Chapter 4.
Skirmishss.
MOSCOW, R.S.F.S.R.
The Foreign Minister entered stage left, as he always did, and walked to the lectern with a brisk step that belied his sixty years. Before him was a mob of reporters arrayed by the Soviet Guards into their respective groups, the print press grasping at their pads and backed up by their photographers, the visual media arrayed in front of their portable klieg lights. The Foreign Minister hated the damned things, hated the people in front of them. The Western press with its lack of manners, always prying, always probing, always demanding answers that he need not give to his own people. How odd, he thought, while looking up from his notes, that he often had to speak more openly to these paid foreign spies than to members of the Party Central Committee. Spies, exactly what they were...
They could be manipulated, of course, by a skilled man with a collection of carefully prepared disinformation—which was precisely what he was about to do. But on the whole they were a threat because they never stopped doing what it was they did. It was something the Foreign Minister never allowed himself to forget, and the reason he did not hold them in contempt. Dealing with them always held potential danger. Even while being manipulated, they could be dangerous in their quest for information. If only the rest of the Politburo understood.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, speaking in English. "I will be making a brief statement, and I regret that I cannot answer any questions at this time. A full handout will be given to everyone as you leave—that is, I think they are ready by now—" He gestured to a man at the back of the room, who nodded emphatically. The Foreign Minister arranged his papers one more time and began to speak with the precise diction for which he was known.
"The President of the United States has often asked for 'deeds not words' in the quest for control of strategic arms.
"As you know, and to the disappointment of the entire world, the ongoing arms negotiations in Vienna have made no significant progress for over a year, with each side blaming the other for the lack of it.
"It is well known by peace-loving people the world over that the Soviet Union has never wished for war, and that only a madman would even consider nuclear war a viable policy option in our modern world of overkill, fallout, and 'nuclear winter.' "
"Damn," muttered AP bureau chief Patrick Flynn. The Soviets scarcely acknowledged "nuclear winter" and had never mentioned the concept in so formal a setting. His antennae were already twitching at whatever there was in the wind.
"The time has come for substantive reductions in strategic arms. We have made numerous, serious, sincere proposals for real arms reductions, and despite this the United States has proceeded with the development and deployment of its destabilizing, openly offensive weapons: the MX first-strike missile, so cynically called the 'Peacekeeper'; the advanced Trident D-5 first- strike sea-launched ballistic missile; two separate varieties of cruise missiles whose characteristics conspire to make arms control verification almost totally impossible; and of course, the so-called Strategic Defense Initiative, which will take offensive strategic weapons into space. Such are America's deeds." He looked up from his notes and spoke with irony. "And through it all, America's pious words demand Soviet deeds.
"Starting tomorrow, we will see once and for all if America's words are to be believed or not. Starting tomorrow we will see how great a difference there is between America's words about peace and Soviet deeds for peace.
"Tomorrow, the Soviet Union will put on the table at Vienna a proposal to reduce existing arsenals of strategic and theater nuclear weapons by fifty percent, this reduction to be accomplished over a period of three years from ratification of the agreement, subject to on-site verification conducted by third- party inspection teams whose composition will be agreed upon by all signatories.
"Please note that I say 'all signatories.' The Soviet Union invites the United Kingdom, the French Republic, and"—he looked up—"the People's Republic of China to join us at the negotiating table." The explosion of flashbulbs caused him to look away for a moment.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please—" He smiled, holding his hand up to shield his face. "These old eyes are not up to such abuse as this, and I have not memorized my speech—unless you want me to continue in Russian!"
There was a wave of laughter, then a sprinkling of applause at the jibe. The old bastard was really turning on the charm, Flynn thought, furiously taking notes. This was potential dynamite. He wondered what would come next, and he especially wondered what the precise wording on the proposal was. Flynn had covered arms talks before and knew all too well that general descriptions of proposals could grossly distort the nuts-and-bolts details of the real issues to be negotiated. The Russians couldn't be this open—they just couldn't be.
"To proceed." The Foreign Minister blinked his eyes clear. "We have been accused of never making a gesture of our good faith. The falsehood of the charge is manifest, but this evil fiction continues in the West. No longer. No longer will anyone have cause to doubt the sincerity of the Soviet people's quest for a just and lasting peace.
"Beginning today, as a sign of good faith which we challenge the United States and any other interested nation to match, the Soviet Union will remove from service an entire class of nuclear-powered missile submarines. These submarines are known to the West as the Yankee class. We call them something else, of course," he said with an ingenuous grin that drew another wave of polite laughter. "Twenty of the vessels are presently in service, each carrying twelve sea-launched ballistic missiles. All active members of the class are assigned to the Soviet Northern Fleet based on the Kola Peninsula.
Beginning today, we will deactivate these vessels at a rate of one per month. As you know, complete deactivation of so complex a machine as a missile submarine requires the services of a shipyard—the missile compartment must be physically removed from the body of the vessel—and so these vessels cannot be fully disarmed overnight. However, to make the honesty of our intentions undeniable, we invite the United States to do one of two things:
"First, we will permit a selected team of six American naval officers to inspect these twenty vessels to verify that their missile tubes have been filled with concrete ballast pending removal of the entire missile rooms from all of the submarines. In return for this, we would require that a comparable inspection visit by an equal number of Soviet officers to American yards would be allowed at a later date to be agreed on.
"Second, as an alternative should the United States be unwilling to allow reciprocal verification of arms reductions, we will permit another group of six officers to perform this service, these officers to be from a country—or countries—upon which the United States and the Soviet Union can agree within the next thirty days. A team from such neutral countries as Sweden or India would be acceptable in principle to the Soviet Union."
"And finally," the Foreign Minister said, his tone measured, "we will begin the dismantling of certain older surface-to-air missile systems, including the SA-2 Guideline, which has been a reliable but now outdated part of our air defense network. These systems will be replaced by more modern and effective defenses, in line with our commitment to national security and the safety of our people."
The mention of the SA-2s, Flynn realized, was almost too obvious. The Soviets were phasing out these systems anyway, so presenting it as a concession was purely symbolic—a move meant to placate Western fears without actually compromising Soviet defensive capabilities.
The Foreign Minister looked up from his notes, his gaze sweeping over the room. "We do not make these gestures lightly," he said, his voice firm. "We make them because we believe in the possibility of a world free from the shadow of nuclear war. But make no mistake—our gestures are conditional. They require reciprocal actions from the United States and its allies. We will not disarm unilaterally. The path to peace must be walked by both sides."
He paused, letting the silence stretch, the tension building.
"The Soviet Union will, of course, continue to develop and maintain modern, effective defenses as long as the threat of aggression remains. But we hope that today's announcement will be seen for what it is: a genuine offer of peace, an invitation to the United States and the world to join us in building a safer, more stable future."
The room erupted in a flurry of questions, but the Foreign Minister raised his hand to silence them.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the time has come to put an end to the arms race. I will not repeat all of the flowery rhetoric we've all heard over the past two generations. We all know the threat that these ghastly weapons represent to every nation. Let no one ever say again that the government of the Soviet Union has not done its part to reduce the danger of war. Thank you."
The room suddenly fell silent but for the sound of motor-driven still cameras. The Western press representatives assigned to their respective Moscow bureaus were among the best in their profession. Uniformly bright, uniformly ambitious, uniformly cynical about what they found in Moscow and the conditions under which they were forced to work, all were stunned to silence.
"Goddamn," muttered Flynn after a full ten seconds.
"One must admire your understatement, old boy," agreed Reuters correspondent William Calloway. "Wasn't it your Wilson who spoke of open covenants openly arrived at?"
"Yeah, my granddad covered that peace conference. Remember how well it worked out?" Flynn grimaced, watching the Foreign Minister depart, smiling at the cameras. Flynn's words seemed to echo in the silence, cutting through the tension that hung in the room like a thick fog. Around him, the other reporters were still frozen, their pens hovering over notepads, eyes wide as they processed what they had just heard.
"Did he just...?" one reporter from The Times began, but couldn't finish the sentence, disbelief choking the words in his throat.
"Yeah," Flynn replied, his voice low and incredulous. "He did."
The cameras continued to click, the sound eerily mechanical against the backdrop of stunned human silence. Slowly, the room began to come back to life as reporters exchanged looks, some hurriedly scribbling notes, others muttering to themselves or to their colleagues, trying to make sense of the Foreign Minister's unexpected announcement.
"This is a game-changer," whispered a correspondent from Le Monde, his usually steady hands shaking as he wrote. "If it's real."
Flynn shook his head as the Foreign Minister disappeared from view, leaving behind a room thick with disbelief and the scent of manipulation. The silence hung heavy, broken only by the soft clicks of cameras still trying to capture the remnants of the spectacle.
"Jesus, Bill," Flynn said, running a hand through his hair, "this is like watching a master illusionist at work. They give you one hand to shake while the other hand's busy picking your pocket."
Calloway nodded, his eyes still fixed on the spot where the Foreign Minister had stood. "Indeed. The trick, old boy, is figuring out which hand is the distraction and which is the real play."
Flynn smirked, though there was no humor in it. "And here we were, thinking we were the ones asking the tough questions. That old fox just handed us a whole pack of lies wrapped in a pretty bow, and half the room's going to write it up as gospel."
A few seats away, Helen Dawson from the BBC leaned in, her voice a low murmur. "You think there's any truth to it? Or is it all just smoke and mirrors?"
Flynn shrugged, his cynicism hard-earned and well-practiced. "There might be a grain of truth buried in there somewhere, but good luck digging it out. The Soviets are masters at this game. They tell you what they want you to hear and leave you to trip over your own feet trying to figure out the rest."
Calloway exhaled, a slow, deliberate breath. "And while we're stumbling about, they'll be moving pieces on the board that we don't even know exist yet."
Flynn nodded grimly, gathering his notes. "Yeah, and by the time we catch on, it might be too late to do a damn thing about it."
As the reporters began to pack up their things, still buzzing with the aftershock of the announcement, Flynn couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that had settled in his gut. The Soviets had just laid down a challenge, one that was as much psychological as it was strategic. It was a move designed to disorient, to confuse, to make the West second-guess every decision it made in the days to come.
And that, Flynn realized, was the real danger. Not the deactivation of submarines or the retirement of obsolete missiles, but the seeds of doubt and uncertainty that the Soviets had just planted in the minds of their adversaries.
As he slung his bag over his shoulder, Flynn glanced at Calloway, who was already scribbling notes for his dispatch. "Bill, you think anyone's going to call this for what it is? A goddamn magic trick?"
Calloway looked up, his expression a mixture of resignation and determination. "Maybe a few of us will try, but you know how it is. The world loves a good show, and right now, the Soviets are putting on the best one in town."
Flynn chuckled darkly, the sound devoid of humor. "Yeah, well, let's just hope this show doesn't end with us all getting played for fools."
"I want to see the handout. Want to ride back with me?"
"Yes on both."
It was a bitterly cold day in Moscow. Snow piles were heaped at the roadsides. The sky was a frigid crystal blue. And the car's heater didn't work. Flynn drove while his friend read aloud from the handout. The draft treaty proposal took up nineteen annotated pages. The Reuters correspondent was a Londoner who had begun as a police reporter, and since covered assignments all over the world. He and Flynn had met many years before at the famous Caravelle Hotel in Saigon, and shared drinks and typewriter ribbons on and off for more than two decades. In the face of a Russian winter, they remembered the oppressive heat of Saigon with something akin to nostalgia.
"It's bloody fair," Calloway said wonderingly, his breath giving ghostly substance to his words. "They propose a builddown with elimination of many existing weapons, allowing both sides to replace obsolete launchers, both sides to reach a total of five thousand deliverable warheads, that number to remain stable for five years after the three-year reduction period. There is a separate proposal to negotiate complete removal of 'heavy' missiles, replacing them with mobile missiles, but to limit missile flight tests to a fixed number per year—" He flipped that page and rapidly scanned the remainder. "Nothing in the draft treaty about your Star Wars research...? Didn't he mention that in his statement? Patrick, old son, this is, as you say, dynamite. This could as easily have been written in Washington. It will take months to work out all the technical points, but this is a bloody serious, and bloody generous, proposal."
"Nothing about Star Wars?" Flynn frowned briefly as he turned right. Did that mean that the Russians had made a breakthrough of their own? Have to query Washington about that... "We got us a story here, Willie. What's your lead? How's 'Peace' grab you?" Calloway just laughed at that.
FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
American intelligence agencies, like their counterparts throughout the world, monitor all news wire services. Toland was examining the AP and Reuters reports before most news bureau chiefs, and comparing them with the version transmitted over Soviet microwave circuits for publication in the regional editions of Pravda and Isvestia. The way items of hard news were reported in the Soviet Union was intended to show Party members how their leaders felt.
"We've been down this road before," his section chief said. "The last time, things broke down on this issue of mobile missiles. Both sides want them, but both sides are afraid of the other side having them."
"But the tone of the report-"
"They're always euphoric about their arms-control proposals, dammit! Hell, Bob, you know that."
"True, sir, but it's the first time that I know of that the Russians have unilaterally removed a weapons platform from service."
"The 'Yankees' are obsolete."
"So what? They never throw anything away, obsolete or not. They still have World War II artillery pieces sitting in warehouses in case they need them again. This is different, and the political ramifications—"
"We're not talking politics, we're talking nuclear strategy," the section chief growled back.
As if there were a difference, Toland said to himself.
KIEV, THE UKRAINE
"Well, Pasha?"
"Comrade General, we truly have a man's work before us," Alekseyev answered, standing at attention in the Kiev headquarters of the Southwest Theater.
"Our troops need extensive unit training. Over the weekend I read through more than eighty regimental readiness reports from our tank and motor-rifle divisions." Alekseyev paused before going on. Tactical training and readiness was the bane of the Soviet military. Their troops were almost entirely conscripts, in and out in two years, half of whose uniformed service was occupied just in acquiring basic military skills. Even the noncoms, the backbone of every army since the Roman legions, were conscripts selected for special training academies, then lost as soon as their enlistment periods ended.
For that reason, the Soviet military leaned heavily on its officers, who often performed what in the West was sergeants' work. The professional officer corps of the Soviet Army was its only permanent, only dependable feature. In theory. "The truth of the matter is that we don't know our readiness posture at the moment. Our colonels all use the same language in their reports, without the slightest deviation. Everyone reports meeting norms, with the same amount of training hours, the same amount of political indoctrination, the same number of practice shots fired—that is, a deviation of under three percent! —and the requisite number of field exercises run, all of course of the proper type."
"As prescribed in our training manuals," the Colonel General noted.
"Naturally. Exactly-too damned exactly! No deviation for adverse weather. No deviation for late fuel deliveries. No deviation for anything at all. For example, the 703rd Motor-Rifle Regiment spent all of last October on harvesting duty south of Kharkov—yet somehow, they met their monthly norms for unit training at the same time. Lies are bad enough, but these are stupid lies!"
"It cannot be as bad as you fear, Pavel Leonidovich."
"Do we dare to assume otherwise, Comrade?"
The General stared down at his desk. "No. Very well, Pasha. You've formulated your plan. Let me hear it."
"For the moment, you will be outlining the plan for our attack into the Muslim lands. I must get into the field to whip our field commanders into shape. If we wish to accomplish our goals in time for the attack west, we must make an example of the worst offenders. I have four commanders in mind. Their conduct has been grossly and undeniably criminal. Here are the names and charges." He handed over a single sheet of paper.
"There are two good men here, Pasha," the General objected.
"They are guardians of the State. They enjoy positions of the greatest trust. They have betrayed that trust by lying, and in doing so, they have endangered the State," Alekseyev said, wondering how many men in his country could have that said of them. He dismissed the thought. There were problems enough right here.
"You understand the consequences of the charges you bring?"
"Of course. The penalty for treason is death. Did I ever falsify a readiness report? Did you?" Alekseyev looked away briefly. "It is a hard thing, and I take no pleasure in it—but unless we snap our units into shape, how many young boys will die for their officers' failings? We need combat readiness more than we need four liars. If there is a gentler way to achieve this, I don't know what that might be. An army without discipline is a worthless mob. We have the directive from STAVKA to make examples of unruly privates and restore the authority of our NCOs. It is fitting that if privates must suffer for their failings, then their colonels must suffer too. Theirs is the greater responsibility. Theirs is the greater reward. A few examples here will go a long way to restoring our army."
"The inspectorate?"
"The best choice," Alekseyev agreed. That way blame would not necessarily be traced back to the senior commanders themselves. "I can send teams from the Inspector General's service out to these regiments day after tomorrow. Our training memoranda arrived in all divisional and regimental headquarters this morning. The news of these four traitors will encourage our unit commanders to implement them with vigor. Even then, it will be two weeks before we have a clear picture of what we need to focus on, but once we can identify the areas
that need buttressing, we should have ample time to accomplish what we need to accomplish."
"What will CINC-West be doing?"
"The same, one hopes." Alekseyev shook his head. "Has he asked for any of our units yet?"
"No, but he will. We will not be ordered to launch offensive operations against NATO's southern flank—part of the continuing maskirovka. You may assume that many of our Category-B units will be detailed to Germany, possibly some of our 'A' tank forces also. However many divisions that man has, he'll want more."
"Just so we have enough troops to seize the oil fields when the time comes," Pasha observed. "Which plan are we supposed to execute?"
"The old one. We'll have to update it, of course." The old plan predated Soviet involvement in Afghanistan, and now the Red Army had a whole new perspective on sending mechanized forces into an area occupied by armed Muslims.
Alekseyev's hands bunched into fists. "Marvelous. We must formulate a plan without knowing when it will be implemented or what forces we'll have available to execute it."
"Remember what you told me about the life of a staff officer, Pasha?" CINC- Southwest chuckled.
The younger man nodded ruefully, hoist on his own petard. "Indeed, Comrade General: we will do our sleeping after the war."
Ayers Kaserne.
Butzbach, Kirch-Göns, West Germany.
HQ of the US third Armored Division.
January 3rd, 1989.
"Alright alright I'm coming." the US Army guard at the gate snapped irately. He walked out of the guard post and over to the gate. A surprisingly vintage 1939 Cadillac staff car painted in olive drab with a World war 2 era white star was waiting outside. 3 stars painted on a red rectangle on the front told him it was a three star general's!
Walking over angrily to the driver's window, who rolled it down and poked his head out. He was wearing standard US Army green service uniform, thank god.
"Hey buddy." The guard snapped, putting on his woodland camo cap. "What's up with the Museum Piece!"
"Bud, I'm transporting the New Commander. You might wanna open the gates."
"What, the new generals supposed to be here by three PM!" the guard checked his watch.
"Look, You don't want to be angering this general."
"Show me some Identification now!" the guard responded. The driver shrugged.
"Your funeral bud."
The passenger window rolled down slowly, and the guard walked up and promptly did a double take.
George S Patton Junior poked his head out, not looking a day over his exploits in Anzio "What's the holdup?"
"Uh...well sir..." the man stuttered, at a loss for words. "You're supp...osed to be dead."
Patton handed over a written order. "Look at this. Signed by President Ronald Reagan. Here's the signature too, Private Dean." he read the man's name etched on his BDUs.
The guard's face drained of color as he stared at the signature on the order. He blinked several times, as if hoping the name would change or the situation would somehow resolve itself.
"Uh... General Patton, sir?" Private Dean stammered, his voice shaky. "But... you're... I mean, you were supposed to be... dead, sir."
Patton's face darkened, his blue eyes narrowing dangerously. "I don't have time for this nonsense, Private," he barked, his voice as sharp as ever. "Open the damn gate before I have you cleaning latrines from here to the Rhine!"
Private Dean snapped to attention, his heart racing. "Y-yes, sir! Right away, sir!" He fumbled with the gate controls, his hands trembling as he struggled to unlock it.
Patton leaned back into the car, muttering something to the driver, who smirked but remained silent. The gate finally creaked open, and the Cadillac rolled forward with a sense of authority that left no room for doubt.
As the car passed through, Dean stood rigidly, saluting with all the fervor he could muster. The reality of what had just happened was still settling in his mind. He watched in stunned silence as the Cadillac moved towards the headquarters building, feeling as though he had just witnessed something from a history book come to life.
Patton glanced back at Dean through the rear window, his expression unreadable. "You'd better tighten up that post, soldier," he called out. "We're not in Kansas anymore."
The driver chuckled softly as they drove away, leaving Private Dean standing at the gate, wondering if he'd just stepped into another world—or if it was the other way around.
"Holy shit," breathed Corporal Rodriguez, who'd observed the exchange. "Old Blood and Guts himself, back from the grave!"
Dean felt like he needed a drink. "I think I need to sit down."
Rodriguez slapped his back, grinning. "You just met a goddamn legend, rookie! Lucky bastard. Wonder what the brass wants with him..."
Inside the base, all was chaos as word spread of the impossible arrival. Soldiers and officers spilled from buildings, staring in disbelief as Patton roared past.
He paid them no mind, focused on his mission. Finally, the Cadillac pulled up to HQ, brakes squeaking in protest.
Patton emerged, adjusting his peaked cap, and marched purposefully inside without a backward glance. The harried sergeant at the desk swallowed hard.
"G-general Patton. They're expecting you upstairs, sir."
Without a word, Patton took the stairs two at a time, spurs jangling. Whatever the reason for his return, the Third Army legend had clearly lost none of his famed intensity even in death. The base held its breath to see what would unfold.
Goldap, East Prussia.
Karlslandic Empire (Formerly Polish People's Republic Territory.
21 Jan, 1989/1945 (old world date.)
Private Rudi Mayer grunted as he pushed the spade inwards. His comrades, more experienced soldiers than him were also doing the same task, shoring up defenses.
Mayer had joined up too late to fight in the big push to Berlin and the destruction of the Neuroi and had been assigned to the 102nd Infantry Division, 3rd Regiment, 1st Battalion of the Imperial Karlslandic Army East Prussia, the renamed 2nd Army under the command of General der Panzertruppe Dietrich von Saucken, whose command had also absorbed remnants of the Imperial 4th Army as well.
Currently, Rudi was helping the others build trenches. A lot of the men were older veterans of the Neuroi War, some who had been fighting since 39.
Along the road that ran past them, sentries watched as groups of vehicles passed towards Poland. Rudi thought these modern people to be quite indifferent, or just strange. The fact that the merging, this event that caused the Neuroi to disappear had somehow brought them forwards in time seemed rather insane too. He dumped his spade on the table and began to clean it with some water and a rag.
Presently, Unterfeldwebel Paul Glicke also joined him. A tall, broad chested heavyweight of a man, he was the senior most experienced man in the squad. And as a result, he took Rudi, who was the FNG (Fucking New Guy) under his wing. In peacetime, he'd owned a printshop in Munich, and he always spoke with a thick Bavarian accent as a result.
"So, FNG." He said in his deep rumble. "How's the Heer so far?"
"So far so good." Rudi replied, dunking the spade in water. "It's kinda weird when you're in the future though."
The Sergeant gave a snort. "True." He said, looking at the boxy white and other times black cars. "It is sort of unreal. Like those Liberion Sci-Fi Magazines."
Rudi turned to give the older man a look. "You've read those?" Glicke's bearded face broke into a smug grin.
"Of course I have FNG, you young guy's take us grey old miser's for granted!"
Rudi chuckled as he shook his head. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You guys have seen a lot more than we have."
Glicke nodded, still grinning. "Exactly. We might be old, but we know a thing or two. And these times we're in now? They make those old sci-fi stories look tame."
Rudi glanced at the strange vehicles passing by. "No kidding. It's like living in one of those stories."
The sergeant took a seat on a nearby crate, pulling out a small tin from his pocket. "You know, back in Munich, I used to sit in my shop after hours, reading those magazines. Never thought I'd be living in something like this." He tapped the tin, offering some tobacco to Rudi.
"Thanks," Rudi said, taking a pinch. "You think things will ever settle down?"
Glicke shrugged as he packed his own pipe. "Who knows? Maybe. But for now, we just have to take it one day at a time. At least we're here, right?"
Rudi smiled, appreciating the older man's calm demeanor. "Yeah, I guess that's true. It's just...weird, you know? Being thrown into this."
"Life's weird, kid," Glicke replied, lighting his pipe and taking a deep puff. "But you learn to roll with it. Just keep your head down, do your job, and you'll be fine."
Rudi nodded, feeling a bit more at ease. "I'll remember that."
Glicke puffed on his pipe and looked up at the cloudy sky. "And who knows? Maybe one day, we'll all be sitting around a fire, telling stories about this time. Just like those old magazines."
Rudi laughed softly, the thought comforting him. "Yeah, maybe."
A white colored small car suddenly spluttered to a halt with skidding breaks. Rudi and the Sergeant watched as a young man woman, a really beautiful one at that got out grumbling. He realized it was one of those Polish civilians, wearing jeans, a white button up shirt, her long blonde hair loose around her shoulders. Both men watched her open the engine compartment up front, do some quick tinkering and slam it shut. Before giving the sentries on the road, a glare.
"You know what else find weird?" Rudi told the other man. Glicke gave a short hum, nodding at him to continue. "The fact that Poles here have their own nation. Back home—" It felt strange calling their old reality that, "Orussia controlled what we called Eastern Polonia, we controlled some bits of the West, and Ostmark got the rest. Here, these Poles have a whole goddamn country."
The young woman opened her car door, Rudi could even see a little kid in there too, but a leering infantryman began to creep up. The Sergeant stiffened, hand tightening on his MP-40 slung around his shoulder.
"Hey there Fraü..." the rifleman, Scholz, if Rudi remembered, leaned against the car in a casual pose. The woman gave a cat-like hiss. Glicke's eyes narrowed as he watched Scholz approach the woman, his posture shifting from relaxed to alert. "Watch yourself, Rudi," he muttered, standing up and tapping his pipe against the crate. "Some of these young fools forget their manners when they see a pretty face." Glicke's expression darkened as he watched the scene unfold. He didn't like the look in Scholz's eyes, and the woman's clear discomfort only made it worse.
Rudi tensed up beside him, unsure of what to do. He'd heard stories of how some soldiers acted when they thought no one was watching, but seeing it in person was different. The unease in the air was palpable, and even the other men, who had been relaxing moments before, were now on edge.
Scholz leaned in closer, his voice low and greasy. "No need to be so unfriendly, Fraülein. Just trying to be... neighborly."
The woman's eyes narrowed, and she spat something in Polish that neither Rudi nor Glicke needed to understand. Her tone was clear enough. She reached into the car, presumably to check on the child, but Scholz moved to block her, his hand resting on the car door as if to trap her in place.
Glicke had seen enough. He pushed himself off the crate and started walking towards the car, his pipe still clenched between his teeth. His broad shoulders and confident stride made it clear that he wasn't going to stand for this.
"Scholz!" Glicke barked, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Scholz straightened up, surprise flashing across his face before he masked it with a lazy grin. "Just having a little chat with the Frau, Sergeant. No harm in that, right?"
"Harm?" Glicke's voice was dangerously calm. "Looks to me like you're harassing a civilian. Do you know what we do to soldiers who step out of line, Scholz?"
The rifleman's grin faltered, and he took a step back, realizing too late that he'd pushed things too far. "I didn't mean anything by it, Sergeant. Just...you know...being friendly."
Glicke's eyes narrowed. "Get back to your post, Scholz. Now."
Scholz hesitated, his bravado crumbling under the sergeant's stern gaze. Without another word, he slunk away, casting a final glance at the woman before disappearing into the ranks.
Glicke turned to the woman, his expression softening. "My apologies, Frau," he said in halting Polish, the words not coming easily to him. "He's an idiot. You and your child are safe here."
The woman's fierce expression softened slightly, and she nodded curtly, though it was clear she was still upset. She climbed back into her car, slamming the door behind her.
Rudi, who had been holding his breath, finally exhaled. "Thanks, Sergeant," he muttered, relieved that the situation hadn't escalated further.
Glicke just shook his head, taking another puff from his pipe. "Some men don't know when to keep their hands to themselves," he said quietly. "But we're not those men, Mayer. Remember that."
Rudi nodded, his respect for the sergeant growing even more. "I will, Sergeant. I will."
Polish People's Army Field HQ.
A few miles away.
"Comrade General, the troops are in place." The operations officer, a colonel announced gravely.
"What are we waiting for then? Give the order to advance!" the one-star general ordered, looking at the map intently.
" Tak, towarzyszu" the colonel nodded to the radio operators sitting at their stations, who began to transmit the orders to the tank battalion to advance.
The General felt his features twist into a grin. If Big Brother Moscow couldn't help its fraternal socialist allies, then it was time to take matters into their own hands. No force on earth, not even these out of time Reich sympathizers, would bring Poland back to 1939. They would slam through Goldap, and rumble into East Prussia. It was 1989, not 39, and it was time to give these out-of-place Nazi's a taste of their own medicine! A blitzkrieg like the one that took Western Europe in 40!
Poland was not yet lost.
Forests not far from Goldap.
The T-72 tank battalion's commander received the orders at once. He then went onto the battalion circuit and relayed the terse command to the tank companies under his command. Their infantry counterparts were receiving the same order.
The forest floor trembled as the tanks roared to life, their diesel engines coughing black smoke into the cold January air. The trees, tall and dense, seemed to bow under the weight of the impending assault.
The tank crews, hardened veterans of countless exercises and simulations, moved with practiced efficiency. Hatches clanged shut, and the crews inside strapped on their headsets, voices crackling over the internal comms as they conducted last-minute checks.
Around the tanks, soldiers of the Polish People's Army scrambled to their positions, the urgency of the order electrifying the air. The infantry, clad in blueish-green grey uniforms and steel helmets, quickly mounted their SKOT APCs, the metal beasts creaking under the weight of men and equipment. Rifles were slung across shoulders, and hands adjusted the straps of webbing loaded with ammunition and grenades. The APC drivers, faces set in grim determination, revved their engines, ready to follow the lumbering T-72s into the fray.
In the midst of this controlled chaos, the battalion's communications team worked furiously, radios buzzing with updates and confirmations. Antennas poked out of camouflaged vehicles, crackling with the flow of information from HQ to the frontlines. A signal officer, his face streaked with dirt, furrowed his brow as he listened intently, relaying commands with clipped efficiency.
Nearby, a group of mechanics performed last-minute checks on the tanks and APCs, tightening bolts and securing hatches. One wiped sweat from his brow despite the chill, his hands moving with the speed born of necessity. Another adjusted the tension on a tank's tracks, ensuring they wouldn't slip in the mud and snow that carpeted the ground. The smell of diesel and oil mixed with the scent of pine and damp earth, creating an atmosphere that was both tense and electric.
Artillery units, hidden deeper within the forest, prepared to provide covering fire for the advancing battalion. Soldiers loaded shells into the breeches of howitzers, muscles straining under the weight. Others adjusted the elevation and direction of the guns, their movements precise and practiced. The gunners, eyes narrowed in concentration, awaited the order to fire, knowing that their shells would pave the way for the armored assault.
Medics, stationed in makeshift aid stations within the tree line, double-checked their supplies. Bandages, morphine, and tourniquets were laid out in neat rows, ready to be used at a moment's notice. The medics themselves, young and old, exchanged glances that spoke of the grim work to come, their faces betraying a mix of determination and dread.
As the preparations continued, a light snow began to fall, blanketing the forest in a thin layer of white. The contrast between the peaceful scenery and the impending violence was stark, but it did nothing to deter the soldiers. They were ready. The tanks, APCs, and infantry were all in position, engines humming in unison, waiting for the signal that would unleash them upon the enemy.
And then, as if on cue, the first T-72 lurched forward, its tracks crushing the underbrush beneath it. The battalion began to move, a rolling tide of steel and determination, cutting through the snow-covered forest like a knife. The time for preparation was over; the time for action had begun. The soldiers of the Polish People's Army were on the march, ready to reclaim what they believed was rightfully theirs, and to send a message to the world that any force, old or new, would not cow Poland ever again.
Gdansk-Warsaw Highway.
Bianka let out a sigh of relief as she drove toward the "new border." She was glad she'd been able to fix the Fiat 126, but the encounter with that German soldier in World War II gear had been unnerving. What was the world coming to? It felt like 1939, not 1989. She glanced at her sleeping son, making sure he was comfortable in the passenger seat. The ground suddenly rumbled, making her look forward. Her heart skipped a beat.
She quickly pulled the car over to the side of the road, the little Fiat 126 vibrating from the rumble of approaching tanks. Relief washed over her as she recognized the markings on the vehicles—Polish tanks, part of the LWP (Ludowe Wojsko Polskie). For a moment, the tension of the past days seemed to lift.
A Polish Military Policeman rode up on a motorcycle. His face was stern, his uniform crisp, a sharp contrast to the chaotic world around them. The MP dismounted and approached her car with a no-nonsense demeanor, clipboard in hand.
"Good morning, comrade," she greeted, rolling down the window.
"Morning, pani. Identification, full name, and place of residence, please," the man stated tiredly, dark circles around his eyes, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And while you're at it, state your child's info too, as well as your destination."
Bianka nodded, reaching into her bag for her ID. "Bianka Nowak, from Szczecin," she said, handing over the documents. "This is my son, Jakub Nowak. We're heading to Warsaw to stay with my parents and sisters."
The MP glanced over the papers, then looked at Jakub, still peacefully asleep. "And how long do you plan to stay in Warsaw, pani?"
"Three weeks, maybe more," Bianka replied, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "Do you think we'll be able to go back home by then? I've heard so many different things…"
The MP sighed, scratching the back of his neck. "It's hard to say, pani. Everything's changing by the day. Best to stay with your family until things settle down. The situation in Szczecin… it's complicated."
Bianka's heart sank a little. She had hoped for some reassurance, but it seemed that uncertainty was all anyone could offer these days. "I understand," she said quietly. "But I hope we can go back soon. Szczecin is our home."
The MP handed back her documents and gave a small, tired smile. "I hope so too, pani Nowak. Drive safely. There's a lot of movement on the roads today, and not everyone's as calm as you."
"Thank you," Bianka replied, giving him a nod before rolling up the window. She watched as the MP returned to his motorcycle and rode off, disappearing into the haze of dust and diesel fumes left by the passing tanks.
She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself before starting the car again. The road ahead was uncertain, but for Jakub's sake, she had to keep going. Warsaw wasn't home, but it was safe—for now, that would have to be enough.
Goldap,
The first enemy Panzer slamming through the undergrowth took all of them by surprise. Even though they'd felt the ground shaking. Mayer's first ever sight of the enemy tank, a green grey machine with a white and red checkered insignia, low, squat profile with a large and rounded turret, giving the it a dome-like shape. The front of the turret slopped steeply almost like a Panther or a T-34. The glacis plate (front armor) was sharply inclined, adding to the vehicle's low silhouette. On either side of the hull, he could see heavy, reinforced side skirts that protect its tracks from AT fire.
Three more tanks linked up, opening fire with their huge guns. They were obviously firing HE rounds, and several unlucky riflemen were sliced apart, their screams ending abruptly.
Glicke, always the alert veteran, pushed Rudi down just in time before he too would've joined the others. Already, many of the infantrymen were getting themselves together and getting behind the little cover that was scattered around the unfinished defenses. Already, men were running, bringing up Panzerfausts, Panzerschreck's or even, captured Soviet RPGs, a design obviously based on the Panzerfausts. One man quickly took aim and was just getting around to pushing the trigger when a machine gun took him out.
Out of the smoke, APCs and IFVs rolled up, halting behind, or beside the tanks. Their rear doors opened, and squads of infantrymen dismounted, wearing gray green uniforms with a raindrop pattern as camouflage. Many of them were carrying Kalashnikov rifles, or as the Poles called them, the PMK. Almost all Soviet equipment Karlsland had gotten from disarmed units in East Prussia was sent back to the Karlsland Ministery of Technology in Berlin (central Berlin) where Ursula Hartmann was going to be inspecting and studying them. Glicke however, had seen the weapon in action, a much more superior weapon than their own StG-44s.
Peering out from behind a crate, Glicke saw to Polish riflemen advancing, their assault rifles cracking away. They didn't notice him as he sprung up and let loose his Schmeisser. It bucked and brayed, the spent casings falling to the ground, clinking like bells. The two Poles gave two short cries, before falling down forwards. Glicke dragged both corpses, no mean feat especially with bullets whizzing around. Once he was safe again, he reloaded his MP-40 before slinging it onto his shoulder as a close-range weapon. He then removed the first Kalashnikov from the fingers of the dead Pole and removed the large magazine bag slung around his hip that looked exactly like a few Orussian types he'd seen when serving on the Eastern Front alongside them in the Neuroi War and slung that around his other shoulder. He then took the other PMK and it's bag and thrust it into the FNG, Mayer's arms.
Since this was his first combat experience, like any raw recruit, the kid had been trying to make himself small as possible and hiding behind a section of intact masonry. When his fingers gripped around the requisitioned equipment, he looked confused. "But I already have a Kar-98…" he began to say in a tone reminiscent of a lost child.
"Forget it!" Glicke snapped at him. "It's to risky for this kind of warfare! Now use that assault rifle and follow me!"
Rudi's eyes were wide, his mind struggling to process everything happening around him. He looked down at the unfamiliar weapon in his hands, its weight both physical and psychological. The sounds of battle were overwhelming—the roar of tank engines, the staccato rattle of machine gun fire, the screams of wounded men. His heart pounded in his chest, the fear almost paralyzing.
Glicke noticed Rudi's hesitation and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him closer. "Snap out of it, Mayer!" he barked. "You want to survive this, right? Then listen to me! Keep your head down, stay close to me, and use that rifle. We're going to make it through this, but only if you do exactly what I say."
Rudi swallowed hard, nodding as best he could with Glicke's grip on his collar. "O-Okay," he stammered, trying to steady his breathing. He forced himself to focus on the rifle, fumbling with the safety and magazine as he tried to recall the brief training he'd had with the Kar-98. This wasn't what he'd expected—none of it was.
Glicke let go of his collar and gave him a firm slap on the back. "Good. Now stay with me. We're moving out."
Rudi nodded again, this time with a little more conviction. He tightened his grip on the PMK and took a deep breath. The fear was still there, gnawing at the edges of his mind, but he pushed it down, focusing on Glicke's voice and the weight of the rifle in his hands.
Glicke peeked over the edge of the crate, scanning the battlefield. The enemy infantry was advancing, but they hadn't reached their position yet. There was still time to move, but they had to be quick.
"On my signal," Glicke whispered, his eyes narrowing as he calculated their next move. "Three… two… one… now!"
He sprang up from behind the crate, Rudi right behind him, as they dashed toward a nearby trench. Bullets whipped past them, but Glicke's sharp instincts kept them out of the worst of it. They slid into the trench just as a burst of machine gun fire stitched across where they'd been standing moments before.
Glicke turned to Rudi, a satisfied glint in his eyes. "See? You're doing fine. Now, let's keep moving. We need to regroup with the others."
As they reached a new position, Glicke set up behind some sandbags, gesturing for Rudi to do the same. "Remember, short bursts," Glicke instructed, his voice steady despite the chaos. "Conserve your ammo, and aim for center mass."
Rudi nodded, trying to steady his breathing. He peeked over the sandbags, spotting a group of Polish soldiers moving up. His hands shook as he raised the PMK, but Glicke's firm presence beside him gave him the courage to squeeze the trigger.
The PMK roared to life in his hands, the recoil jolting through his arms. He watched in a daze as one of the Polish soldiers crumpled to the ground. It felt surreal, like something out of a nightmare. But there was no time to dwell on it—another soldier was already moving to return fire.
Glicke's MP-40 cracked beside him, cutting down the threat before Rudi could react. "Good shot, Rudi," Glicke said, his voice calm and reassuring. "Just like that. Keep it up, and we'll make it through this."
Rudi nodded, his confidence slowly returning. The fear was still there, gnawing at the edges of his mind, but with Glicke beside him, he felt like he could handle it. They would survive this, he told himself. They had to.
Helsinki, Republic of Finland.
"What you have done goes against the Finno-Soviet Treaty of 1948, and the post-war 1945 Treaty as well!" Boris Ivanovich Aristov gave his Finnish, and "Soumous" counterparts an icy glare.
For weeks after the merging, the USSR had been demanding the return of Karelia, which, due to the Soumi citizens in the region, which now drastically outnumbered the Soviet citizens, had been reintegrated, an act which TASS labelled, an "annexation"
Unlike the Karlslanders pushing out the Poles in East Prussia, and Russians form Kaliningrad (now renamed Königsberg), the united Finnish and Soumus government had not done any such acts. Yet the Soviets still felt a sore grudge against them, after all, the loss of Kaliningrad was a blow the USSR would never recover from, ever.
Not only had the Finnish Defense Force merged with their Soumous counterpart, thus swelling in size, in numbers which went against the Finno-Soviet Treaty, but President Mauno Kovisto and Prime Minister Harri Hermanni Holkeri had reinstated Carl Emil Gustaff Mannerheim (his version from the merged world) of all people as Minister of Defense and Chief of the Defense Forces! To add further insult to injury, the Politburo, especially General Secretary Rodya, were seething in rage still because the Finns had witch personnel in their armed forces too, something the Soviets had been unable to gain as the revolt in Leningrad (St Petersburg) began to grow with Chelyabinsk and the Caucuses seceding from the union and joining "The Tsardom of Orussia"
Aristov's face grew red as the Finnish and Soumus diplomats continued their thinly veiled mockery. The Soviet ambassador clenched his fists under the table, doing his best to maintain composure. His counterpart, a Finn with sharp features and a cool demeanor, continued with a smirk.
"You see, Mr. Ambassador, it's rather... natural," the Finn repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "After all, when two worlds merge, some changes are bound to happen. Isn't that what the Party always preaches? Progress and change?"
Another Soumus diplomat chimed in, "And speaking of change, how is Leningrad these days? Last we heard, the Tsardom of Orussia was making quite the impression. Must be tough managing all those... internal affairs."
The Soviet diplomat beside Aristov, a short man with a fiery temper, couldn't hold back any longer. He slammed his fist on the table, causing the room to fall silent for a moment. "Enough of your snide comments! This is a matter of international law and respect for treaties! You can't just ignore the Finno-Soviet Treaty like this!"
"Oh, but we can," the first Finn replied, his smile widening. "And we have. You see, your treaties don't account for a merger of worlds, do they? It's a bit outdated, wouldn't you say?"
Aristov tried to regain control of the conversation, his voice cold and measured. "This isn't just about treaties. This is about the security of the Soviet Union. Karelia is a strategic region, and we won't stand by while you violate our agreements."
A Soumus diplomat leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Strategic, huh? Like Chelyabinsk? Or perhaps Armenia and Georgia? Heard things are heating up down there too. Maybe you should focus on keeping your own house in order before worrying about ours."
The mention of Chelyabinsk and Georgia only served to further enrage the Soviet delegation. Aristov's patience was wearing thin, and he could feel the tension in the room escalating. He needed to find a way to de-escalate the situation, but the constant jabs from the Finnish and Soumus diplomats made it nearly impossible.
Another Soviet diplomat tried to jump in, his voice shaky with anger. "You think this is a joke? You think we won't respond? The USSR isn't going to be pushed around by a bunch of upstart Finns and Soumus witches!"
The Finns exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of amusement and disdain. "Upstart? Interesting choice of words. But let's be honest, Mr. Ambassador. The world has changed, and so has the balance of power. Maybe it's time the USSR adapts to that reality."
Aristov's eyes narrowed. He knew the Soviets were losing ground in this argument, and the frustration was palpable. The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of unspoken threats hanging in the air.
"The point is that you've armed yourselves beyond what is allowed!" Aristov growled. "The merger of your forces has created a military that is far beyond the size stipulated by the Finno-Soviet Treaty. You're deliberately provoking us!"
The Finn raised an eyebrow. "Provoking you? Surely, you're not referring to the situation in Leningrad. That's hardly our doing, Mr. Ambassador."
The mention of Leningrad hit a nerve, and Aristov's knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table. "Leningrad is an internal matter of the Soviet Union!"
"Internal?" The Soumus diplomat chimed in again, his voice laced with mockery. "Funny, it seems half of Chelyabinsk and the Caucasus didn't get that memo. They've already sworn allegiance to the Tsardom of Orussia. That's quite the internal matter, wouldn't you say?"
"That's enough!" Aristov roared, his voice reverberating through the room. The other Soviet diplomats bristled with anger, their faces a mixture of frustration and outrage. "This is no laughing matter! You have flagrantly violated our agreements, and you will face consequences if this continues!"
The Finn across from him smiled thinly. "Consequences? Are you going to add us to your list of troubles? Perhaps you should focus on putting out the fires at home before starting new ones abroad."
The Soviet diplomat to Aristov's right leaned forward, his voice dripping with venom. "The situation in Armenia and Georgia is under control. Unlike your reckless actions, we do not invite chaos into our own borders."
"Under control?" The Finn leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Last I heard, the Armenians were calling for independence. Must be quite the controlled chaos, then."
"Your sarcasm is noted," Aristov snapped. "But do not mistake our patience for weakness. We will not tolerate further provocation."
"Provocation?" The Soumus diplomat chuckled softly. "You mean like how your forces have been itching to 'liberate' Karelia again? That's not provocation, of course. That's just Soviet diplomacy at its finest."
Aristov's face darkened, and the tension in the room thickened. "Karelia is a part of the Soviet Union. It always has been, and it always will be. The people there are Soviet citizens, and we will not abandon them to your so-called 'natural' annexation."
"You seem awfully concerned with Karelia," the Finnish diplomat remarked, his tone almost bored. "One would think you'd be more concerned with the unrest in your own capital. How are things in Leningrad, by the way? Still managing to keep the streets clear, or has the Tsar's little rebellion spread further?"
The Soviet diplomat beside Aristov slammed his fist onto the table, rattling the glassware. "Enough of this insolence! You will respect the sovereignty of the Soviet Union, or there will be consequences!"
"Consequences, consequences," the Soumus diplomat mused, tapping his chin with a mock-thoughtful expression. "It seems the Soviet Union is quite fond of that word these days. But with all due respect, Mr. Ambassador, perhaps you should consider the consequences of overextending yourselves. After all, you've got quite a few fires burning already. Adding Finland to your list of concerns might just be too much for even the mighty Soviet Union to handle."
Aristov's eyes blazed with fury, his fists clenched as he fought to keep his composure. "This is your final warning. If you continue down this path, you will regret it."
The Finnish diplomat smiled serenely. "We'll take that under advisement, Mr. Ambassador. But I suggest you focus on your own problems. After all, you've got quite a few of them to deal with. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have more important matters to attend to. Good day."
With that, the Finnish and Soumus delegation rose from their seats, their expressions calm and collected, as if they had just concluded a casual conversation rather than a heated diplomatic exchange. Aristov and his team watched them leave, seething with anger and frustration. The meeting had been a disaster, and the Soviets knew it. The Finns had outmaneuvered them at every turn, using their own internal strife against them.
As the door closed behind the Finnish diplomats, Aristov turned to his team, his voice low and filled with barely contained rage. "This isn't over. Not by a long shot."
Leningrad, RFSR (formerly) Kirov Tank Plant
"And this is your best tank?" the Czar asked him. Mats Andreivich Blok nodded. A tankman of what had been the Soviet 123rd Guards Tank Division, he was now showing off the T-80B and BV tanks that were on the assembly lines.
"Yes, your excellency." Blok inclined his head. "The T-80 is our finest tank."
"What are the specifications of this particular model or variant?" a girl, one of the Witches inquired.
"Unfortunately, I am just a Junior Sergeant ma'am." Blok responded. "The ones who do know would be the designers, though I am sure they are currently unable to arrive here at the moment, being busy men after all."
The girl nodded, not noticing the veiled barb Blok had sent her way. The group continued touring the factory, but he was now sidelined. An officer (he was a Red Army captain, Blok had seen him around Leningrad often) but he wasn't wearing any of the Red Star or hammer and sickle emblems on his person. He scoffed. His father must've been some party member who'd gone over to the other side when the riots began. Discreetly, he edged closer to the group to hear what they were talking about. Maybe he'd get some good juicy snippets that he could pass along to some KGB man leaving the city.
"What is to be the Division's new name?" he heard a voice ask. "We joined you; we have given you some of the most modern armored vehicles in the Soviet Ground Forces." This was interesting, the young man thought. Were they intending to change the 123rd's name?
Blok leaned against the cold metal railing of the walkway; his eyes narrowed as he watched the group below. The Czar, with his regal demeanor and imposing presence, continued to inspect the T-80 tanks, his eyes gleaming with pride. Blok felt a wave of disgust wash over him. Lifeguards Tank Division? he thought bitterly. What kind of pretentious, monarchist garbage is that?
The captain, that clean-shaven son of a party chieftain, stood at attention, his uniform devoid of any Soviet symbols. Kulturny son of a bitch, Blok sneered internally. Bootlicking cocksucker, trading in the red star for a gold one like it's worth something more.
He edged closer, careful not to make a sound as the group moved on. The captain spoke up again, his voice steady and confident, dripping with his newfound allegiance. "Your Majesty," he began, "with the 1st Lifeguards Tank Division, you'll have the best of both worlds. Modern Soviet engineering and the loyalty of true Russians."
Blok nearly spat in disgust. Loyalty? he thought. You don't know the meaning of the word. Your father was a party apparatchik, a man who swore loyalty to the Soviet Union, and here you are, betraying everything he stood for.
The Czar nodded, clearly pleased with the captain's words. "Indeed, we will remove all traces of that cursed revolution," the Czar said, his voice filled with conviction. "Our new Russia will be built on the foundations of tradition, strength, and unity. The 1st Lifeguards Tank Division will be a symbol of our rebirth."
Blok's hands clenched into fists. Rebirth? he thought, barely able to contain his anger. You mean a return to oppression, to the rule of the few over the many. This is no rebirth, this is regression.
The girl, the witch, who had asked about the tank's specifications earlier, seemed to be hanging on every word the Czar spoke. She looked at the captain with admiration, her eyes shining. Blok felt his stomach turn. Of course, she'd be impressed by a uniform and a title. They always are.
As the group moved further into the factory, Blok stayed hidden, his mind racing. He needed to find a way to report this, to get this information to someone who could still make a difference. The KGB may be in disarray, but there were still those loyal to the true cause, to the USSR. If I can get this to the right people… he thought, his determination growing. We can expose these traitors for what they are. This isn't over, not by a long shot.
The captain, oblivious to Blok's presence, continued his conversation with the Czar, discussing logistics and deployments as if he were the one in charge. Arrogant bastard, Blok thought. You think you're so clever, don't you? But you're just another pawn, and when the time comes, you'll be discarded like the rest.
Blok's heart pounded in his chest as he slowly backed away, disappearing into the shadows of the factory. He had to act quickly, before these traitors solidified their power. For the USSR, he reminded himself, a cold resolve settling over him. For the people.
Alright, Chapter 4 is up! Honestly, The act of writing a road to war is hard but, I hope I'm doing it well.
On the plus side, I got a review from Blazrman! I'm honestly astounded that he noticed this story. I'm a big fan of his work and it really gave me a burst of positivity to complete this. To you, I say thank you.
Anyway, Ch-5 is WIP and it might take me a few days to get it together. Stay rooted to your seats folks, the world's gonna get toasty.