Chapter 2


Moscow. RFSR.


The clock had just struck 1 AM Moscow time, when Mikhail Eduardovich Sergetov, received an urgent summons. Shaving quickly before getting into a neatly pressed suit, the Soviet energy minister kissed his still-asleep wife goodbye before leaving his official dacha in the birch forests surrounding Moscow. He'd never gotten to read the wire service report, instead, he had flown straight to Nizhnevartovsk. Three months on the job. He thought, sitting in the empty forward cabin of the IL-86 airliner, and this has to happen! His two principal deputies, a pair of skilled young engineers had been left behind and were trying to make sense of the chaos and save what could be saved, as he reviewed his notes for the Politburo meeting later in an hour. Three hundred me, were known to have been killed, fighting that fire, and miraculously. Fewer than two hundred citizens in the city of Nizhnevartovsk. That was unfortunate but not a matter of great significance except that insofar as those trained men killed would have to be replaced by other trained men on the staffs of other such large refineries and processing facilities.

The refinery itself was almost completely and fully destroyed. Reconstruction would take a minimum of two to three years and would account for a sizable amount of national steel pipe production, plus all the other specialty items and equipment unique to such a facility of this type: Fifteen thousand million rubles. And how much of the special equipment would foreign sources—how much precious hard currency and gold would be wasted? And that was the good news. The bad news: the fire that had engulfed the production field had totally destroyed the welltops. Time to replace: at least thirty-six months! Thirty-six months, Sergetov reflected bleakly, if we can divert the drill rigs and crews to redrill every damned well and at the same time rebuild the EOR systems. For a minimum of eighteen months, the Soviet Union will have an enormous shortfall in oil production. Probably more like thirty months. What will happen to our economy? He pulled a pad of lined paper from his briefcase and began to make some calculations. It was a three-hour flight, and Sergetov did not notice it was over until the pilot came back to announce they had landed. He looked with squinted eyes at the snow-covered landscape of Vnukovo-2, the VIP-only airport outside of Moscow, and walked alone down the boarding stairs.

Vitaly, his KGB driver was already waiting outside with the ZIL limousine. Sergetov entered wordlessly. "Drive." He ordered. The ZIL gave a slow hum before it began to move.

Moscow at this time was deserted, which was a good thing. It allowed Sergetov to reach the Kremlin in record time. The first streaks of orange were already spreading through the sky, dawn was close, though what it would bring today was what Sergetov was thinking about as he mulled over the latest figures that he had already rechecked dozens of times in a row.

Sergetov had been a candidate (non-voting) member of the Politburo for just six months, which meant that he, along with his eight other junior colleagues, he advised the thirteen men who alone made the decisions that mattered in the Soviet Union. His portfolio was energy production and distribution. He'd held that post for about five months and was just entering his sixth month as of today, the first of June, and was only beginning to establish his plan for a total reorganization of the seven regional and all-union ministries that handled energy functions and predictably spent most of their time battling one another-into a full department that reported directly to the Politburo and Party Secretariat, instead of having to work through the Council of Ministers bureaucracy. He briefly closed his eyes to thank God-there might be one, he reasoned that his first recommendation, delivered only a month earlier, had concerned security and political reliability in many of the fields his ministry was responsible for. He had specifically recommended that further Russification of the largely "foreign" workforce. For this reason, he did not fear for his own career, which up to now had been an uninterrupted success story. He shrugged. The task he was about to face would decide his future in any case. And perhaps his country's.

The ZIL proceeded down Leningardskiy Prospekt, which turned into Gor'kogo, the limousine speeding through the center lane that policemen kept clear of traffic for the use of the vlasti but was empty at this time anyway. They motored past the Intourist Hotel into Red Square and finally approached the Kremlin gate. Here, the driver did stop for the security checks, three of them, conducted by KGB troops and soldiers of the Taman Guards. Five minutes later, The Taman Guards lieutenant stationed at the gate saluted them through and the limousine pulled to the door of the Kremlin State Palace, a modern glass and concrete design, with nearly half of it (17 meters) submerged underground, the sole modern structure in the fortress. The Kremlin Senate, where the Council usually convened in was closed for repairs. Sergetov leaned down to Vitaly in the driver's seat, instructing him to park and wait for him. The guards here knew Sergetov by sight and saluted crisply as they held open the door so that his exposure to the freezing temperatures would last but a brief span of seconds.

The Politburo had been holding its meetings in this fourth-floor room for only a month while their usual quarters in the old Arsenal building were undergoing a belated renovation. The older men grumbled at the loss of Czarist comforts, but Sergetov preferred the modernity. About time, he thought, that the men of the party surround themselves with the works of socialism instead of the moldy trappings of the Romanovs.

The meeting room too was a modern one. A large table, and chairs for all its members. The room was deathly quiet as he entered. Had this been in the Arsenal, the fifty-four-year-old technocrat reflected, the atmosphere would have been altogether like a funeral-and there had been all too many of those. Slowly, the Party was running out of the old men who had survived Stalin's terror, and the current crop of members, all "young" men in their fifties or early sixties, was finally being heard. The guard was being changed. Too slowly—too damned slowly—for Sergetov and his generation of Party leaders, despite the new General Secretary

"Good day, Comrades." Sergetov said, handing his coat to an aide who moved at once, closing the doors behind him. The other men moved at once to their seats. Sergetov took his, halfway down the right side.

Valentin Mykolasivich Rodya had been a low-ranking party boss in Vilnius. A Lithuanian by birth, his name being the Russified version of Valentinas Rodjins. The up-and-coming Rodya had caught the eye of Andropov, and later Chernenko. His appointment to the post of General Secretary was surprising, but at the same time a thing that was bound to happen. He was a hardline Marxist-Leninist after all.

Comrade Sergetov, you may begin your report. First, we wish to hear your explanation of exactly what happened."

"Comrades, at approximately twenty-three hundred hours yesterday, Moscow Time, three armed men entered the central control complex of the Nizhnevartovsk oil complex and committed a highly sophisticated act of sabotage."

"Who were they?" the Defense Minister asked sharply.

We only have identification for two of them. One of the bandits was a staff electrician. The third"—Sergetov pulled the ID card from his pocket and tossed it on the table—"was Senior Engineer I.M. Tolkaze. He evidently used his expert knowledge of the control systems to initiate a massive fire which spread rapidly before high winds. A security team of ten KGB border guards responded at once to the alarm. The one traitor still unidentified killed or wounded five of these with a rifle taken from the building guard, who was also shot. I must say, having interviewed the KGB sergeant—the lieutenant was killed leading his men—that the border guards responded quickly and well. They killed the traitors within minutes, but were unable to prevent the complete destruction of the facility, both the refinery and production fields."

"And if the guards responded so fast, how then did they fail to prevent this act?" the Defense Minister demanded angrily. He examined the photographic pass with palpable hatred in his eyes. "What was this black-ass Muslim doing there in the first place?"

"Comrade, work in the Siberian fields is arduous, and we have had serious difficulties in filling the posts we have there. My predecessor decided to conscript experienced oil-field workers from the Baku region to Siberia. This was madness. You will recall that my first recommendation last year was to change this policy."

"We have noted it, Mikhail Eduardovich," the Chairman said. "Go on."

"The guard post records all telephone and radio traffic. The response team was moving in under two minutes. Unfortunately, the guard post is located adjacent to the original control building. The current building was constructed three kilometers away when new computerized control equipment was obtained from the West two years ago. A new guard post was also supposed to have been built, and the proper materials were allocated for this purpose. It would appear that these building materials were misappropriated by the complex director and local Party secretary, for the purpose of building dachas on the river a few kilometers away. Both of these men have been arrested by my order, for crimes against the State," Sergetov reported matter-of-factly. There was no reaction around the table. By unspoken consensus, those two men were sentenced to death; the formalities would be worked out by the proper ministries. Sergetov continued: "I have already ordered greatly increased security at all petroleum sites. Also on my orders, the families of the two known traitors have been arrested at their homes outside Baku and are being rigorously interrogated by State Security, along with all who knew and worked with them."

But how was this catastrophe possible?" a senior member asked. Sergetov was surprised by the quiet mood in the room. Had they met and discussed this affair already?

"My report of December 20 described the dangers here. This room quite literally controlled the pumps and valves for over a hundred square kilometers. The same is true of all of our large oil complexes. From the nerve center, a man familiar with control procedures could manipulate the various systems throughout the field at will, causing the entire complex quite simply to self- destruct. Tolkaze had such skill. He was an Azerbaijani chosen for special treatment for his intelligence and supposed loyalty, an honor student educated at Moscow State University and a member in good standing of the local Party. It would also seem that he was a religious fanatic capable of astounding treachery. All the people killed in the control room were friends of his-or so they thought. After fifteen years in the Party, a good salary, the professional respect of his comrades, even his own automobile, his last words were a shrill cry to Allah," Sergetov said dryly. "The reliability of people from that region cannot be accurately predicted, Comrades."

The Defense Minister nodded again. "So, what effect will this have on oil production?" Half the men at the table leaned forward to hear Sergetov's answer:

"Comrades, we have lost thirty-four percent of our total crude oil production for a period of at least one year, possibly as many as three." Sergetov looked up from his notes to see the impassive faces cringe as though from a slap. "It will be necessary to redrill every production well and finally reconstruct the pipelines from the fields to the refinery and elsewhere. The concurrent loss of the refinery is serious, but not an immediate concern since the refinery can be rebuilt, and in any case represents less than a seventh of our total refining capacity. The major injury to our economy will come from the loss of our crude oil production.

"In real terms, due to the chemical makeup of the Nizhnevartovsk oil, the net total production loss understates the actual impact on our economy. Siberian oil is 'light, sweet' crude, which means that it contains a disproportionately large amount of the most valuable fractions—those which we use to make gasoline, kerosene, and diesel fuel, for example. The net loss in these particular areas is forty-four percent of our gasoline production, forty-eight percent of kerosene, and fifty percent of diesel. These figures are rough calculations I made on the flight back, but they should be accurate to within two percent. My staff will have more precise figures ready in a day or so."

"Half?" the General Secretary asked quietly.

"Correct, Comrade," Sergetov responded.

"And how long to restore production?"

"Comrade General Secretary, if we bring in every drilling rig and operate them around the clock, my rough estimate is that we can begin to restore production in twelve months. Clearing the site of wreckage will take at least three months, and another three will be needed to relocate our equipment and commence drilling operations. Since we have exact information for well locations and depths, the usual element of uncertainty is not part of the equation. Within a year—that is, six months after we commence the redrilling— we will begin to bring the production wells back on stream, and full restoration of the wells will be achieved within two more years. While all this is going on, we will need to replace the EOR equipment also—"

"And what might that be?" Defense asked.

"Enhanced Oil Recovery systems, Comrade Minister. Had these been relatively new wells, pressurized from underground gas, the fires might have lasted for weeks. As you know, Comrades, these are wells from which a good deal of oil has already been extracted. To enhance production we have been pumping water into the wells, which has the effect of forcing more oil out. It may also have had the effect of damaging the oil-bearing strata. This is something our geologists are even now attempting to evaluate. As it was, when power was lost, the force driving the oil from the ground was removed, and the fires in the production fields rapidly began to run out of fuel. They were for the most part dying out when my flight left for Moscow."

"So even three years from now production may not be completely restored?" the Minister of the Interior asked.

"Correct, Comrade Minister. There is simply no scientific basis for making an estimate of total production. The situation we have here has never happened before, either in the West or the East. We can drill some test wells in the next two or three months that will give us some indications. The staff engineers I left behind are making arrangements to begin the process as quickly as possible with equipment already at the site."

"Very well," the General Secretary nodded. "The next question is how long the country can operate on this basis."

Sergetov went back to his notes. "Comrades, there is no denying that this is a disaster of unprecedented scale for our economy. The winter has drawn down our heavy oil inventories more than usual. Certain energy expenditures must remain relatively intact. Electrical power generation last year, for example, accounted for thirty-eight percent of our oil products, far more than planned, due to past disappointments in coal and gas production, which we had expected to reduce oil demand. The coal industry will require at least five years to restore due to failures in modernization. And gas drilling operations are currently slowed by environmental conditions. For technical reasons it is extremely hard to operate such equipment in extreme cold weather—"

"So make those lazy bastards on the drilling crews work harder!" suggested the chief of the Moscow Party.

"It is not the workers, Comrade." Sergetov sighed. "It is the machines. Cold temperature affects metal more than men. Tools and equipment break simply because they are brittle with cold. Weather conditions make resupply of spare parts to the camps more difficult. Marxism-Leninism cannot dictate the weather."

"How difficult would it be to conceal the drilling operations?" Defense asked.

Sergetov was surprised. "Difficult? No, Comrade Minister, impossible. How can one conceal several hundred drilling rigs, each twenty to forty meters high? One might as easily attempt to conceal Plesetsk's missile launch complexes." Sergetov noticed for the first time the glances being exchanged by Defense and the General Secretary.

"Then we must reduce the consumption of oil by the electrical industry," the General Secretary pronounced.

"Comrades, allow me to give you some rough figures on the way in which we consume our oil products. Please understand that I am going from memory, since the annual departmental report is in the process of formulation at this time.

"Last year we produced 589 million tons of crude oil. This fell short of planned production by thirty-two million tons, and the amount actually produced was only possible due to the artificial measures that I have already discussed. Roughly half of that production was semirefined into mazut, or heavy fuel oil, for use in electrical power plants, factory boilers, and the like. Most of this oil simply cannot be used otherwise, since we have only three— excuse me, now only two—refineries with the sophisticated catalytic cracking chambers needed to refine heavy oil into light distillate products.

"The fuels we produce serve our economy in many ways. As we have already seen, thirty-eight percent goes for electrical and other forms of power generation, and fortunately much of this is mazut. Of the lighter fuels—diesel, gasoline, and kerosene—agricultural production and the food industries, transportation of goods and commodities, public consumption and passenger transportation, and finally military uses, these alone absorbed more than half of last year's production. In other words, Comrades, with the loss of the Nizhnevartovsk field the end users I just mentioned account for more than we are able to produce, leaving nothing at all for metallurgy, heavy machinery, chemical, and construction uses, not to mention what we customarily export to our fraternal socialist allies in Eastern Europe and throughout the world.

"To answer your specific question, Comrade General Secretary, we can make perhaps a modest reduction in the use of light oils in electrical power usage, but even now we have a serious shortfall in electric power production, resulting in occasional brownouts and complete power outages. Further cuts in power generation will adversely affect such crucial State activities as factory production and rail transport. You will recall that three years ago we experimented with altering the voltage of generated power to conserve fuels, and this resulted in damage to electric motors throughout the Donets industrial basin."

"What about coal and gas?"

"Comrade General Secretary, coal production is already sixteen percent below planned output, and getting worse, which has caused conversion of many coal- fired boilers and power plants to oil. Moreover, the conversion of such facilities from oil back to coal is costly and time-consuming. Conversion to gas is a much more attractive and cheaper alternative that we have been vigorously pursuing. Gas production is also under-plan, but it is improving. We had expected to exceed planned targets later this year. Here we must also account for the fact that much of our gas goes to Western Europe. It is from this that we gain Western currency with which to purchase foreign oil, and, of course, foreign grain."

The Politburo member in charge of agriculture winced at this reference. How many men, Sergetov wondered, had been done in by their inability to make the Soviet agricultural industry perform? Not the current General Secretary, of course, who had somehow managed to advance despite his failures there. But good Marxists weren't supposed to believe in miracles. His elevation to the titular chairmanship had had its own price, one which Sergetov was only beginning to understand.

"So, what is your solution, Mikhail Eduardovich?" the Defense Minister inquired with unsettling solicitude.

"Comrades, we must bear this burden as best we can, improving efficiency at every level of our economy." Sergetov didn't bother talking about increasing imports of oil. The shortfall he had explained would result in more than a thirtyfold increase in imports, and hard currency reserves would scarcely allow a doubling of foreign oil purchases. "We will need to increase production and quality control at the Barricade drilling rig factory in Volgograd, and to purchase more drilling equipment from the West so that we can expand exploration and exploitation of known fields. And we need to expand our construction of nuclear reactor plants. To conserve what production we do have, we can restrict supplies available to trucks and personal automobiles— there is much waste in this sector, as we all know, perhaps as much as a third of total usage. We can temporarily reduce the amount of fuel consumed by the military, and perhaps also divert some heavy machine production from military hardware to necessary industrial areas. We face three very hard years—but only three," Sergetov summarized on an upbeat note.

"Comrade, your experience in foreign and defense areas is slim, no?" the Defense Minister asked.

"I have never pretended otherwise, Comrade Minister," Sergetov answered warily.

"Then I will tell you why this situation is unacceptable. If we do what you suggest, the West will learn of our crisis. Increased purchases of oil production equipment and unconcealable signs of activity at Nizhnevartovsk will demonstrate to them all too clearly what is happening here. That will make us vulnerable in their eyes. Such vulnerability will be exploited. And, at the same time"—he pounded his fist on the heavy oak table—"you propose reducing the fuel available to the forces who defend us against the West!"

"Comrade Defense Minister, I am an engineer, not a soldier. You asked me for a technical evaluation, and I gave it." Sergetov kept his voice reasonable. "This situation is very serious, but it does not, for example, affect our Strategic Rocket Forces. Cannot they alone shield us against the Imperialists during our recovery period?" Why else had they been built? Sergetov asked himself. All that

money sunk into unproductive holes. Wasn't it enough to be able to kill the West ten times over? Why twenty times? And now this wasn't enough?

"And it has not occurred to you that the West will not allow us to purchase what we need?" the Party theoretician asked.

"When have the capitalists refused to sell us-"

"When have the capitalists had such a weapon to use against us?" the General Secretary observed. "For the first time, the West has the ability to strangle us in a single year. What if now they also prevent our purchase of grain?"

Sergetov hadn't considered that. With yet another disappointing grain harvest, the seventh out of the last eleven years, the Soviet Union needed to make massive purchases of wheat. And this year America and Canada were the only reliable sources. Bad weather in the Southern Hemisphere had damaged Argentina's harvest, and to a lesser extent Australia's, while the U.S. and Canada had enjoyed their customary record crops. Negotiations were even now under way in Washington and Ottawa to secure such a purchase, and the Americans were making no trouble at all, except that the high value of the dollar made their grain disproportionately expensive. But that grain would take months to ship. How easy would it be, Sergetov wondered, for "technical difficulties" in the grain ports of New Orleans and Baltimore to slow or even stop shipments entirely at a crucial moment?

He looked around the table. Twenty-two men, of whom only thirteen really decided matters—and one of those was missing—were silently contemplating the prospect of over two hundred fifty million Soviet workers and peasants, all hungry and in the dark, at the same time that the troops of the Red Army, the Ministry of the Interior, and the KGB found their own fuel supplies—and because of it, their training and mobility—restricted.

The men of the Politburo were among the most powerful in the world, far more so than any of their Western counterparts. They answered to no one, not the Central Committee of the Communist Party, not the Supreme Soviet, certainly not the people of their nation. These men had not walked on the streets of Moscow for years, but been whisked by chauffeured, handmade cars to and from their luxury apartments within Moscow, or to their ceremonial dachas outside the city. They shopped, if at all, in guarded stores restricted to the elite, were served by doctors in clinics established only for the elite. Because of all this, these men regarded themselves as masters of their destiny.

It was only now beginning to strike them that like all men, they too were subject to a fate which their immense personal power merely made all the more intractable.

Around them was a country whose citizens were poorly fed and poorly housed, whose only abundant commodities were the painted signs and slogans praising Soviet Progress and Solidarity. Some of the men at this table actually believed those slogans, Sergetov knew. Sometimes he still did, mainly in homage to his idealistic youth. But Soviet Progress had not fed their nation, and how long would Soviet Solidarity endure in the hearts of people hungry, cold, in the dark? Would they be proud of the missiles in the Siberian forests then? Of the thousands of tanks and guns produced every year? Would they then look to the sky that held a Salyut space station and feel inspired—or would they wonder what kind of food was being eaten by that elite? Less than a year before, Sergetov had been a regional Party chieftain, and in Leningrad he had been careful to listen to his own staff people's description of the jokes and grumblings in the lines which people endured for two loaves of bread, or toothpaste, or shoes. Detached even then from the harsher realities of life in the Soviet Union, he had often wondered if one day the burden of the ordinary worker would become too heavy to endure. How would he have known then? How would he know now? Would the older men here ever know?

Narod, they called it, a masculine noun that was nonetheless raped in every sense: the masses, the faceless collection of men and women who toiled every day in Moscow and throughout the nation in factories and on collective farms, their thoughts hidden behind unsmiling masks. The members of the Politburo told themselves that these workers and peasants did not grudge their leaders the luxuries that accompanied responsibility. After all, life in the country had improved in measurable terms. That was the compact. But the compact was about to be broken. What might happen then? Nicholas II had not known. These men did.

The Defense Minister broke the silence. "We must obtain more oil. It is as simple as that. The alternative is a crippled economy, hungry citizens, and reduced defense capacity. The consequences of which are not acceptable."

"We cannot purchase oil," a candidate member pointed out.

"Then we must take it."

Rodya's lean, angular Baltic face was twisted in a rictus of emotions as he slapped a paper down onto the table.

"Comrades." Rodya's voice still had that distinct accent of that of a Balt, one that turned Russian into music. "I have called you all for this meeting, to discuss some recent developments."

Rodya raised the piece of paper in his hand. "I received a troubling communique just after 4:50. Apparently, there's a revolt in Leningrad!"

His announcement sent a wave of rumors and whispers to begin among the Politburo. Rodya scowled.

"And while this was occurring, I've received 10 separate cables from the commanders of our forces stationed in our fraternal brother states of the Warsaw Pact, the leader of Poland, of Czechoslovakia, and the news that Honecker's government is gone, and our troops have withdrawn from Berlin!"

The Defense Minister went white as Rodya's irate glare and fury turned towards him. "Comrade Defense Minister…what do you have to say for yourself?"

"Comrade Rodya…I apologize, with the earthquake and every satellite going down, we were unable to know of the revolt until it was too late!"

"Do we know at least where the epicenter of this revolt?" Piotr Petrovich Breshkovsky, otherwise known as Petya, the oldest voting member of the Politburo inquired.

"The Winter Palace."

There was another round of whispers.

"The Winter Palace?" the Foreign Minister echoed in disbelief. "Comrade Defense Minister, are you implying that the revolt is being led by Monarchist reactionaries or Whites?"

"All…events seem to point at that." The defense minister said fretfully. A big boisterous man, he wasn't usually so panicked. Then and again, he'd never really had the General Secretary ever be angry with his performance.

"Why didn't we send in our Special Forces? Our KGB Spetsnaz? The entire point of the KGB is to be able to respond to such events!"

"Did we at least try to assault the palace?" Rodya stared at Defense with stony eyes.

"Yes comrade. A full two regiments of KGB and GRU Spetsnaz attempted to storm or at least crate a foothold within the palace proper for reinforcements to utilize. We tried to take a page from the British and how they responded to the embassy siege in London."

"So?" Rodya probed.

"Comrade, unfortunately the entire commando force was annihilated. Massacred was what the commander used to describe the business. There was only one survivor, a private. He's currently in a secure ward in the Military hospital here in Moscow, he was flown in hours earlier. I wouldn't count on his words though, he's shell shocked, he whimpers about flying girls with animal ears and engines on their legs. He is unreliable, currently."

"Comrade Kosov this is outrageous! You told us yourself that our security forces were ready to deal with such events!" the Foreign Minister slammed a meaty fist down on the polished oak.

Boris Georgiyevich Kosov, the Chairman of the Committee for State Security, or KGB as it was more commonly known in the West, merely smiled amiably. A short, rotund man whose hair was falling quicker than his enemies within the KGB, he proceeded to take out a pair of reading glasses from his blazer pocket and shuffle through some of his papers.

"Andrei Kalmanovich, may I remind you that it was my security forces responsible for Moscow that were able to stop such an event from ever occurring. When the city enlarged, it was the KGB who set up cordons, roadblocks, and barricades in those "displaced" Czarist areas.

"What of the people within?" the premier, Mikhail Gorbachev asked.

"They are still there. In their houses and areas. They can't go out, they can't leave. They are cut off from their compatriots in Leningrad."

"So, you've turned them into Ghetto's." Breshkovsky whispered with all the experience of a veteran of the Great Patriotic War.

Kosov merely smiled even more. "Come now Piotr Petrovich! I haven't cut off their plumbing or access to water yet. I certainly am not like Himmler and his SS lackey's"

"But you may very well do such a thing."

"May I remind you that these people are Czarists?"

"Until proven that they are." Breshkovsky countered.

"Enough." Rodya snarled. "Are we Socialists or fishwives at a market?"

Kosov stopped, and merely gave another smile. "Of course, comrade, my apologies." Rodya merely gave him a look promising that they would talk later on.

"What about the international response?" the Foreign Minister asked. "Have we received any word from our allies or the UN?"

"The international community is in chaos as well," Kosov replied. "Many countries are experiencing similar disruptions. It seems this event is global."

"Um, Pardon me Comrades." The Mayor of Moscow, Evgeni Pavlovich Nikolayev blurted out tentively. "But, due to Comrade Kosov cordoning off entire sections, unfortunately it has also begun to disrupt several areas that are close by. My office has been receiving countless calls from various citizens. The people are demanding answers comrade. Several of them have seen the streets that have materialized in front of their flat blocks at times. Not to mention, that several tram lines, not to mention metro lines have also merged. We've already have had several accidents on some metros colliding with their, um, "out of time" counterparts. Come morning, and I fear the emergency services will be stretched thin."

"Why weren't we informed of this earlier?" the Foreign Minister demanded, his voice rising.

"The situation developed rapidly," Kosov replied smoothly. "We've been doing our best to manage it, but resources are stretched. This merging, as it's being called, is unprecedented. We are dealing with it as efficiently as possible."

"Efficiently?" Gorbachev's eyes narrowed. "The people are frightened. They need reassurance. This calls for a coordinated response, not just cordons and barricades."

"Coordinated, Mikhail Sergeyivich?" Kosov slammed his notes shut, removing his shut before removing his glasses to stare at Gorbachev through his hazel eyes. "Comrade, you fail to realise the scale of the events that have just been stopped from occurring. My KGB troops, have nipped the chances for a similar event occurring here in Moscow, before it ever happened! It is because of me, comrades, that we aren't in Lefortovo Prison and instead in this meeting room today!"

Kosov stood abruptly, bracing beefy hands on the gleaming table as he leaned to stare down Rodya.

"While you slept safe in your beds, my men were already sealing this city!" he boomed. "I took initiative where others dawdled. It is the KGB alone that has kept panic from our streets even as the world goes mad around us!"

He jabbed an accusatory finger at Gorbachev. "Coordinated response, you say? There was no time for committees and consensus! Radicals and malcontents swarmed the streets, history itself came unraveled - the KGB acted alone to contain it because that is our duty, to safeguard this nation through swift, hard action while politicians are asleep!"

Sweeping his burning gaze across silent comrades, Kosov continued. "When facts on the ground change by the hour, 'coordination' gets you killed. Swift, unilateral action is the only response in a crisis. And because of the KGB's response, you all still hold your positions - for now."

Kosov dropped back into his chair, chest rising and falling like a bull before a matador. "You may quibble over methods all you wish. But do not question results or the will to power behind them. While you bicker, my men will do what is needed to keep the regime secure. As ever."

Silence reigned for long moments after his outburst faded. Rodya studied Kosov calculatingly before responding in deceptively mild tones.

"All non-voting members may exit immediately for a short break; we shall reconvene shortly at 7. That is all." Sergetov pursed his lips tightly, giving a deferential nod before gathering his papers and exiting along with the other non-voting ministers.

"Forgive me, Comrade General Secretary, it's just that due to this morning's, er, unprecedented events, I had hoped to ask your guidance on..."

Ice seemed to enter Rodya's eyes. "My guidance, comrade, was that you were to exit. Immediately."

The minister of Coal shrank under that freezing stare. "Of...of course, Comrade. I meant no disrespect, only to seek clarity in these troubled times. The coal quotas must still be..."

"Enough." Rodya's voice was steel-soft. "Leave. Now."

The man's mouth worked soundlessly, then with a small jerk he fled the room.

Rodya levelled his gaze at the remaining candidates. "It seems some require...reinforcement of simple instructions. Be assured, further confusion will not be tolerated. You have your orders. Now go - and kindly close the doors on your way out."

The candidates scurried to obey, exchanging fearful glances. Once the doors shut, Rodya turned back to his colleagues with a tight, thin smile.

"Now then, where were we...ah yes. Discussing our options. Which are rather more limited, as Kosov so astutely made clear, than we had believed. Kosov declares our emergency actions a success. Yet deeper issues remain." He let his words sink in.

"The military stands accused of blindness. The KGB takes matters into its own hands. If this schism widens, it leaves room for others to sow discord."

The Foreign Minister nodded firmly. "Undermining state authority damages our position abroad as well. Unity and coordination are needed now more than ever."

Rodya eyed the Defense Minister. "Explain this 'blindness', Comrade. And what actions will rectify insufficient oversight allowing such turmoil to emerge unnoticed?"

The minister swallowed, face ashen. "An... internal review is clearly in order. Command gaps will be addressed."

"See that they are." Rodya's tone brooked no argument. "Now, what is this I hear about the events in East Germany and Poland…"


Bundeshaus.

Bonn.

West Germany.


"Herr Kanzler, please calm down." The aide begged his boss.

"I cannot Johann, this meeting might decide the fate of democracy, and perhaps the fate of Germany as a whole." Helmut Kohl snapped.

The entire West German political leadership was sitting at a large table. Like their boss, they too were waiting with bated breath at the arrival of these ambassadors.

"What is the status of the displaced areas of Bonn?"

"Sir, the police have set up light patrols all over the areas." The chief of the Bonn Bundespolizei reported.

"Have there been any issues?'

"Not really." The man said. "Aside from the smallish issues pertaining to confusion and disbelief, the displaced persons have been most cooperative."

"That is good news." Kohl conceded, nodding his head. This entire business was incredible, even nonsensical. "What news do we have of Soviet troop movements?"

"Herr Kanzler, the Soviet GSFSG units have stopped their race to the Polish border and are slowly returning to prior positions. So are Volksarmee units affiliated with SED hardliners and Stasi." The Bundeswehr Chief of Staff said in a concerned tone. "They've picked up speed and will probably reach Berlin in three hours. They'll be at the Inner-German border in another two. Moscow must have caught wind of what is happening and given orders to return."

The chancellor sighed. "What is the world coming to?" he said to his aide. "The Cold War seems to be readying to heat itself up!"

"Sir, give us the order, and we can begin mobilization of the armed forces. We can be ready for a defensive war within 12 hours."

Kohl shook his head rapidly. "No, not yet we mustn't give off the wrong impressions to the newcomers in Berlin. Have the Americans found out?"

"Our Liaison to the CIA Director simply told him that it was an unknown third faction communicating from the mysteriously rebuilt Berlin Palace." Another aide read the report in his hands.

"I assume they must be dealing with similar events." A minister interjected.

"True."

"Herr Kohl, the guests have arrived." A secretary reported from the doorway.

Kohl and the Ministers rose. "Well, we shan't keep them waiting." And they trooped out of the waiting room towards the reserved meeting room set for this historical event. No cameras or journalists were present though, the nature of these negotiations were currently secret. The President, Richard von Weizsäcker joined Kohl, taking his place next to him as they walked to the meeting room, which had two army guards smartly open the double doors to usher them in.

The Individuals sitting at the table wore suits, Kohl saw that most of them were male, though he counted one female among them, a young woman with long black hair, wearing a dark brown leather jacket with a fur collar. Two intelligent blue grey eyes scanned the room with a perceptive intelligence and experience Kohl found would have been more common in an old man. A small telescope hung round her neck, as well as a ribbon and a Knights Cross. The head of the delegation, he recognized well enough. It was Friedrich-Werner Graf von der Schulenburg, the last Ambassador to the Soviet Union in 1941, and member of the German Resistance Movement.

Sitting down onto chairs opposite their counterparts, introductions soon began.

"I, am Chancellor Helmut Kohl, with me is President Weizsäcker, Inspector General of the Federal Armed Forces, Admiral Dieter Wellershoff, and Bundeswehr Chief of Staff Wolfgang Altenburg." Kohl gestured to his compatriots.

"I am him his Serene Highness, Fredrick IV, Emperor of Karlsland's appointed ambassador, Friedrich-Werner Graf von der Schulenburg, although I am correct to assume you already know of me due to the existence of my counterpart. Accompanying me, is Air Marshall Adolfine Galland."

The dark-haired girl gave a quick nod. Kohl and the others took note of the fact that her name sounded like the feminine version of one Adolf Galland. Who had also been head of the Luftwaffe during the Second World War.

"And His excellency, Michel Albert von Werra."

The guards had closed the doors shut. And for the next couple of hours, the discussions here would hopefully lead to a better future for Germany, at a time when the Cold War seemed more and more as if it would never end.


Moscow, RFSR.


At 7 o clock sharp, the same pretty secretary returned to the candidate members in the buffet area to call them back in.

Entering the Meeting room, Sergetov found two newcomers. An Army General of the Red Army, and the Commander in Chief of the Soviet Navy, Vladimir Nikolayevich Chernavin.

Rodya met them coolly and greeted them the same way. "Ah comrades, good, you have arrived. Please sit down, Comrade Chernavin has some incredible things to say."

The admiral was still in his black greatcoat which he hadn't bothered to take off and his cap was held in the crook of his right arm. He began to speak rapidly, so fast that many of the members had trouble understanding him.

"It occurred at midnight, whatever it was." Chernavin began. His movements were jerky and swift. "I began to receive word of the uprising from an urgent call from the mayor's office. I went down to the Winter Palace to see for myself and well, it was true. It was a disaster unfolding in front of my very eyes and in the very city where the Union was born. By the time I reached there, the KGB and GRU attempt to storm the palace with crack troops failed. I was there when Private Juri Sabrosky was airlifted out, the sole survivor of his unit. By then, the situation was quite out of control."

"What did you do then?" Gorbachev prompted.

"I got back to the Navy headquarters as fast as my driver could get me." Chernavin continued. "By the time I reached, the situation had become uncontrollable, and the revolt spread. I soon learned that the Whites and Czarists had stormed Kronstadt, captured both the Great Port and the Leningrad Naval Base with most of our Baltic Fleet!"

"Are you saying that the rebels have modern ships and submarines under their control now?" Kosov commented with a disarming smile. Chernavin gulped as his face took a deathly pallor. He nodded weakly.

"Yes, it is as you say Comrade Kosov. Through some unholy means, the Whites seized our Baltic bases almost without resistance. They now have our latest Soviet warships and submarines at their command."

Rodya's eyes blazed. "And you expect us to accept such failure, Admiral? Leningrad lost; the fleet captured - explain to this Politburo why we should not see you before a firing squad at dawn!"

Chernavin blanched, knees shaking. "Comrade General Secretary, it was not through lack of trying! Our men fought bravely but were overwhelmed by enemies wielding technology beyond comprehension. I saw it with my own eyes - aircraft and weapons dating from eras past yet operating with lethal efficiency. Sorcery is the only explanation. it seems the rebels have gained control of much of our Baltic forces. How, I do not understand - there was no resistance at Kronstadt. The guards merely...faded away."

Rodya's eyes glinted. "Faded? An interesting choice of words, Admiral. Pray continue with your report. How many ships and men have fallen into enemy hands?"

Chernavin mopped his brow shakily. "According to preliminary assessments, the rebels now possess up to 40% of our Baltic Fleet assets. Multiple destroyers, frigates, missile cruisers, up to 10 diesel and nuclear attack submarines. As for personnel..."

He swallowed. "Over 15,000 sailors were based at Kronstadt and the naval yards. All are unaccounted for. Standard protocol was not followed in the evacuation. Worse, the Naval Infantry put down its arms and returned to barracks, so did the internal troops and the Red Army Divisions that were stationed inside the city proper."

"Protocol?!" Kosov sneered. "There was no evacuation, only dereliction of duty by cowards like yourself who failed to defend our borders!"

Chernavin flinched as if struck. A grim silence fell. All eyes turned to Rodya, who studied the wretched admiral with cold calculation.

"It seems the navy has much to answer for, Comrade Chernavin. I suggest you pray we can remedy this catastrophe...before someone must be held to account for the security failures it represents. Dismissed - for now."

Head hung in disgrace, Chernavin fled the room. Rodya rose, hands clasped behind his back.

"Mikhail Miloradovitch!" he nodded to the General, who Sergetov recognized as Mikhail Miloradovitch Malinsky.

"Mikhail Miloradovitch, tell me truthfully, how soon can you ready the Red Army for war. Comrade Defense Minister here tells me it ca be done in three weeks."

Malinsky snapped to attention and began speaking. "Comrade General Secretary, realistically, I can have the Red Army ready in one month." He answered in a refrained tone.

"Is that the truth?" Rodya almost smiled. Sergetov could see the Defense Minister's mouth perusing itself as if he had sucked a lemon dry.

"Yes, Comrade General Secretary, give me one month and the Red Army will be ready for War." Malinsky kept his gaze level.

Rodya's eyes narrowed slightly, his tone sharpening. "And how soon can you cross the Rhine if our forces stationed in East Germany were to attack?"

"Comrade General Secretary, without proper planning and coordination with our Warsaw Pact allies, launching an offensive across the Rhine would be extremely reckless. NATO forces would no doubt respond swiftly and in strength."

Rodya's eyes hardened. "I asked how soon, General, not for counsel on strategy. You have 200,000 men stationed in East Germany - how long until you breach the Rhine?"

Malinsky hesitated. "Crossing the Rhine would be extraordinarily difficult, Comrade General Secretary. NATO defenses are formidable, and the terrain highly favors them. With normal logistical preparations, three months minimum would be required."

Kosov laughed derisively. "Three months for the mighty Red Army to reach the Rhine? Your estimates are as sluggish as Chernavin's response time."

Rodya held up a hand. "Let us be constructive, Comrade Kosov. General Malinsky, what if logistics were not an issue? Say all necessary supplies and transports were already forward deployed by...other means?"

Malinsky's eyes narrowed, sensing something unspoken. "Other means, sir? I'm afraid I do not follow."

A cold smile touched Rodya's lips. "You will, General, in due time. For now - hypothetically, with unlimited logistical support already in the FRG, how quickly could you realistically expect our armies to link up on the western bank?"

Malinsky drew a steadying breath. "If all obstacles to resupply and reinforcement were removed...we could assemble assault forces along the Rhine in under 36 hours. A crossing could theoretically be forced within 48. However realistically, I believe we can have a crossing ready within 72 Hours."

Malinsky stood firm, his expression disciplined and resolute. "Comrade General Secretary, given the current readiness of our forces in East Germany, coupled with the logistical capabilities and support from our Warsaw Pact allies, we can cross the Rhine within seventy-two hours of mobilization," Malinsky declared, his voice steady. "However, this assumes full operational readiness and immediate action."

Rodya's face betrayed a hint of satisfaction, though it was quickly replaced by a mask of seriousness. "Seventy-two hours," he repeated, nodding slowly. "And what is the status of our strategic reserves?"

"The 2nd and 3rd Shock Armies, along with the 8th Guards Army, are positioned to reinforce and exploit any breakthroughs. Our air and artillery support is prepared to provide the necessary coverage. However, Comrade General Secretary, I must emphasize the need for a robust logistical chain and clear command structure. The chaos from the recent disruptions has put additional strain on our supply lines," Malinsky explained.

"And the Warsaw Pact allies?" Rodya inquired, his tone sharp. "Can we count on them to stand with us and contribute effectively to our efforts?"

The Foreign Minister, Andrei Kalmanovich, interjected before Malinsky could respond. "Comrade General Secretary, our intelligence suggests that our allies are experiencing similar challenges with internal unrest and disruptions. Poland, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia, in particular, have seen significant unrest. It is unclear if their military forces can mobilize swiftly or efficiently. We may need to account for delays and possible non-compliance."

Rodya frowned, the weight of the situation evident on his face. "We cannot afford to rely on uncertain allies," he muttered, more to himself than to the room. He turned his gaze back to Malinsky. "In the event of resistance or betrayal from our supposed allies, how do you propose we handle such situations?"

Malinsky hesitated for a brief moment, then spoke with careful deliberation. "Comrade General Secretary, we have contingency plans in place to secure key positions and assets within the Warsaw Pact countries. If necessary, we can reassert control through military means. However, this would further strain our resources and potentially escalate conflicts within our own sphere of influence."

Rodya's eyes glinted with cold determination. "We must be prepared for all eventualities. The integrity and security of the Soviet Union come first. Our forces must be ready to act decisively and without hesitation."

A dour silence fell until Sergetov spoke. "Comrade General Secretary, forgive me but - have we considered all options for resolution that avoid conflict? Our forces need time to prepare fully, and the people are shaken. Perhaps diplomacy could buy us valuable - "

"Diplomacy?" Defense sneered. "With who - the enemies at our gates that hold our ships and ports? Or the NATO war dogs who've waited decades for our collapse?"

Rodya held up a hand. "Diplomacy has its place, Comrade Sergetov, but only from a position of strength. Which is why reconnaissance of our true strategic situation is paramount."

He turned to the Defense Minister. "Were the Politburo bunkers readied as ordered last month?"

"Da, Comrade General Secretary."

Rodya nodded. "Then contact the General Staff - order our strategic bombers to fly immediate nuclear deterrent patrols along all NATO borders and maritime approaches. And launch an ELINT satellite on the next booster to begin SIGINT of allied communications. We must know what forces gather against us."

The room stiffened at the mention of strategic bombers. Malinsky spoke carefully. "Comrade General Secretary, such actions will greatly escalate tensions. Is that wise given our internal uncertainties?"

Rodya's flinty gaze silenced any doubts. "Strength and vigilance are what preserve nations in crisis, General. See to your orders - the Union's security is at stake."

He rose, commanding attention. "Effective immediately, Comrade General Malinsky is hereby appointed Commander-in-Chief of Western Theater Operations. He will assume full authority over all Soviet Army, Navy and Air Forces positioned to face NATO."

Malinsky nodded crisply. Rodya stared into his eyes coldly. "CNIC West, you are to commence Operation RYBAR at the earliest opportunity. Reinstate full combat alert for our forces along the Central Front, with orders to execute pre-emptive strikes if NATO poses imminent threat of aggression. Defend the Motherland by any means necessary."

Malinsky paled but nodded stiffly. "Comrade General Secretary, I am honored by the trust placed in me. However, it is my duty to advise that open war with NATO could bring catastrophic consequences. Our forces require time and stability to prepare properly."

"Time is a luxury we may not have," Rodya replied coldly. "Uncertainty still grips the Pact, while reactionary elements fester within our borders. A show of resolve and strength may be needed to cow our doubters and strengthen socialist solidarity."

He slid a folder to Malinsky. "Contingency plans and force posture adjustments are already underway per my directive. You are to implement Phase 1 immediately - forward deployment of reserves toward the West and heightened readiness. But do so discreetly to avoid provoking our enemies."

Malinsky took a steadying breath. "By your command, Comrade General Secretary. But I must stress - for the security of our nation and cause, we should still pursue diplomacy and seek understanding with NATO. War should only be an absolute last resort."

"Duly noted, General." Rodya's eyes gleamed frostily. "Now, implement your orders. I want our sword honed and poised, yet still sheathed - for now. You are excused to begin preparations. The rest of you, we have more to discuss..."

So, it had begun, Malinsky realized with a sinking heart. War or peace now rested on a razor's edge, and he was being made to load the pistol.

As Malinsky strode from the chamber dejectedly, Kosov leaned close to Rodya. "A bold gambit, but the risks are substantial. We may be tipping our hand prematurely."

The sky outside the double-paned windows was gray and curtained with the heavy snow that was beginning to fall again, adding to the half-meter already on the ground. There would be sledding tonight on the hills of Gorkiy Park, Sergetov thought.

The snow would be cleared off the two frozen lakes for skating under the lights to the music of Tchaikovsky and Prokofiev. Muscovites would laugh and drink their vodka and savor the cold, blissfully ignorant of what was about to be said here, of the turns that all of their lives would take.

The main body of the Politburo had adjourned at four the previous afternoon, and then the five men who made up the Defense Council had met alone. Not even all of the full Politburo members were privy to that decision-making body.

Overseeing them at the far end of the room was a full-length portrait of Vladimir Ilych Ulyanov—Lenin, the revolutionary saint of Soviet Communism, his domed forehead thrown back as though in a fresh breeze, his piercing eyes looking off toward the glorious future which his stern face confidently proclaimed, which the "science" of Marxism-Leninism called a historic inevitability. A glorious future. Which future? Sergetov asked himself. What has become of our Revolution? What has become of our Party? Did Comrade Ilych really mean it to be like this?

Sergetov looked at the General Secretary, the "young" man supposed by the West to be fully in charge, the man who was even now changing things. His accession to the highest post in the Party had been a surprise to some, Sergetov among them. The West still looked to him as hopefully as we once had, Sergetov thought. His own arrival in Moscow had changed that rapidly enough. Yet another broken dream. The man who had put a happy face on years of agricultural failure now applied his superficial charm to a larger arena. He was laboring mightily—anyone at this table would admit that—but his task was an impossible one. To get here he had been forced to make too many promises, too many deals with the old guard. Even the "young" men of fifty and sixty he'd added to the Politburo had their own ties to former regimes. Nothing had really changed.

The West never seemed to absorb the idea. Not since Khrushchev had one man held sway. One-man rule held dangers vividly remembered by the older generation of the Party. The younger men had heard the tales of the great purges under Stalin often enough to take the lesson to heart, and the Army had its own institutional memory of what Khrushchev had done to its hierarchy. In the Politburo, as in the jungle, the only rule was survival, and for all collective safety lay in collective rule. Because of this the men selected for the titular post of General Secretary were not elected so much for their personal dynamism as for their experience in the Party—an organization that did not reward people for standing out too distinctly from the crowd. Like Brezhnev, and Andropov, and Chernenko, the current chief of the Party lacked the power of personality to dominate this room with his will alone. He'd had to compromise to be in his chair, and he would have to compromise to remain there. The real power blocs were amorphous things, relationships among men, loyalties that changed with circumstance and knew only expediency. The real power lay within the Party itself.

The Party ruled all, but the Party was no longer the expression of one man. It had become a collection of interests represented here by twelve other men. Defense had its interest, the KGB, and Heavy Industry, and even Agriculture. Each interest held its own brand of power, and the chief of each allied himself with others in order to secure his own place. The General Secretary would try to change this, would gradually appoint men loyal to himself to the posts that death made vacant. Would he then learn, as his predecessors had, that loyalty so easily died around this table? For now, he still carried the burden of his own compromises. With his own men not yet fully in place, the General Secretary was only the foremost member of a group that could unseat him as easily as it had unseated Khrushchev. What would the West say if it learned that the "dynamic" General Secretary mainly served as executor for the decisions of others? Even now, he did not speak first.

"Comrades," began the Defense Minister. "The Soviet Union must have oil, at least two hundred million tons more than we can produce. Such oil exists, only a few hundred kilometers from our border in the Persian Gulf—more oil than we will ever need. We have the ability to take it, of course. Inside of two weeks, we could assemble enough aircraft and airborne troops to swoop down on those oil fields and gobble them up.

"Unfortunately, there could not fail to be a violent Western response. Those same oil fields supply Western Europe, Japan, and to a lesser extent, America. The NATO countries do not have the ability to defend those fields with conventional means. The Americans have their Rapid Deployment Force, a hollow shell of headquarters and a few light troops. Even with their pre-positioned equipment at Diego Garcia, they could not hope to stop our airborne and mechanized forces. Were they to try, and they would have to try, their elite troops would be overwhelmed and exterminated in a few days—and they would be faced with a single alternative: nuclear weapons. This is a real risk that we cannot disregard. We know for a fact that American war plans call for nuclear weapons in this case. Such weapons are stored in quantity at Diego Garcia and would almost certainly be used."

"Therefore, before we can seize the Persian Gulf, we must first do one other thing. We must eliminate NATO as a political and military force."

Sergetov sat upright in his leather chair. What was this, what was he saying? He struggled to keep his face impassive as the Defense Minister continued.

"If NATO is first removed from the board, America will be in a most curious position. The United States will be able to meet its own energy needs from Western Hemisphere sources, removing the need to defend the Arab states, who are in any case not terribly popular with the American Jewish Zionist community."

Did they really believe this, Sergetov wondered, did they actually believe the United States would sit on its hands? What went on at the late meeting yesterday?

At last one other person shared his concern. "So, the only thing we have to do is conquer Western Europe, Comrade?" a candidate member asked. "Are these not the countries against whose conventional forces you warn us every year? Every year you tell us of the threat the massed NATO armies present to us, and now you say casually that we must conquer them? Excuse me, Comrade Defense Minister, but do not France and England have their own nuclear arsenals? And why would America not fulfill its treaty promise to use nuclear weapons in the defense of NATO?"

Sergetov was surprised that a junior member had put the issues so quickly on the table. He was more surprised that the Foreign Minister answered. So, another piece of the puzzle. But what did the KGB think of this? Why were they not represented here? The chairman was recovering from surgery, but there should have been someone here—unless that had been taken care of last night.

"Our objectives must be limited, and obviously so. This presents us with several political tasks. First, we must engender a feeling of security in America, to put them off guard until it is too late for them to react forcefully. Second, we must attempt to unravel the NATO alliance in a political sense." The Foreign Minister ventured a rare smile. "As you know, the KGB has been working on such a plan for the past several years. It is now in its final form. I will outline it for you."

He did so, and Sergetov nodded at its audacity and also with a new understanding of the power balance in this room. So, it was the KGB. He should have known. But would the rest of the Politburo fall in line? The minister went on, "You see how it would work. One piece after another would fall into place. Given these preconditions, the waters so thoroughly muddied, and the fact that we would proclaim our unwillingness to threaten directly the two independent NATO nuclear powers, we feel that the nuclear risk, while real, is less than the risk that we already face in our economy."

Sergetov leaned back in his leather chair. So, there it was: war was less risky than a cold, hungry peace. It had been decided. Or had it? Might some combination of other Politburo members have the power or prestige to reverse that decision? Could he dare to speak out against this madness? Perhaps a judicious question first.

"Do we have the ability to defeat NATO?" He was chilled by the glib reply.

"Of course," Defense answered. "What do you think we have an army for? We have already consulted with our senior commanders."

And when you asked us last month for more steel for more new tanks, Comrade Defense Minister, was your excuse that NATO was too weak? Sergetov asked himself angrily. What machinations had taken place? Have they even spoken with their military advisers yet, or had the Defense Minister exploited his vaunted personal expertise? Had the General Secretary allowed himself to be bullied by Defense? And by the Foreign Minister? Had he even objected? Was this how the decisions were made to decide the fate of nations? What would Vladimir Ilych have thought of this?

"Comrades, this is madness!" said Piotr Breshkovsky. The oldest man there, frail and past eighty, his conversation occasionally rambled about the idealistic times long before, when Communist Party members really believed that they were the leading wave of history. The Yezhovshchina purges had ended that. "Yes, we have a grave economic danger. Yes, we have a grave danger to the security of the State—but do we replace this with a greater danger? Consider what can happen—how long, Comrade Defense Minister, before you can initiate your conquest of NATO?"

"I am assured that we can have our army fully ready for combat operations in four months."

"Four months. I presume that we will have fuel four months from now— enough fuel to begin a war!" Petya was old, but no one's fool.

Rodya's returning look was arctic. "The only risk is delay, Comrade. We move now or fall. Strength alone will protect the Union- this I have learned well. The old ways have failed; a new order rises in their place. Comrade Sergetov, the latest fuel estimates please."

Which side to take? The young candidate member made a swift decision. "Inventories of light fuels—gasoline, diesel, et cetera—are high at the moment," Sergetov had to admit. "We always use the cold-weather months—the time when usage of these fuels is lowest—to build up our stocks, and added to this are our strategic defense reserves, enough for forty-five—"

"Sixty!" insisted the Defense Minister.

"Forty-five days is a more realistic figure, Comrade." Sergetov held his position. "My department has studied fuel consumption by military units as part of a program to increase the strategic fuel reserves, something neglected in past years. With savings in other consumption and certain industrial sacrifices, we might expand this to sixty days of war stocks, perhaps even seventy, plus giving you other stocks to expand training exercises. The near-term economic costs would be slight, but by midsummer this would change rapidly." Sergetov paused, greatly disturbed at how easily he had gone along with the unspoken decision. I have sold my soul ... Or have I acted like a patriot? Have I become like the other men around this table? Or have I merely told the truth—and what is truth? All he could be certain of, he told himself, is that he had survived. For now. "We do have the limited ability, as I told you yesterday, to restructure our distillate production. In this case, my staff feels that a nine-percent increase in the militarily important fuels can be accomplished—based on our reduced production. I caution, however, that my staff analysts also feel that all existing estimates of fuel usage in combat conditions are grossly optimistic." A last, feeble attempt at protest.

"Give us the fuel, Mikhail Eduardovich," the Defense Minister smiled coldly, "and we'll see it is properly used. My analysts estimate that we can accomplish our goals in two weeks, perhaps less—but I will grant you the strength of the NATO armies and double our estimates to thirty days. We will still have more than enough."

"And what if NATO discovers our intentions?" old Petya demanded.

"They will not. Already we are preparing our maskirovka, our trickery. NATO is not a strong alliance. It cannot be. The minister's bicker over each country's defense contribution. Their peoples are divided and soft. They cannot standardize their weapons, and because of it their supply situation is utter chaos. And their most important, most powerful member is separated from Europe by five thousand kilometers of ocean. The Soviet Union is only an overnight train ride from the German border. But Petya, my old friend, I will answer your question. If everything fails, and our intentions are discovered, we can always stop, say that we were running an exercise, and return to peacetime conditions—and be no worse off than if we do nothing at all. We need strike only if all is ready. We can always draw back."

Everyone at the table knew that was a lie, though a clever one, because no one had the courage to denounce it as such. What army had ever been mobilized to be called back? No one else spoke up to oppose the Defense Minister. Breshkovsky rambled on for a few minutes, quoting Lenin's stricture about endangering the home of World Socialism, but even that drew no response. The danger to the State—actually the danger to the Party and the Politburo—was manifest. It could not become graver. The alternative was war.

Ten minutes later, the Politburo voted. Sergetov and his eight fellow candidate members were mere spectators. The vote was eleven to two for war. The process had begun.

Another piece was moved on the superpower chessboard. Only Providence knew when open conflict might erupt.


The muffled commotion outside the Politburo's meeting room was growing louder, the sound of raised voices seeping through the heavy wooden doors. Inside, the members exchanged uneasy glances. The situation was already tense, and now this unexpected interruption was adding fuel to the fire.

The doors opened a crack, and an aide quickly slipped inside, closing them behind him. He looked flustered, beads of sweat forming on his brow as he addressed the assembled officials. "Comrades, the Polish ambassador, Janusz Kozlowski, is here. He's demanding an audience. He says it's urgent."

Rodya's face darkened, his eyes narrowing. "What's he doing here unannounced? We're in the middle of a crisis! What the hell does he want?"

Before the aide could respond, the muffled shouting outside became clearer as the ambassador's voice rose in a mix of anger and desperation. "This is unacceptable! Our people are fleeing East Prussia in droves! Entire towns are emptying out, and Warsaw is overwhelmed! We need assistance, and we need it now! The situation is critical!"

Kosov, the head of the KGB, leaned back in his chair, a sly smile playing at the corners of his lips. "It seems our Polish comrades are having trouble controlling their own territory," he said, voice dripping with irony.

Breshkovsky shot him a sharp look. "This is no time for sarcasm, Boris Georgiyevich. If Kozlowski's here, it means the situation is dire."

Rodya gritted his teeth, visibly annoyed by the interruption. "Let him in, but only for a brief moment. We don't have time for Polish melodrama right now."

The aide nodded and stepped out. Moments later, the double doors swung open, and Janusz Kozlowski stormed in, his face flushed with frustration. He barely waited for the doors to close behind him before launching into a tirade.

"Comrades, the situation in East Prussia is beyond disastrous! The merging has thrown everything into chaos! Our people are fleeing like it's the bloody apocalypse, heading west to cities like Warsaw and Krakow. The government is overwhelmed, and the military is stretched thin trying to maintain order. We've lost control of the entire region!"

Rodya raised a hand to silence the ambassador. "Comrade Kozlowski, we understand your concern, but this is not the time or place for an emotional outburst. We are all dealing with the consequences of this merging, as you call it."

Kozlowski's face turned redder, his fists clenched at his sides. "Emotional outburst? You have no idea! Our intelligence reports indicate that the displaced populations are encountering remnants of historical armies, appearing out of thin air! Old German units, czarist forces—it's madness! The people are terrified, and they're blaming us for not protecting them!"

Kalmovich leaned forward, his expression serious. "Are you saying there have been reports of armed groups from different historical periods manifesting in your territory?"

"Yes, damn it!" Kozlowski snapped. "We've got reports of German soldiers from World War I, Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth cavalry, even some goddamned Teutonic Knights! And the worst part is, our forces are encountering resistance from these... these apparitions! It's a fucking nightmare!"

Kosov chuckled softly, earning a glare from the ambassador. "Perhaps this merging is a gift to Poland, a chance to reclaim historical lands without a single shot fired by the present."

Kozlowski shot back, his voice a venomous hiss. "You think this is funny, Kosov? Our people are dying, and you're making jokes! We need military support to secure the region and ensure our citizens' safety. This isn't a fucking game!"

Rodya stood, raising his hands for silence. "Enough! We sympathize with your situation, Ambassador Kozlowski, but we are dealing with our own crises. Moscow is facing its own manifestations, and the situation in Leningrad is volatile. We are stretched thin as it is."

The ambassador's shoulders slumped, a look of desperation replacing his anger. "Please, comrades, you have to understand. If we lose control of East Prussia, it could destabilize the entire region. The refugees are already straining our infrastructure. We need your help, even if it's just logistical support, if East Prussia falls into chaos, it won't just be a Polish problem. It will spread, and soon you'll have the same issues on your doorstep."

With that, he turned on his heel and left the room, the heavy doors closing behind him with a dull thud. The room was silent for a moment, the weight of the ambassador's words hanging in the air.

Rodya exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Well, that was enlightening," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "It seems our little merging is more widespread than we thought."


The clock is ticking, and the world ambles ever closer to war. The next chapter. will see more soviet preparations and the 501st ad other witch wings visiting REFORGER 89! Tune in to Witches 89 Chapter 3! Old World Blues!