Chapter-3

"Have you seen this, Andre?" Marshall Yuri Rozhkov, Commander in Chief of the Soviet Army waved the folder in front of his friend, Marshall Andre Shavyrin, the Chief of the General Staff. The two of them went way back when both had served in the same tank regiment during the Great Patriotic War, during the advance to Vienna in late 1945. They had remained inseparable friends ever since.

Shavyrin took the cream-colored dossier and began to skim through it. Rozhkov observed how his friend's complexion became whiter and whiter the deeper he read the document. When he had finished, he gently placed the documents on his desk and removed his reading glasses before turning to Rozhkov.

"Are they serious Yuri? Is this authentic?" he asked in an incredulous tone.

Rozhkov merely nodded his head. "Of course it is. The Politburo didn't even ask for my opinion or thoughts on the matter! Hell, I wasn't even asked to come to the meeting! Rodya made Malinsky CNIC West and asked him only!"

"He isn't a bad choice though." Shavyrin pointed out. "Malinsky's one of the best generals we have. He was top of his class at the Frunze and his teachers and instructors regarded him as a modern Zhukov."

"It's not the choice of man I'm worried about!" Rozhkov snapped irately.

"Then what are you worried about?"

Rozhkov sighed, putting his head in his hands. "I... I don't know Andre Illich."

"You don't know?"

"I don't know!" he snapped furiously.

"Humor me Yuri Bobrovich." Shavyrin lit a Havana with the same lighter he'd used since 1945.

Rozhkov took a long drag of his own cigar, exhaling smoke pensively. He stared at Shavyrin's ashtray as if it would provide answers.

"It's just a feeling, Andre. An old soldier's intuition is rumbling in my bones."

He puffed thoughtfully. "On paper, yes, the plan appears sound. We prepare in secret, discipline our sphere, and aim to dominate before the West can rally a response. In theory, we split NATO, secure hegemony over Europe."

"But?"

"But what if it doesn't play out so neatly? What if our 'allies' don't fall in line as Rodya expects? Or the West catch the wind and bolster defenses? One misstep could ignite a pan-European war."

Rozhkov gazed grimly into the swirling cigar smoke. "I've seen what total war looks like, my friend. The devastation, the horrors that linger long after the guns fall silent. I fear Rodya does not grasp the true severity, that this adventure could spin out of his control."

Shavyrin nodded slowly. "You may be right, Yuri. Rodya has great vision, but his zeal also blinds him at times. Still, we are committed now - all we can do is ensure our forces are as ready as possible for any eventuality."

"It's this...rush to action that concerns me, Andre. Rodya's plan is sound but pushing so hard and fast carries risks."

Shavyrin considered this. "He aims to seize momentum while the West is off balance. With care and precision, it could pay off enormously."

"Or spark wider conflict if missteps occur," Rozhkov cautioned. "The generals are capable, but controlling operations across such vast fronts in tight timelines is an immense challenge. Any flaws could ignite a powder keg."

He got up and tapped maps showing troop concentrations. "If Poland resists our transit, for instance, it strains coordination. Small miscommunications have led to wars before. Then there are the unknown factors - what if those damned 'displaced' assist NATO?"

Shavyrin frowned. These displaced peoples from elsewhere were wildcards. "You think Rodya hasn't accounted for uncertainties?"

"I think he's gambling greatly for maximal reward." Rozhkov sighed. "That alone I could accept - but his refusal to entertain other perspectives is reckless. Did he consult us at all before elevating Malinsky?"

"You've made your point, Yuri." Shavyrin refilled their glasses. "But our role is to advise, then follow orders. You really think this operation endangers more than it stands to gain?"

Rozhkov took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "It's not that simple, Andre. Something just... doesn't sit right with me about all this."

Shavyrin exhaled a plume of smoke, the rich scent of the Cuban cigar filling the room. "Yuri, we've been through hell and back. We survived Kursk, the fucking meat grinder of Stalingrad, and the goddamn march to Berlin. We've seen worse shit than most men can imagine. So if something's bothering you, spit it out."

Rozhkov leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling as if searching for answers in the plaster. The room was thick with the scent of tobacco from Shavyrin's cigar, adding to the tense atmosphere. After a long pause, he spoke, his voice heavy with frustration.

"Look, Andre, I've been through enough in this goddamn job to know when something feels off. And this... this whole plan, it feels off. We've been preparing for a war with NATO for decades, yes, but not like this. Not with everything going to shit around us. The Politburo's acting like it's just another exercise, another chance to flex our muscles and scare the West. But it's not a drill, and we're not in control of this situation. Not completely."

Shavyrin took a deep drag from his cigar, the tip glowing red. He exhaled slowly, filling the space with a cloud of smoke. "You're worried we're not ready," he stated plainly.

"No, it's not just that." Rozhkov shook his head. "It's the timing, the circumstances. Everything. We've got unrest at home, satellites dropping like flies, and now this fucking revolt in Leningrad. And what about the merge bullshit the scientists are spouting? New streets appearing overnight, old czarist architecture popping up out of nowhere... It's like something out of a damn science fiction novel!"

Shavyrin raised an eyebrow. "So, you think the Politburo's plan is too aggressive given the situation?"

"Too aggressive? It's fucking reckless!" Rozhkov slammed a fist on his desk. "They're pushing for full mobilization, talking about crossing the Rhine, like it's a walk in the park. But this isn't just about tanks and planes anymore. It's about the whole damn fabric of reality getting twisted. And what's the plan if NATO doesn't back down? What's our endgame if we actually pull this off? A full-scale invasion? And then what, occupy Europe? We're not talking about a defensive action, Andre; this is offensive, and it's not going to end with just a show of force."

Shavyrin took another puff, considering Rozhkov's words. "Rodya's trying to secure our position, to show strength in the face of adversity. He thinks a strong offensive posture will keep NATO on its heels. But you're saying the risk of escalation is too high."

Rozhkov nodded, running a hand through his graying hair. "Exactly. And not just the escalation with NATO. What if the people don't support this? We barely held it together during the protests in the Caucasus. The same people who cheered for our victory in Afghanistan might not be so eager to jump into another war, especially when their streets are turning into historical reenactments overnight."

Shavyrin leaned forward, tapping his ash into a crystal ashtray. "You think Rodya's underestimating the potential for internal dissent?"

"He's counting on the old patriotic fervor to carry us through," Rozhkov muttered. "But the situation's different now. People are scared, confused. They're seeing things that shouldn't exist, hearing rumors that sound like fairy tales. It's the perfect storm for paranoia and unrest."

"Paranoia, yes," Shavyrin mused, his tone thoughtful. "But also control. Fear is a powerful tool. If Rodya can harness that fear, turn it into a rallying cry, he could solidify his position and the Party's grip on power. It's a risky gamble, but maybe that's what he's banking on. A quick, decisive victory over NATO would crush dissent at home and abroad."

Rozhkov sighed heavily. "That's a hell of a lot of maybes, Andre. And if it goes wrong, we're not just looking at a failed offensive; we're looking at total chaos. A breakdown in order, both domestically and internationally. The Americans, the British, the French—they're not going to sit back and let us march into their backyard. Even weakened, they have the nuclear arsenal to make us regret every inch of that advance." Rozhkov looked at the folder on Shavyrin's desk as if it were a coiled snake. "It's not just the plan, it's the whole fucking setup. The timing, the lack of consultation, the suddenness of it all. Rodya's making decisions like a goddamn dictator, and it's making my skin crawl."

Shavyrin chuckled darkly. "He is a goddamn dictator, Yuri. That's how the system works. We take orders from the top and execute them. You know that."

The room fell silent, the only sound the soft crackle of Shavyrin's cigar. The weight of Rozhkov's words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. After a moment, Shavyrin stubbed out his cigar, the embers dying with a final hiss.

"Well," Shavyrin finally said, his voice low, "it seems we're on the edge of the abyss, old friend. And the question is, do we step back, or do we leap?"

Rozhkov laughed bitterly. "We leap Andre. We leap without even looking back."

NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

"I hope you take good care of it," the Mayor said.

It was a moment before Commander Daniel X. McCafferty reacted. USS Chicago had been in commission for only six weeks, her completion delayed by a yard fire and her commissioning ceremony marred by the absence of the Mayor of Chicago due to a strike of city workers. Just back from five tough weeks of workups in the Atlantic, his crew was now loading provisions for their first operational deployment. McCafferty was still entranced with his new command, and never tired of looking at her. He'd just walked the Mayor along the curved upper deck, the first part of any submarine tour, even though there was almost nothing to be seen there. "Excuse me?"

"Take good care of our ship," said the Mayor of Chicago.

"We call them boats, sir, and we'll take good care of her for you. Will you join us in the wardroom?"

"More ladders." The Mayor pretended to grimace, but McCafferty knew him to be a former fire chief. Would have been useful a few months back, the captain thought. "Where are you heading tomorrow?"

"To sea, sir." The captain started down the ladder. The Mayor of Chicago followed him.

"I figured that." For a man in his late fifties, he handled the steel ladder easily enough. They met again at the bottom. "What exactly do you do in these things?"

"Sir, the Navy calls it 'Oceanographic Research.' " McCafferty led him forward, turning for a smile with his answer to the awkward question. Things were starting quickly for Chicago. The Navy wanted to see just how effective her new quieting systems were. Everything looked good in the acoustical test range off the Bahamas. Now they wanted to see how well things worked in the Barents Sea.

The Mayor laughed at that one. "Oh, I suppose you'll be counting the whales for Greenpeace!"

"Well, I can say that there are whales where we're heading."
"What's with the tile on your deck? I never heard of rubber decks on a ship." "It's called anechoic tile, sir. The rubber absorbs sound waves. It makes us quieter to operate and makes it harder to detect us on sonar if somebody pings at us. Coffee?"

"You'd think that on a day like this—"

The captain chuckled. "Me, too. But it's against regulations."

The Mayor hoisted his cup and clicked against McCafferty's. "Luck." "I'll drink to that."

MOSCOW, R.S.F.S.R.

They met at the Main Officers Club of the Moscow Military District on Ulitsa Krasnokazarmennaya, a massively impressive building dating back to Czarist times. It was the normal time of year for senior field commanders to confer in Moscow, and such events were always punctuated by elaborate ceremonial dinners. Rozhkov greeted his fellow officers at the main entrance, and when all were assembled, he led them downstairs to the ornate steam baths. Present were all Theater commanders, each accompanied by his deputy, his air force commander, and the fleet commanders: a small galaxy of stars, ribbons, and braid. Ten minutes later, naked but for a pair of towels and a handful of birch branches each, they were just another group of middle-aged men, perhaps a bit fitter than was the average in the Soviet Union.

They all knew one another. Though many were rivals, they were members of the same profession nevertheless, and with an intimacy characteristic of the Russian steam baths they exchanged small talk for several minutes. Several of them were grandfathers now and spoke with animation about the continuation of their lines. Regardless of personal rivalries, it was expected that senior officers would look out for the careers of their comrades' sons, and so information was briefly exchanged on whose son was in which command and wanted advancement to what new posting. Finally came the classically Russian dispute over the "strength" of the steam. Rozhkov peremptorily settled the argument with a thin but steady stream of cold water onto the heated bricks in the center of the room. The resulting hiss would be sufficient to interfere with any listening devices in the room if the foggy air hadn't already corroded them to junk. Rozhkov had not given the first hint of what was happening. Better, he thought, to shock them into the situation and get candid reactions to the situation at hand.

"Comrades, I must make an announcement."

Conversation stilled, and the men looked inquiringly in his direction.

Here we go. "Comrades, on July 3 of this year, just five months from now, we launch an offensive against NATO."

For a moment, only the hiss of the steam could be heard, then three men laughed, having imbibed a few stiff drinks in the sanctity of their staff cars on the drive over from the Kremlin. Those close enough to see CINC-Ground's face did not.

The laughter echoed briefly in the steam-filled room, but the levity quickly faded as the seriousness of Rozhkov's expression set in. The men who had chuckled shifted uneasily, realizing this was no joke.

"You're serious," murmured General Konstantin Volkov, commander of the Western Military District. He leaned forward, his brow furrowed in disbelief. "A full-scale offensive against NATO? In five months"

Rozhkov nodded, his face grim. "That's correct, Konstantin. The Politburo has approved the plan, and the date is set. July 3rd, 1989. We move across the Iron Curtain."

The room was silent except for the steady hiss of steam and the faint rustle of birch branches. The officers exchanged glances, the weight of Rozhkov's words sinking in. Admiral Sergei Popov, head of the Northern Fleet, broke the silence, his voice thick with skepticism.

"Are they out of their fucking minds?" he muttered. "Do they really think we can pull this off without triggering a nuclear response? This isn't the Cold War saber-rattling anymore. This is the real goddamn thing!"

Marshal Mikhail Orlov, commander of the Soviet Air Force, nodded in agreement. "Even with the element of surprise, we're talking about confronting the combined forces of NATO. And with all this chaos from the merging phenomena, our own lines are stretched. Have they accounted for the logistical nightmare this could become?"

Receiving a nod in reply, he said, "Then perhaps you will be so kind as to explain the reason for this action?"

"Of course. You are all aware of the Nizhnevartovsk oil-field disaster. What you have not yet learned are its strategic and political implications." It took six brisk minutes to outline everything the Politburo had decided. "In just over four months from now, we shall launch the most crucial military operation in the history of the Soviet Union: the destruction of NATO as a political and military force. And we will succeed."

Finished, he stared at the officer in silence. The steam was having its desired effects on the assembly of flag officers. Its searing heat assaulted their breathing passages, sobering those who had been drinking. And it made them sweat. They'd be doing a lot of that in the next few months, Rozhkov thought.

Then Pavel Alekseyev, deputy commander of the Southwestern Theater, spoke. "I heard rumors," he said. "But that bad?"

"Yes. We have sufficient POL supplies for twelve months of normal operations, or enough for sixty days of war operations after a brief period of increased training activity." At the cost, he didn't say, of crippling the national economy by mid-August.

Alekseyev leaned forward and swatted himself with his bundle of branches. The action was strangely like a lion's swishing its tail. At fifty, he was the second-youngest officer there, a respected intellectual soldier and a fit, handsome man with the shoulders of a lumberjack. His intense, dark eyes squinted down through the rising cloud of steam.

"Early July?"

"Yes," Rozhkov said. "We have that long to prepare our plans and our troops." CINC-Ground looked around the room. Already the ceiling had become partially obscured by a mist.

"I presume we are here so that we may speak frankly among ourselves, no?"

"This is so, Pavel Leonidovich," Rozhkov replied, not the least surprised that Alekseyev had been the first to speak. CINC-GROUND had carefully advanced the man's career over the last decade. He was the only son of a hard-charging tank general of the Great Motherland War, one of the many good men pensioned off during the bloodless purges under Nikita Khrushchev in the late 1950s.

"Comrades." Alekseyev stood, climbing slowly down the benches to the marble floor. "I accept everything Marshal Rozhkov has told us. But-four months! Four months in which we may be detected, four months in which we may lose all the element of surprise. Then what may happen? No, we have a plan already for this: Zhukov-4! Instant mobilization! We can all be back to our command posts in six hours. If we are going to conduct a surprise attack, then let us make it one no one can detect in time—seventy-two hours from now!"

Again, the only sound in the room was that of the water flashing to steam on the dun-colored bricks, then the room erupted with noise. Zhukov-4 was the winter variant of a plan which hypothesized discovery of NATO's intention to launch a surprise attack of its own on the Warsaw Pact. In such a case, standard Soviet military doctrine was the same as anyone else's: the best defense is a good offense—preempt the NATO armies by attacking at once with the Category-A mechanized divisions in East Germany.

"But we are not ready!" objected CINC-West. His was the "point" command with headquarters in Berlin, the single most powerful military command in the world. An attack into West Germany was primarily his responsibility.

Alekseyev held up his hands. "Neither are they. In fact, they are less ready than we," he said reasonably. "Look, consider our intelligence data. Fourteen percent of their officers are on holidays. They are coming off a training cycle, true, but because of it much of their equipment will be down for maintenance, and many of their senior officers will be away in their respective capitals for consultations, just as we are now. Their troops are in winter quarters, on a winter routine. This is the time of year for maintenance and paperwork. Physical training is curtailed-who wants to run in the snow, eh? Their men are cold and drinking more than usual. This is our time to act! We all know that historically the Soviet fighting man performs at his best in winter, and NATO is at its lowest state of readiness."

"But so are we, you young fool!" CINC-Western Theater growled back. "We can change that in forty-eight hours," Alekseyev countered. "Impossible," observed West's deputy, careful to back up his boss.

"To reach our maximum readiness will take some months," Alekseyev agreed. His only chance to carry his point with his seniors was to reason with them. He knew that he was almost certainly doomed to failure, but he had to try. "It will be difficult, if not impossible, for us to conceal it."

"As Marshal Rozhkov told us, Pavel Leonidovich, we are promised political and diplomatic maskirovka," a general pointed out.

"I have no doubt that our comrades in the KGB, and our skillful political leadership, will perform miracles." The room just might have functioning bugs, after all. "But is it not asking too much to expect that the Imperialists—as much as they fear and hate us, as active as their agents and spy satellites are— will fail to note a doubling of our training activity? We know that NATO increases its readiness when we go into major unit training, and their preparedness will automatically be increased by their own spring training cycles. If we continue our training beyond the normal pattern, they will be even more alert. Achieving full combat readiness requires that we do too many things out of the ordinary. If nothing else, East Germany is rife with Western spies. NATO will notice. NATO will react. They will meet us on the border with everything in their collective arsenals.

"If, on the other hand, we attack with what we have—now! —we have the advantage. Our men are not off skiing in the fucking Alps! Zhukov-4 is designed to cycle from peace to war in forty-eight hours. There is no way possible for NATO to react in so little time. They'll take forty-eight hours to get their intelligence information organized and presented to their ministers. By that time our shells will be falling on the Fulda Gap, and our tanks will be advancing behind them!"

"Too many things can go wrong!" CINC-West rose so swiftly that the towel nearly came off his waist. His left hand grabbed downward while his right fist shook at the younger man. "What about traffic control? What about training our men in their new battle equipment? What about getting my Frontal Aviation pilots ready for combat operations against the Imperialists? There—right there is an insurmountable problem! Our pilots need at least a month of intensive training. And so do my tankers, and so do my gunners, and so do my riflemen."

If you knew your job, they would be ready now, you worthless, whore-chasing son of a bitch! Alekseyev thought but did not dare to say aloud. CINC-West was a man of sixty-one who liked to demonstrate his manly prowess—boasted of it— to the detriment of his professional duties. Alekseyev had heard that story often enough, whispered jovially in this very room. But CINC-West was politically reliable. Such is the Soviet system, the younger general reflected. We need fighting soldiers and what do we get with which to defend the Rodina? Political reliability! He remembered bitterly what had happened to his father in 1958. But Alekseyev did not allow himself to begrudge the Party its control of the armed forces. The Party was the State, after all, and he was a sworn servant of the State. He had learned these truisms at his father's knee. One more card to play:

"Comrade General, you have good officers commanding your divisions, regiments, and battalions. Trust them to know their duties." It couldn't hurt to wave the standards of the Red Army, Alekseyev reasoned.

Rozhkov stood, and everyone in the room strained to hear his pronouncement. "What you say has merit, Pavel Leonidovich, but do we gamble with the safety of the Motherland?" He shook his head, quoting doctrine exactly, as he had been doing for too many years. "No. We rely on surprise, yes,

on the first weighted blow to blast open a path for the daring thrust of our mechanized forces. And we will have our surprise. The Westerners will not wish to believe what is happening, and with the Politburo soothing them even as we prepare the first blow, we will have our strategic surprise. The West will have perhaps three days—four at most—to know what is coming, and even then they will not be mentally prepared for us."

The officers followed Rozhkov from the room to rinse the sweat from their bodies with cold-water showers. Ten minutes later, refreshed and dressed in full uniform, the officers reassembled in a second-floor banquet room. The waiters, many of them KGB informers, noted the subdued mood and quiet conversations that frustrated their efforts to listen in. The generals knew that KGB's Lefortovo prison was a bare kilometer away.

"Our plans?" CINC-Southwest asked his deputy.

"How many times have we played this war game?" Alekseyev responded. "All the maps and formulae we have examined for years. We know the troop and tank concentrations. We know the routes, the highways, the crossroads that we must use, and those that NATO will use. We know our mobilization schedules, and theirs. The only thing we don't know is whether our carefully laid plans will in fact work. We should attack at once. Then the unknowns will work against both sides equally."

"And if our attack goes too well, and NATO relies on a nuclear defense?" the senior officer asked. Alekseyev acknowledged the importance and grave unpredictability of the point.

"They might do that anyway. Comrade, all of our plans depend heavily on surprise, no? A mixture of surprise and success will force the West to consider nuclear weapons—"

"Here you are wrong, my young friend," CINC-Southwest chided. "The decision to use nuclear weapons is political. To prevent their use is also a political exercise for which time is required."

"But if we wait over four months—how can we be assured of strategic surprise?" Alekseyev demanded.

"Our political leadership has promised it."

"The year I entered Frunze Academy, the Party told us about the date on which we would surely have 'True Communism in our lifetime.' A solemn promise. That date was six years ago."

"Such talk is safe with me, Pasha, I understand you. But if you do not learn to control your tongue—"

"Forgive me, Comrade General. We must allow for the chance that surprise will not be achieved. 'In combat, despite the most careful preparation, risks cannot be avoided,' " Alekseyev quoted from the syllabus of the Frunze Academy. " 'Attention must therefore be given, and the most detailed plans prepared, for every reasonable exigency of the overall operation. For this reason, the unsung life of a staff officer is among the most demanding of those honored to serve the State.' "

"You have the memory of a kulak, Pasha." CINC-Southwest laughed, filling his deputy's glass with Georgian wine. "But you are correct."

"Failure to achieve surprise means that we are forcing a campaign of attrition on a vast scale, a high-technology version of the '14-'18 war."

"Which we will win." CINC-Ground sat down next to Alekseyev.

"Which we will win," Alekseyev agreed. All Soviet generals accepted the premise that the inability to force a rapid decision would force a bloody war of 0attrition that would grind each side down equally. The Soviets had far more reserves of men and material with which to fight such a war. And the political will to use them. "If and only if we are able to force the pace of battle, and if our friends in the Navy can prevent the resupply of NATO from America. NATO has war stocks of materiel to sustain them for roughly five weeks. Our pretty, expensive fleet must close the Atlantic."

"Maslov." Rozhkov beckoned to the Commander-in-Chief of the Soviet Navy. "We wish to hear your opinion of the correlation of forces in the North Atlantic."

"Our mission?" Maslov asked warily.

"If we fail to achieve surprise in the West, Andrey Petravich, it will be necessary for our beloved comrades in the Navy to isolate Europe from America," Rozhkov pronounced. He blinked hard at the response.

"Give me a division of airborne troops, and I can fulfill that task," Maslov responded soberly. He held a glass of mineral water and had been careful to avoid drink on this cold February night. "The question is whether our strategic stance at sea should be offensive or defensive. The NATO navies—above all the United States Navy—is a direct threat to the Rodina. It alone has the aircraft and aircraft carriers with which to attack the homeland, at the Kola Peninsula. In fact, we know that they have plans to do exactly that."

"So what?" CINC-Southwest observed. "No attack on Soviet soil is to be taken lightly, of course, but we will take severe losses in this campaign no matter how brilliantly we fight it. What matters is the final outcome."

"If the Americans succeed in attacking Kola, they effectively prevent our closure of the North Atlantic. And you are wrong to shrug off these attacks. American entry into the Barents Sea will constitute a direct threat to our nuclear deterrent forces and could have more dire consequences than you imagine." Admiral Maslov leaned forward. "On the other hand, if you persuade STAVKA to give us the resources to execute Operation Polar Glory, we can seize the combat initiative and dictate the nature of operations in the North Atlantic on our chosen terms." He held up a closed fist. "By doing this we can, first"—he raised a finger—"prevent an American naval attack against the Rodina; second"—another finger—"use the majority of our submarine forces in the North Atlantic basin where the trade routes are, instead of keeping them on passive defense; and third"—a final finger—"make maximum use of our naval aviation assets. At one stroke this operation makes our fleet an offensive rather than a defensive weapon."

"And to accomplish this you need only one of our Guards Air Rifle divisions? Outline your plan for us, please, Comrade Admiral," Alekseyev said.

Maslov did so over a period of five minutes. He concluded, "With luck, we will with one blow give the NATO navies more than they can deal with and leave us with a valuable position for postwar exploitation."

"Better to draw their carrier forces in and destroy them." CINC-West joined the discussion.

Maslov responded: "The Americans will have five or six carriers available to use against us in the Atlantic. Each one carries fifty-eight aircraft that can be used in an air superiority or nuclear strike role, aside from those used for fleet defense. I submit, Comrade, that it is in our interest to keep those ships as far from the Rodina as possible."

"Andrey Petravich, I am impressed," Rozhkov said thoughtfully, noting the respect in Alekseyev's eyes as well. Polar Glory was both bold and simple. "I

want a full briefing on this plan tomorrow afternoon. You say that if we can allocate the resources, success in this venture is highly probable?"

"We have worked on this plan for five years, with particular emphasis on simplicity. If security can be maintained, only two things need go right for success to be achieved."

Rozhkov nodded. "Then you will have my support."

The grandiose hall, adorned with banners and insignias, was abuzz with the clinking of cutlery and murmur of voices. Waitstaff in crisp uniforms circulated with trays of appetizers and drinks, weaving through clusters of officers engaged in animated discussions. The air was heavy with the scent of rich, traditional Russian cuisine, a stark contrast to the steamy austerity of the bathhouse.

Rozhkov took his seat at the head of the long, polished oak table, flanked by his senior commanders. The room fell silent as he tapped his glass with a spoon, the sound echoing off the marble walls.

"Gentlemen," he began, his voice carrying a gravitas that demanded attention. "Tonight, we dine as comrades, but let us not forget the weight of the decisions before us. Our nation stands at a crossroads, and the choices we make will determine the future of the Motherland."

He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in. The officers, many of whom had served together through countless campaigns, looked on with a mix of solemnity and resolve. They knew that beneath the layers of formality and ritual, the evening's proceedings were a prelude to war.

Rozhkov continued, raising his glass. "To the Soviet Union, and to our duty as its guardians. May we find the strength and wisdom to guide our forces through the trials ahead. To victory!"

The room erupted in a chorus of "To victory!" as the officers lifted their glasses. The toast was followed by the soft clinking of crystal and a moment of silence, a shared acknowledgment of the uncertain future.

As the dinner progressed, the conversation shifted between camaraderie and cautious strategy. The officers discussed troop deployments, supply chains, and the intricate ballet of military logistics. Some spoke with the confidence of seasoned veterans, others with the cautious optimism of men who knew the unpredictable nature of war. But underlying every exchange was the unspoken acknowledgment of the gamble they were about to undertake.

Admiral Popov, seated near Rozhkov, leaned in and spoke quietly. "Yuri Bobrovich, what of the political front? The diplomats' role in all this? Are we truly certain that they can maintain the facade until we are ready?"

Rozhkov nodded thoughtfully. "The Politburo assures us of their plans for maskirovka, the deception operations. They've orchestrated a series of diplomatic moves designed to lull the West into a false sense of security. Of course, we must be prepared for every contingency. The West may not be as easily deceived as we hope, but that is why we must ensure our forces are ready for immediate action."

Popov sighed, swirling the vodka in his glass. "It's a delicate dance, this game of war and politics. One misstep, and the world plunges into chaos."

"Indeed," Rozhkov agreed, his tone grave. "But we must trust in our preparations and our comrades. The time for doubt has passed. Now, we must focus on the task at hand."

BREMEN. Federal Republic of Germany/Karlslandic Empire.

"I see, well here's your card. Go through here."

Gertrud Barkhorn accepted the 'card' from the Military Policeman with a sniff. Goddamn Liberions. She thought internally before correcting herself, Americans, these are Americans but still, goddamn them.

Barkhorn had come here with the rest of the 501st Joint Fighter Wing to observe the exercise and wargames that NATO called, REFORGER 89. It was to see how modern combat doctrine worked as well as the tactics and strategies utilized in it. Unfortunately, all witches had to wear pants, not a popular order, but Trude followed it through. She was a Karlslandic Top Ace, an example for other witches.

She disliked what had become of this world's version of the Fatherland. Especially the division of Berlin, the city they'd fought so hard to liberate from the Neuroi, had instead been divided by the allied powers in two.

Worst was the culture it had become. The western part of Berlin, those she'd been allowed to visit were just horrible and tacky. Loud obnoxious music, materialism, garish outfits, fast cars. It didn't feel like Karlsland, it felt like a miniature piece of Liberion. No better that democracy and mob rule were there and filthy red communists in the east.

She did like the Bonn clique's military policy though, especially the Compulsory Military Service. It basically meant everyone was a soldier, sort of.

Presently, a member of said Bundeswehr, a corporal it seemed walked up to the group and saluted Minna, who returned the salute. He introduced himself as their guide and pointed in the direction of a building from where they would observe the exercise.

She also spotted many observers from the Warsaw Pact bootlickers and the Soviets. She hated those, especially the East Germans, traitors the lot of them.

"So, how do you find it all?" Their guide, corporal Baermann asked, "A hell of a lot different from what you're used to?" his Brittanish was good, with only a slight accent.

"Yes, it's amazing, in a way." Minna answered cautiously.

The young man laughed. "I bet so! This is the biggest exercise we schedule every year."

Gertrud scoffed. This guy was undisciplined. He sounded more like Shirly with her openness. Would this have been the future of Karlsland in their world? Reduced to lacky status?

"What's with the face Trude?" her shorter comrade and fellow ace Erica Hartmann asked. "You look like you're about to burst a blood vessel." She slyly smirked. "You're pissed off, aren't you?"

"What? That's ridiculous!" she answered back. "Why would I be pissed off?"

Hartmann's infuriating smirk widened. "I quite liked West Berlin. Sure, that ugly wall was ruining the view, but it was fun. Never thought I'd see the day we'd embrace freedom."

"That is a damn horrible shame really." Barkhorn sniffed, causing Hartmann to snigger lightly.

"Oh God! You sound like a kid who lost her favorite toy!"

"Shut up." Trude snapped defensively.

"Don't worry, you're secrets safe with me. Hey, look, some Gallians." She pointed out.

Trude turned to look but not before berating her slacker comrade. "Don't you know it's rude to point." Sure enough, there was a crowd of Gallian witches wearing camouflaged fatigues that she'd see the French, this world's Gallian counterpart wear. These were older witches, she realized. Not girls, but women whose magic had begun to slowly leave them. They now served as trainers or advisers back in their universe but here, they seemed just as home discussing with the tall officers and smoking Gauloises.

They're lucky. Trude thought dejectedly. There wasn't much difference between Gallia and the French Fifth Republic to begin with. They've had near seamless integration along with Liberion and the USA, Hispania, and Spain, Soumous and Finland among others, hell General De Gaulle serves as the commander of one of the Armored Divisions.

"Hey look, Trude! Tanks! They're Panzers."

Grunting, she turned to look, and sure enough, there were these huge rectangular tanks that were called Main Battle Tanks. Looking at her brochure that had been given to observers from "displaced" countries. She found that the ones advancing were called Leopard 2 tanks.

They're bigger she thought in a depressed tone. Faster, heavier. The Tigers, Panthers, and King Tiger Tanks of the Kaiserliche Heer seem like children's toys in front of these."

"They're quite good looking huh?" Erica jabbed her in the elbow playfully.

"Knock it off!" she growled. "And besides, our brave crews are more experienced, and they are well motivated."

"That 120-millimeter smoothbore cannon begs to differ." Erica retorted.

She scowled. Hartmann had her there. She hmphed. "What do you see in these guys anyway? and what the hell is that in your pocket?"

Erica smirked "I was just talking to an officer. He told me that my counterpart here, he became a colonel of the Luftwaffe!"

Barkhorn was gobsmacked. Erica, her slacker friend? A colonel? Seriously.

"Th... That's not possible!" she stammered.

"Tell that to retired Bundeswehr Colonel Erich Hartmann."

"A colonel? You? I'd have an easier time believing Minna had finally admitted her love for Shirley! Which isn't even true!" Gertrud blinked. "You mean to tell me there's a version of you out there who actually grew up and took responsibility?"

Erica laughed. "Looks like it! Maybe I should stick around here, and see if any of his good habits rub off on me."

Trude rolled her eyes. "I doubt it. You're more likely to corrupt him with your laziness."

"Oh, come on, Trude. Lighten up. It's not every day you get to see your doppelgänger achieve something impressive."

"Yeah, yeah. Just don't get any ideas."

"Too late. I'm already thinking about what kind of car I should get with my officer's salary," Erica joked, winking at her.

"God help us all," Trude muttered.

Erica grinned. "Turns out I'm quite distinguished in this world. Over 350 aerial victories, more than any other pilot! Though from what I gathered, it was a lot tougher fight against those Neuroi than our witches face."

Trude waved a dismissive hand. "Psh, probably had their tanks do all the work while he manned the seat warmer."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Trude!" Erica laughed. "Jealous you never got promoted, past captain?"

Trude's eye twitched. "I'll have you know I was up for major before we got transported here, slacker!" She hmphed. "Let's just go rejoin the rest of the girls. They'll be wondering where the hell we wandered off to."

"Easy, Trude, your envy is showing," Hartmann said with a chuckle.

Barkhorn huffed. "I'm not envious. It just feels... wrong, seeing Karlsland like this. So different from home."

"Hmm, well, I'd say we'd have to get along, considering we've got Laurel and Hardy on our tail." She jerked her shoulders in the direction where a Soviet observer and a battledress-wearing underling were trying to discreetly follow them.

"What do we do!" Gertrud hissed.

"Simple. We talk." Erica smiled before about turning and walking up to the two. Trude groaned and facepalmed in utter horror.

We are so dead. Was her current line of thought as she straightened herself and marched up to join her friend.

A few good meters away, the Wing's senior officers, Major Sakamoto Mio, and Colonel Minna Dietlinde-Wilcke were watching the exercises from a rectangular monitor. This was a treasure trove for any strategist, which was why some of Karlsland's top Generals were here in attendance, as were observers from other "displaced and merged" nations.

"Penny for your thoughts Minna?" Sakamoto stroked her chin pensively, watching her red haired superior as she pondered in deep thought.

"I have to say, we're outmatched here in every theater, even witches. Their jet fighters are a more refined version of some of our designs…worst part is, some war hawks in the Imperial government want us to take over both Germanies with force, seeing as technically, our empire is o those two nations."

"What do these generals say." Mio inquired, resting her hand on the hip of Reppumaru, her katana.

"Well, since Karlsland in this world is split in two, they believe there is no hope of seamless integration the way Liberion, Gallia, Soumous, Brittania, Hispania and the others integrated with their counterparts here." Minna gazed out to the exercise area where motorized infantry, British, the Brittanian counterpart, rushed out of their IFVs.

So?" Mio probed. "What does the Emperor think? Isn't he a neophiliac?" Fredrick IV was famous for his neophilia. "Minna this isn't going to be like fighting the Neuroi, this will be bloody! Is this why they are stalling for time with negotiations with Bonn? I've been hearing reports of Karlslandic soldiers forcing Polish people out of East Prussia."

"That's unfortunately above my pay grade but from what I can tell it was due to this world's second world war when East Prussia was given to Poland. Unfortunately, the merge brought most of cities to merge with their counterparts here, so yes, it is true."

"This is madness, and you know it." Mio sighed. "Please tell me you of all people don't think this way."

Minna shook her head, her eyes still locked on the monitor displaying the NATO exercises. "No, of course not. I'm not advocating for forceful integration. But the reality is, there's growing pressure from certain factions within the government. They see an opportunity and believe that Karlsland's future could be secured through aggressive expansion. It's a dangerous path."

Mio's frown deepened, her grip tightening on Reppumaru. "They think they can just force their way into control. They're underestimating what modern warfare entails. This isn't the Neuroi; these are people with advanced technology and strategies. It will be a bloodbath."

Minna nodded, her expression grave. "I know. That's what worries me. The generals are confident, maybe too confident, that our witches' abilities and our tactics will give us an edge. But they're not seeing the full picture. Integration through force will be disastrous."

Mio shook her head. "And what about our allies? Liberion, Gallia, Soumous, Brittania, Fuso, Hispania—they've integrated without such drastic measures. Why can't we follow their example?"

"Because," Minna said, her voice heavy with frustration, "Karlsland's split is more than just political. It's cultural, ideological. Here, the West is a thriving democracy, while the East is under Soviet influence. The generals believe there's no middle ground, no way to merge the two peacefully."

"And you?" Mio asked quietly. "What do you believe?"

Minna hesitated, her eyes betraying a flicker of uncertainty. "I believe in finding a way to avoid bloodshed. We've fought too many wars, lost too many lives. But I'm also realistic. If it comes to it, we must be prepared for any eventuality."

Mio studied her friend closely. "So, what do we do? Stand by and watch as the world tears itself apart?"

"No," Minna replied firmly. "We push for a diplomatic solution with all our might. We use our influence, our knowledge, our connections. We show the generals, the politicians, and the Emperor that integration through cooperation is the only way forward. We can't let our history of conflict dictate our future."

"What do the other officers you know and speak with?" she asked in a hushed tone.

"Rall and the 502nd are currently in East Germany, observing Warsaw Pact Exercises," Minna replied. "The 506th are in Paris, von Bonin is in Chelyabinsk with the 503rd. And it's best we continue elsewhere; the walls have ears." She locked eyes with someone Mio couldn't see before gesturing her to follow inside to the building. Mio pondered Minna's words carefully. "Reconciliation between the Germanys is encouraging, though integrating Karlsland fully could still prove...complicated."

She gazed meaningfully at Minna. "Terms have been offered, yet you seem troubled. What conditions give you pause?"

Minna sighed. "While recognizing the Emperor symbolically, both propose Karlsland assimilate completely into a new 'German Federation.' The Emperor would become a figurehead, our traditions would be recognized, but certain institutions dissolved."

Mio's eyes narrowed. Forced assimilation rarely ended well. "And internally, what is the mood?"

"Mixed," Minna replied grimly. "Many see this new world as a chance for unification and wish to embrace our counterparts. But ultranationalists cry betrayal, insisting on full sovereignty or war."

Mio's brow furrowed deeper. That mix could easily ignite violence. "Surely compromise remains possible if pursued in good faith."

"Perhaps." Minna didn't sound convinced. "But nationalist sentiment runs high, and hardliners on both sides could undermine the process. One wrong move..."

She trailed off grimly. Mio knew that look - Minna feared bloodshed if tensions weren't defused. But how, with so many variables beyond their control?

A heavy silence fell as the two witches pondered this tenuous peace. All of Europe, and who knew how many more people beyond, hung in the balance. For the sake of millions, diplomacy must prevail - but for how long, if passions continued to swell?

Mio met Minna's anxious stare with a resolute one of her own. "Then we had best ensure the right voices are heard. By tonight, new orders will be sent."

Karlsland's fate, and the fate of nations, now rested on their adept handling of the delicate situation. The path was narrow, but they would guide their people down it, toward unity, or die trying.

Eila Ilmatar Juutilainen, the wing's Soumi member had been inspecting a piece of ingenious looking hardware, a computer monitor. Back home, computers had been these massive things that took up rooms. Integration with the Republic of Finland had been smooth, although the Soviet embassy had protested over the loss of Karelia. Now, Soviet citizens found themselves no longer in their homeland.

Sanya's been worried sick. She thought worriedly about the silver haired Orussian. The fact that Orussia is a communist state, and the Romanovs were murdered disturbed her a lot.

Her friend was currently waiting for her outside. While she finished poking around. She then about turned and began to make her way through the winding corridor leading to the exit, where her blood turned to ice.

Standing in front of Sanya, no towering over the white-haired girl was the tallest man Eila had ever seen. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, with khaki pants and black jackboots and a peaked hat with a light blue band. She could see no wings on his person, so thar ruled out any branch of aviation.

He seemed to be conversing with Sanya in Orussian, or was it Russian now? Fortunately, being her roommate, she'd picked up a mastery for the language and could understand everything they were saying.

"You are Orussian? From the merged world?" the man inquired, his hands behind his back.

"Yes sir…" Sanya answered softly. "I am."

"Litvyak, yes, Litvyak. Do you know of your counterpart here? She wasn't a Sanya no; she was a Lydia." The officer chuckled. "Lydia Vladmirovna Litvyak. She was given the award "Hero of the Soviet Union", posthumously after she was shot down by the fascists."

"Oh." Sanya looked unsure on how to respond. Eila bit back a growl. Didn't the man see that he was making her uncomfortable? She wanted to go over there right now and give the rude man a piece of her mind. But she held her tongue and reined in her anger. He was speaking again.

"Tell me, what do you know of the Czarists who've taken Leningrad, that would be St Petersburg to you, and our Baltic Fleet, two of our Red Army Divisions, and three Aviation Regiments." The officer asked. "Plus Chelyabinsk and a few other cities."

"I don't understand."

"We know you have your parents there, your father is a musician, a composer, your mother, a seamstress, or perhaps another witch like you." The man counted off his fingers. "Now, unfortunately the Orussian "Government" in the city evicted our KGB agents, but it is easy to get in anyway, now tell me if you know anything about the governmental structure before I lose my patience and decide you are a waste of my time and silence you because you conversed with me,"

That sick bastard! Eila thought angrily. Doesn't he know he's making her uncomfortable! Does he have no manners!

Sanya looked deathly pale now and looked close to crying. Eila growled, before striding over to them.

"Hey you! With the hat!" she shouted, causing both of them to turn their heads. Sanya looked kind of relieved, the officer only let a flash of surprise before his face went emotionless again.

"Your comrade?" he asked her in perfect English, (she was using this world's word for it.) and gesturing towards Sanya.

"My friend!" she replied in perfect Orussian, which caused the officer's eyes to widen. "What's your problem huh? Can't you see that she's getting uncomfortable!"

The officer stared at her silently for a long two minutes before his face broke into a grin and he laughed. Loudly.

"Oho…a friend with backbone!" the man's laugh was a booming one. "You speak good Russian, comrade witch." Eila growled. How dare he make a joke of this.

"I'm her roommate." She retorted with barely veiled anger. "She made me read all of Tolstoy's work's, Chekov's plays, and Pushkin's poetry. And she's a native. I know the language well enough." She hissed.

"You had Tolstoy back where you came from too?" the officer sounded mildly impressed. "Well, isn't that interesting. What's your name?"

Flying Officer Eila Ilmatar Juutilainen. "She snapped. "And who the hell are you to think you can probe into Sanya's private life like that!" she crossed her arms, glowering at him.

"Major Arkady Semyon'ich Petlyura. Third Chief Directorate, of the KGB" the man straightened his hat with a smirk.

Eila's heart pounded as she stood her ground, her eyes locked with Petlyura's cold, calculating gaze. "KGB, huh?" she spat, the disdain evident in her voice. "I don't care if you're from the goddamn moon, you don't get to intimidate my friend."

Petlyura's smirk only widened. "Intimidation is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as... gathering information. It's my job to know about potential threats and assets."

Sanya's voice trembled as she spoke, "Eila, it's okay. I don't want any trouble."

Eila shook her head. "No, Sanya. It's not okay. This man has no right to threaten you or your family."

Petlyura's eyes glinted with amusement. "Threaten? My dear, you misunderstand. I'm merely trying to understand the lay of the land. After all, these are turbulent times."

"Turbulent times or not, you don't get to bully people into giving you what you want," Eila shot back. "We're here as guests, not your playthings."

The major's expression darkened slightly, but he maintained his composure. "Very well, Miss Juutilainen. You have made your point. However, I do expect cooperation from those who find themselves in such... unique circumstances."

Eila's jaw clenched. "And what if we refuse to cooperate?"

Petlyura took a step closer, his presence looming. "Then you might find that your stay here becomes... less pleasant. But I'm sure it won't come to that."

"Back off," Eila growled. "We're not your enemies. We're here to understand this world just as much as you are."

"Perhaps," Petlyura said, his voice dripping with condescension. "But understand this: I am from here, a native if you must label me. And this world is ugly. Very ugly for naïve little girls."

Sanya looked like she was about to collapse from the tension. Eila reached out and took her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "We'll be just fine, Sanya."

Eila's eyes narrowed as she took in the KGB officer's smirk. "Third Chief Directorate, huh? So, you're a spook. Figures you'd be poking around in people's private lives."

Major Petlyura's smirk widened. "It's my job, comrade witch. Information is power, and power is what keeps us safe."

"Power also corrupts," Eila shot back. "And threatening a young girl for information is a low move, even for an officer."

Petlyura shrugged. "Threats are only as good as the fear they inspire. Your friend here knows things about Orussia that could be very valuable to us. And to you, if you care about your families."

Sanya's eyes welled with tears, and Eila's anger flared hotter. "You stay away from her and her family. If you want information, you go through official channels, not by bullying witches who just want to do their duty."

The major raised an eyebrow. "Official channels? In these times, those can be... unreliable. But very well, comrade witch. I'll play nice. For now." He turned to Sanya. "Remember, little witch, we're always watching. Be careful where your loyalties lie."

Eila's eye twitched as Petlyura's patronizing smirk grew. Oh, how she wanted to wipe it right off his smug face. But before she could stop herself, her temper boiled over.

"You listen here, you creep!" She jabbed a finger into his chest. "I don't care who you are, you don't get to come around threatening people, especially not my Sanya!" Eila's fists clenched as Petlyura's words sank in, her protective instincts flaring up like a wildfire. The playful, carefree demeanor she usually carried was replaced by a steely resolve, and her grey eyes darkened with fury.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" Eila hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "Picking on someone who hasn't done a damn thing to you. That might work on others, but not on us. Not on her."

The KGB officer's smirk faltered for a split second, but he quickly regained his composure. "Miss Juutilainen, I advise you to—"

He didn't get to finish. Eila's fist shot out like a bullet, connecting with Petlyura's jaw with a satisfying crack. The force of the blow sent him staggering back, his hat tumbling to the ground. Sanya gasped, her eyes wide with shock as the major's hand instinctively went to his throbbing jaw, disbelief etched across his features.

Eila shook her hand, ignoring the sting in her knuckles. "That's for thinking you can intimidate Sanya. And if you try anything like that again, you'll get more than just a punch."

Petlyura glared at her, anger and something resembling respect flickering in his eyes. "You'll regret that, Juutilainen. I assure you."

Eila took a step forward, her expression unyielding. "You don't scare me. You're just another bully hiding behind a uniform. And if you think you can push us around, you're in for a nasty surprise."

Petlyura's eyes narrowed, but he didn't respond. Instead, he straightened his posture and adjusted his jacket, trying to regain some of his lost dignity. "This isn't over," he muttered, before turning on his heel and walking away, leaving his hat behind.

Eila watched him go, her chest heaving with adrenaline. She then turned to Sanya, who looked at her with a mix of worry and awe. "Eila… you didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did," Eila replied, her voice softening as she took Sanya's hand again. "No one gets to mess with you, Sanya. Not while I'm around."

Sanya gave her a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Eila."

Eila grinned, the tension melting away as she wrapped an arm around Sanya's shoulders. "Come on, let's get out of here. I've had enough of creepy spooks for one day. How about we go find some ice cream and talk about anything other than these idiots?"

Sanya nodded, her smile growing a bit wider. "That sounds nice."

As they walked away, Eila glanced back at the discarded hat on the ground and chuckled to herself. "He'll think twice before messing with us again."

Minna facepalmed as she entered the brig. A single American MP stood outside the cell. He was wearing woodland BDUs and web gear along with sunglasses on his young, mustachioed face.

"I'm here for...the person in the cell."

"Bail, ma'am?"

"Yes." she sighed, massaging her temple. "Did she cause any trouble while you were guarding her?"

"No, she was quiet as a mouse." the man took out a key and unlocked the door to solitary confinement.

Minna groaned. A silent Eila was not a good sign.

"What the hell? She...she was right here an hour ago!" the MP returned looking shaken. "The cooler's empty!"

Minna: "Empty?"

MP: "Yes, ma'am, I swear, she was—" Before the MP could finish his sentence, a soft knock came from above them. Both of them looked up, only to see Eila, sitting comfortably on one of the rafters, casually swinging her legs, a smug grin plastered across her face. She was holding what looked like a makeshift deck of cards in her hands, shuffling them lazily.

"Looking for me?" Eila called down, her voice filled with mischief. She held up a tarot card, waving it around playfully. "I think I predicted you'd show up around now, Minna!"

Minna crossed her arms, trying to suppress a smile. "Eila, get down from there. You're supposed to be in the cell, not playing hide and seek with the guards!"

Eila chuckled, hopping down with surprising grace. "Well, I was just getting a bit bored in there. And besides," she held up the cards, "I figured I could do a little fortune-telling while I waited."

The MP looked bewildered, scratching his head. "How did you even get up there?"

Eila winked. "A magician never reveals her secrets."

Minna sighed, shaking her head. "You're incorrigible, Eila."

"Aw, come on, Minna," Eila grinned, handing the cards to her. "At least I kept myself entertained. Want me to do a reading for you? I promise, it'll be... mostly accurate."

Minna couldn't help but chuckle. "Maybe another time. Let's just get you out of here before you cause any more trouble." As they walked out, Eila leaned in closer to Minna. "So, what's the damage this time? A lecture? Extra training? I can handle it!"

Minna rolled her eyes but smiled. "We'll see. But for now, try not to disappear on me again, okay?" Eila gave a mock salute. "You got it, boss. But no promises about the disappearing act!"

Minna shook her head as she and Eila walked away from the brig, the mischievous witch grinning from ear to ear. The MP was still scratching his head, trying to figure out how Eila had managed to escape the cell without a sound.

"So," Eila began, her voice full of playful curiosity, "what did you think of my little trick? Pretty good, right?"

Minna gave her a sidelong glance. "I'm not sure 'good' is the word I'd use. You know you're supposed to stay put when you're in trouble, not make the guards question their sanity."

Eila giggled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Come on, Minna, where's the fun in that? Besides, it was just a bit of harmless fun. I knew you'd bail me out, so I figured I'd keep myself entertained."

Minna sighed, though a small smile tugged at her lips. "You never change, do you?"

"Why would I?" Eila replied, her tone cheerful. "Life's too short to be serious all the time. Gotta keep things interesting!"

Minna couldn't help but laugh. "I suppose I should be thankful you didn't cause more trouble."

Eila winked. "You know me, Minna. I'm always just one step ahead of trouble. Besides," she added with a grin, "if things ever get too boring around here, I've always got my cards to liven things up."

Minna shook her head, unable to suppress her amusement. "Just try to keep the pranks to a minimum, alright? We've got enough on our plates as it is."

Eila gave her a mock salute, her grin widening. "You got it, Minna. But no promises. After all, a little mischief never hurt anyone!"

Alright, Chapter three is up.

However, I'm noticing increasing views, but no reviews.

The reviews will help me improve this story and also your feedback, which will help me learn.

So, please. Review this story, I'm putting a lot of hard work into this.

Now, in chapter 4, the Soviets will ready their Maskirovka. The US Third Armored Division receives a surprisingly familiar commander (props to the readers guessing who in the reviews) The Orussians will figure out modern hardware. Finnish and Soviet Diplomats will bicker over the fate of Karelia and Karlslandic forces in East Prussia will face their first battle against a modern army in a skirmish with the Polish People's army while the Yugoslav 1st Proleterian Mechanized Division skirmish with the Ostmarkians in what is technically, the SR Slovenia, and many more events. Witness this all, in Chapter 4!