. It has gotten the Warsaw Pact utterly agitated." He flicked a button on the remote, which caused the projector to display a map of Europe. Eastern Europe to be precise.
"Our birds in orbit took these only hours after the quake." He stated. "It started with Soviet formations from the Central Group of Forces, which are those stationed in Poland and Czechoslovakia, move closer to the East German border, inside what had been the German region of Prussia and East Prussia. We have an intelligence officer embedded deep within the Polish People's Army. He reported that there were reports coming in from that place. Some kind of massive disturbance that was causing an exodus of their citizens eastward, namely Warsaw, Lublin, and Krakow."
"Did your man say anything about the cause of this exodus?" Reagan said.
"No sir." SecDef responded. "What he did tell us was that forward units of the Polish People's Army, namely the 7th Navel Assault Division have engaged in combat with an unknown force. He said he'd report more once he gets new Info."
The secretary took a quick sip of water before pressing the remote again. The picture on-screen changed to that of a zoom-in on East Germany.
"Honecker's government meanwhile has collapsed completely. The Berlin Wall has been torn down."
There was a flutter of gasps and murmurs of disbelief. He continued. "Remnants of the National People's army are split. Hardline, Stasi and elite units are withdrawing to areas near the Polish border with soviet GSFSG (Group of Soviet Forces Germany) units."
"And the other faction?" Regen asked.
"Pro-unification units of the NVA have opened up the border crossings. Communiques have also been issued by what seems to be a group of generals in East Berlin and politicians from various political parties."
"What are they made up of? You said most of the elite and hardline units are retreating east. What about these?"
Reagan turned to his Secretary of Defense. "What exactly is happening in East Berlin? Who are these generals and what are their communiqués saying?"
The SecDef tapped a button, bringing up a translated document. "The group identifying themselves as the Council for National Recovery, sir. They're made up of mid-level NVA officers as well as Party officials who've turned against Honecker. In their messages, they declare the SED government dissolved and call for free elections to reunify Germany under a new democratic constitution."
General Walters leaned forward. "It's unclear if they have full control of the country yet, but significant elements of the East German security forces have joined or stood aside. Our concern is how Moscow will respond once they regain communications. A puppet state breaking apart is not something they'll accept calmly."
"Do we have profiles on these generals?" Reagan asked.
"Our intel is still thin, Mr. President, but one name stands out - General Armin Schaefer. A career officer who commanded the 9th Panzer Division based near Dresden. According to Stasi files, he had grown increasingly critical of Honecker's hardline policies in private."
"So, this earthquake opens up a chance for dissent within the apparatus," Bush mused. "The regime cracks under the pressure."
Reagan turned to the SecDef again. "And the Soviets - what's their posture? Are they making any moves to intervene?"
"That's just it sir," the SecDef replied grimly. "According to our recon flights and satellite imagery, Soviet units near the German border seem to be retreating eastward in line with the hardliners. But they're not engaging this new pro-German leadership either. It's as if the whole Eastern Bloc is...adrift, with no orders from Moscow."
He shook his head. "We've never seen the Soviets back away from an opportunity to assert control. This earthquake seems to have paralyzed their command structure as much as ours."
Reagan pondered this unfolding crisis. "So, Moscow's grip is slipping, yet could chaos spread wider? These pro-unification units, what is their makeup General?"
The General replied. "Intelligence suggests they are drawing support from lower ranks disillusioned with hardliner policies, as well as civilian protestors. Additionally, our sources indicate members of the bloc parties like the CDU and LDP have joined the movement. They seem to be advocating for free elections and reunification negotiations with West Germany."
"A delicate situation," mused Reagan. "An opening for democracy, yet also unrest the Soviets may try exploit. What is the status of US forces in Europe?"
"All commands report readiness. Our presence deters aggression but can't influence internal dynamics. For now, we closely monitor and stand by to assist refugees if the situation deteriorates further."
"That's not all." CIA director William. H Webster spoke up. "Bonn is communicating with a mysterious third party within Berlin proper. My BND liaison informed that Chancellor Kohl and his government are communicating with a mysterious faction in the city. He was unable to tell me more but did reveal that the signal being used is coming from the Berlin Palace."
"What!" Walters leaned in onto the table. "That's ridiculous! The Berlin palace was destroyed during the 50s and 60s with a new "Palace of the Republic" being built in its place!"
"No, Webster's correct." Defense said, pointing at the map of Berlin. Sure, enough the palace was there. There was no sign that the SED built one ever existed.
"Is it me or does Berlin look…Bigger." A homeland security representative pushed his glasses back up.
"God damn you're right…"
Before they could speak again, the door burst open, and a harried secret service agent ran in.
"Mr. President! Urgent call from the White House for you sir!"
Reagan rose from his seat. "What's the problem?"
"You won't believe it sir! FDR's alive in the Oval Office Sir!"
A few minutes ago.
White House Courtyard
Washington DC.
"Control this is team 3, we just finished our third pass of the night." The armed member of the SSUD (Secret Service uniformed Division) spoke into his walkie talkie.
"Anything to report?" Control was the central guardhouse just east of the residence. It was currently staffed by a night shift crew of Secret Service members who were responsible for the security of the President's house.
"Oh, nothing except a big toad on the grass near me. Send a squad over to deal with the intruder." Powell snarked. His partner stifled his laughter.
"Har Har Powell, complete your circuit."
"Wilco." Powell closed the connection and slid the walkie talkie back into his pocket. "What?" he glared at his partner, who was now laughing openly.
"Nothing." He stifled another chuckle behind his hand.
"Oh Grow up Robins." Powell scoffed as he turned and began to walk. Robins joined him.
They made a full round back and stood behind the window to the Oval Office. It was there that Robins noticed something odd.
"Hey Powell, is the president back from the Pentagon?" he asked.
"Huh, what do you mean?"
"The lights are on in the Oval Office, you didn't realize?" Robins gestured to the fact that their shadows were spread over the grass. Turning to look behind themselves, Powell found that what Robins had said was true and that the lights were indeed on. Even though the curtains were drawn they could still see light…and shadows!
"Hey Control." Powell said after switching on his walkie talkie. "Did the President get back from the Pentagon yet?
"The President? No, not yet."
"So, who's throwing the midnight party in the Oval Office control? Over." he asked.
There was a pregnant pause as Control was probably rushing to their monitors and checking their screens.
"Powell…uh, there's someone in the Oval Office."
"I know dipshit." Powell snarled into the transmitter. "Now, y'all better be watching your computer screens. Me and Robbie are about to crash a party."
Sliding his walkie talkie back, he took out his Colt M1911. Flicking the safety off and checking the chamber he turned his head in Robins direction and herked it towards the Oval Office.
"C'mon Robins, the quicker we do this, the sooner we can go to sleep."
"Alright." Robins did the same with his weapon and they both headed to the entrance.
Walking up the steps, they went through the corridors rapidly. It was a little unnerving to be inside so late especially when most of the rooms were dim. They soon arrived on the door to the Oval Office itself.
Sharing a glance with Robins, who nodded in affirmation. Powell took a deep breath to steady his nerves. One hand was on his 1911. The other was on the doorknob. With a grunt, he pushed it open.
"Secret Service! On the Grou~ oh…"
"God Almighty." Powell breathed in disbelief at the scene in front of him. "It's FDR!"
Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the man who'd led the US of A through the Second World War, was somehow alive. In his wheelchair in front of the President's desk. Surrounded by his advisors, men like Patton, Marshall, the legends of every West Point Cadet as well as First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt.
"Robins, watch these guys." He hissed to Robins. "I'm gonna check on First Lady Reagan, and radio for reinforcements." He slowly backed away out of the room before breaking into a sprint up the stairs.
Just what the Hell was going on?
Note, there will be alight AH elements in this 1989 such as:
Chernobyl Disaster never occuring.
Soviet Victory in Afghanistan
The merge with the SW version of Earth has begin! In the next chapter, we'll be going to Moscow.
And just who is this third faction in Berlin? Write your answers in the comments!