[BTS:RFC]: The Dawn Comes Softly

Part XII: Tightened Noose​

Spoiler :


In the end, London fell without any fanfare or great sounding of trumpets. The city, already shelled heavily and bombarded by Russian bombers and aircraft for months, was a picture out of hell. Its industrial plants that had lined the Thames river and had supplied a global empire once were burned down, the victim of a vicious firebombing campaign. Sea based bombardment from Russian battleships and destroyers had reduced many of the outlying towns and neighborhoods, as well as defensive fortifications, to nothing. Central London was similarly devastated; a fifteen day aerial offensive dubbed as "bog mecha" had turned the place to rubble. Piccadilly and Soho were gone, Trafalgar Square and Buckingham turned to rubble, and the seat of power at Parliament leveled to the ground. By the time Russian troops sailed into the harbor, the smoking carcass of London offered no resistance. The formal surrender of the Free City of London occurred at 8:33 GMT. Even less fanfare was had for that. The city reeked of smoke and ash and death, and the hollow eyed citizens of the cities watched numbly as bulky Russian tanks rolled down the avenues of the city.

In Moscow, the new of the successful conquest of London was met with quiet applause. Ivanov himself, under orders from his doctors, could not give a speech before the massive People's Parliament, and was instead forced to hand the responsibility over to Volkov. The broadcast of the speech was sent around the world; from Qatar and Madrid, to Shanghai and Tokyo, in Delhi and Mexico City, Berlin, and across the United States. Some believed it to be the most watched televised broadcast in the history of the world. People awoke at midnight, before the dawn rose, turned off their regular broadcasting, and listened to the young Soviet official deliver his speech in a voice as cold as the Siberian tundra. With bated breath, they listened as he announced the next phase of the Soviet war effort.

Spoiler :


June 25th marked the beginning of the bombardment of the Japanese held city of Keijo. Return fire from the city was fierce, and defense was spirited. Along the front lines, both Soviet and Japanese soldiers died in the thousands in a brutal siege. The city was encircled on its northern and western flank in the first few days, with the eastern escape route also sliced down in time. Bottled up in Keijo, the Korean and Japanese soldiers inside of the city fought a brutal street war, block by block, as troops from the Red Army advanced into the city. The lack of their anti-armor capabilities was revealed almost from the get-go, but the grueling urban battle would not be halted just by the might of Russian armor. Improvised explosives and roadside bombs struck down columns of tanks, choking the roads with their immobile bodies. On some days, it was lucky to advance down a block in the city, and Japanese sharpshooters took opportunistic aim at whatever they could spot. But it would not be enough.

By September 4th, a breakthrough in the northern half of the city by General Yuri Sharapov cut through the center of the Japanese and Korean resistance within the city. Pushing to the banks of the Han River, the divided IJA forces were quickly forced into a hideous position of attack from all sides. Despite explicit orders to hold their ground while the bridges across the Han River were blown, many abandoned their positions and swam across the river, already covered in a thick film of soot and human fat from corpses of men who had been burned by Russian firebombs. Within a week, Russian artillery pieces were in position alongside the northern bank. Mortar fire and artillery shells rained down on the southern half of Keijo, coming down so thickly that some described the tumultuous time as a monsoon of steel. The civilian casualties sustained during the bombardment were uncountable, both by the sheer amount that died, and the lack of interest of the Soviet side to catalog their collateral damage.

Spoiler :


On October 11th, the Imperial Japanese Army General Takara Tachibana ordered a full retreat from the city by IJA forces. Quickly, the evacuation of the Japanese army unraveled into a full fledged flight, as makeshift bridges built by the Russian engineering divisions allowed their tanks to cross over the fetid Han River with impunity. Of the three hundred and thirty thousand Japanese soldiers that still remained along the Keijo front when the evacuation was declared, fewer than seventy thousand made it to the evacuation point at Inchon. The Russian 5th Army Group bisected the retreat from the eastern part of the Korean peninsula, encircling and destroying the retreating IJA forces at Gwangju. Japanese guerrilla fighters and Korean partisans remained in the countryside, but the puppet Korean government that had existed on the peninsula for almost seventy years functionally ceased to exist in any meaningful way.

Northwards, the Russian 9th Army ground towards Toyohara, taking it with ease. The Japanese garrison that had defended the city had been pulled out when Keijo fell, and what remained of the Japense forces in northern Manchuko had essentially evaporated. What remained of the once proud Japanese defense on the Sakhalin islands was reduced to a single division in the northern part of the Island. In a matter of days after the fall of Toyohara, they too fell to a Russian armored corps. The prisoners captured were sent to work camps in the midst of Siberia to work in the heavy industry needed to fuel the war effort that was ongoing.

Spoiler :


Spoiler :


Spoiler :


With Japan forced into a defensive crouch in East Asia, the independent republic of China remained as the last bastion of the coalition of nations allied against the Soviet sphere. While the majority of Chinese divisions were grouped in the north were prepared and fortified for the eventual Russian push on Beijing as promised by Volkov, a significant number of soldiers were grouped in the south out of what had been Vietnam. The Indian border city of Pagan, a small yet crucial gateway into Southeastern Asia, was menaced by Chinese tanks and soldiers that appeared to be advancing upon them, dispatched by Chinese generals in Guangzhou. Begging the Kremlin to assist them in protecting the vital border city, the Indian Soviet were perhaps surprised when the newest shipment of arms to Delhi came attached with a battalion of Russian soldiers in gas masks guarding lead lined shipping containers slated for Pagan.

On April 3rd, 1972, RR-057 was launched from a makeshift missile silo assembled on the outskirts of the small Indian city. In total, it took less than twenty minutes for the high yield Russian tactical weapon to traverse the distance between Pagan and Chinese forces in north Vietnam, but time didn't matter. Only the end did.

Spoiler :
 
Part XIII: Call to Arms​

"Hello?" The silky voice of Foxhound sounded as if it crawled through the receiver of the telephone in Dulles's hand. "How can I help you, sir?"

Dulles snorted, and stroked his chin. "Hello Foxhound. How are you doing today?"

"Quite well, sir. And yourself? I was under the impression you had been sacked years ago... what are you doing back in your office?"

"Times change, and so do the needs of the people." The CIA director smirked to himself as he looked around the old, familiar room, back to its spartan decor that he had cultivated for himself the first time he was pushed up to chief of the bureau. "Listen, Foxhound... is Wraith there with you as well?"

"Yes he is, sir."

"Alright. I need you two to listen closely, alright?"

"With pleasure, sir. What would you ask of us?"

Dulles sucked air in between his teeth. "It's time to stage the operation. We have info that indicates that the Soviets are preparing to launch a long range missile at Beijing and Shanghai. The Chinese are threatening to collapse if we do not help them out. The situation is desperate, to say the least of it. All of our other agents that have worked to penetrate the Red Curtain have failed to achieve or amount to anything. Most of them are dead. The rest are disappeared. You two are the only ones that remain at this time. We need you to act."

Silence on the other end of the line for a minute. Then, he spoke.

"We understand, sir. We have been making preparations for years at this point... preparing for your call. We were... disappointed when we did not receive it sooner from your successors, despite the situation that has developed. If we may ask, who are the targets that you would like us to deal with?"

"All of them," spat Dulles. "Every single one of those commie bastards. Ivanov, Volkov, every general and parliamentary member inside of the Kremlin, you are to eliminate and to kill. The more that you deal with, the better the position that we will be in when this is all over."

Laughter. "Yes, of course, sir. We will handle them with due diligence... are we going loud, or staying silent on this?"

Dulles thought to himself for a moment, drumming his fingers on the table.

"Go loud," he said. "Make it as messy as you want. You have a blank check to do whatever you want at this time."

"With pleasure, sir."

A click, and the line went dead. Dulles rocked back into his desk chair and looked up at the slowly swirling fan blades above his head. There was nothing left to do now but to wait.



Underneath the safehouse that Wraith and Foxhound had occupied for years was a very large, very heavy steel door. The man that had installed it had boasted that it weighed a half ton, and could glide open with the right combination as if it was made of air. It was guaranteed, he continued, to withstand most explosive attempts to open the door up to bombs that were specifically designed to penetrate into heavily defended concrete bunkers. Foxhound had nodded languidly in time to the man's words, allowed him to install it, the soundproofed walls, and the thermal shielding to prevent heat escape, and much more. In thanks for the Russian engineer's hard work, Foxhound had dumped three shells in the back of his head at close range, and emptied the rest of the clip into his back. That night, under the cover of darkness, Foxhound drove the body to the banks of the Volga River, weighted down the bedsheet that he was rapped in with concrete blocks, and dumped it into the river. Neither the newspapers or the authorities gave any indication that he had been found in the years since his disappearance.

It was there, underneath the safehouse, that they had operated with relative impunity for years. Foxhound collected the guns, the munitions, the body armor that would be needed, making connections and frequent phone calls to dissidents hailing from the Caucus Mountains, from Dagestan and Georgia, Mongolia and Germany, until he had assembled a coalition of disparate men and women angry enough to pick up the arms that he gave them. Many of those that he collected went on to assassinate Russian officials, military men and members of their intelligentsia. A small portion, he kept close to the chest, keeping them hidden as sleeper agents, waiting to be activated in time for Dulles's call to action.

Wraith, in the meanwhile, had refined down his ability to create bombs and poisons. His new monthly favorite at the time of Dulles's call was the plastic explosive, which he worked diligently on to make it almost undetectable, odorless, and almost completely inert until activated. For poisons, it went much the same. Tests had been conducted primarily on the homeless population in Moscow initially, men and women whose deaths and mysterious causes of it were never investigated because of their lot in life. From there, he progressed to low level individuals in the Russian government, working his way up until the crowning achievement of murdering the head of the Russian intelligence agency. His ultimate goal, however, of killing Ivanov with his carefully refined toxic solutions, could never reach fruition; since the botched attempt on his life years prior, he had been monitored extensively by a crack team of doctors and the like, poison testers and men who drank and ate before he was served in order to prevent his death. Wraith had to settle for the fact that his poisons had left lasting damage on Ivanov's respiratory system, and his endurance.

In the hours after Dulles's call to them, they swung into action. Wraith phoned up dozens of contacts, arranging for them to come to Moscow as quickly as possible, as well as the transport and the vehicles that they would need. Foxhound checked the weapons, dozens of them, and assembled the munitions. Both of them drew up the plans for the attack in the basement of the safehouse, and by the time the first few contacts started to trickle in, they had a pot of coffee and a plan of action ready to go.



"We will split into four groups," Foxhound said. "Red Group will be under me. It will our goal to assault the Kremlin and try to wipe out the government sector with prejudice. Blue Group will be under Wraith here; he will not be in the field himself, but he will direct you in your attacks from the safehouse here, and will serve as our information gatherer during this operation. Blue Group will attack police stations, military checkpoints, and patrolling squads throughout the city in order to draw attention off of Red Group while we begin our attack. The two remaining groups, Green and Indigo... both will be coordinating our initial attacks. Green will attack the Moscow International Airport, try to cause as much havoc there as possible; Indigo will assault available civilian targets in the city, attempt to take hostages, and enter into standoffs with the military and the police. This will hopefully draw them off of our backs when we attack the Kremlin. Are there any questions?"

Foxhound looked levelly at the men and women in front of him. They were dark faced, fifty different people assembled from Germany, from southern Russia, from China and Mongolia, men and women of twenty different ethnic groups, scowling and with pursed lips. They had waited for years for this call to happen. They had made plans, made peace with their gods, and prepared for this day for so long. And now they were ready for this, ready to take the vengeance that they believed were their own. Vengeance for family members imprisoned by the Russian Cheka, for oppression faced over the course of countless years, for arrests and humiliations, for their own imprisonment in work camps and hideous prisons in Kamchatka. They were fifty in number, and had a thousand different reasons to sign up for this. They all accepted that they would not be coming back.

The thin man from Oslo smiled. "Very good then. Let's go have some fun, shall we?"
 
what's your stability at exactly?
 
Moai_Spammer said:
what's your stability at exactly?
Click to expand...

This game was played almost a year ago, so exact figures I can't give, but my civic focus was towards stability, which is why I have a lot of vassals helping me out. It was pretty much on the point of collapse throughout most of the game, and several times I reloaded saves to make sure I could keep going until I reached some imagined line of success. Was pretty fun while it lasted though.

Side note, I'll try to finish this story by the end of the summer. Really looking forward to playing Civ VI and start some stuff over there, which should be very interesting to say the least of it.
 
Love the story. However, 50 people spread across 4 groups assaulting 4 objectives in Moscow during the height of the Cold War... that's 12-13 people per group, one of which is going to be attacking the Kremlin. This might go on for a couple of hours, but my predictions for the teams are:
Spoiler :
Kremlin - maybe get to the front door if they're lucky
Airport - Won't be able to secure terminal, but will maintain presence for about 1-2 hours maximum.
Military/Police targets - after initial assault they will be quickly destroyed, the city will go into lockdown
Civilian Targets - standoffs won't last too long, urban warfare may last for up to a day

There's just not enough men here to do much. Even if they use suicide vests/car bombs they're still going to have a tough time making much of a difference. As well, the city will go into lockdown quite quickly and the mobility of the men near major infrastructure and government building will be almost completely cut within 15-20 minuets, followed by most of the city within 45 minuets at the most. I love the idea of a suicide mission though, from a dramatic perspective it let's you get inside a character's head more than almost anything else. After all, the measure of a man's character is what he would do if he knew he could get away with it.
 
Niccolo Edwards said:
Love the story. However, 50 people spread across 4 groups assaulting 4 objectives in Moscow during the height of the Cold War... that's 12-13 people per group, one of which is going to be attacking the Kremlin. This might go on for a couple of hours, but my predictions for the teams are:
Spoiler :
Kremlin - maybe get to the front door if they're lucky
Airport - Won't be able to secure terminal, but will maintain presence for about 1-2 hours maximum.
Military/Police targets - after initial assault they will be quickly destroyed, the city will go into lockdown
Civilian Targets - standoffs won't last too long, urban warfare may last for up to a day

There's just not enough men here to do much. Even if they use suicide vests/car bombs they're still going to have a tough time making much of a difference. As well, the city will go into lockdown quite quickly and the mobility of the men near major infrastructure and government building will be almost completely cut within 15-20 minuets, followed by most of the city within 45 minuets at the most. I love the idea of a suicide mission though, from a dramatic perspective it let's you get inside a character's head more than almost anything else. After all, the measure of a man's character is what he would do if he knew he could get away with it.
Click to expand...

Very good analysis. I will say that I am trying to keep cards close to my chest and not deus ex machina my way through the plot, but many things are going to go right, and many things are going to go hideously wrong. That's all I can say for now, unfortunately.

Debating on whether or not to write the full arc up and then post it, or post in chunks as I complete it. I will probably do the latter, but will decide by tonight.
 
Part XIV: Pulling the Trigger​

Time: 0848 hours
Location: The Kremlin
Date: March 13th, 1972

Closing the door behind him, Serhiy cursed and stamped his boots on the floor, breaking off the chunks of grey and black snow that he'd picked up in his relatively short walk through the city. Cupping his hands to his face, the Ukrainian guardsman exhaled as hard as he could, then started to rub his hands together as he tromped through the halls sullenly. Too damn cold, too damn early, too damn everything to come into work on a day like today, but he was lucky; he didn't have to stand outside today like some guardsmen who had been given the "honor" to do so. To even have the job that he had right now was something of a stroke of luck, and despite all of his griping, he couldn't really feel hate towards it.

At the reception area into the Kremlin, Ivana was already there, tapping away at her keyboard quietly, and examining papers that covered her desk like leaves on the forest floor. The click of Serhiy's boots caused her to glance up at him and break out into a smile as he came towards the desk, his hands now neatly tucked into his pockets with the thumbs out. That was the style that Serhiy had seen on the television sets in the movies, where young, proud Russian beatniks strode around their own towns and cities looking as if they owned the entire world. He tipped his hat to the receptionist as he came up, and smiled at her as well. "Morning, Ivana."

"Morning," she replied back, turning her head down to the desk while still smiling. "How are you doing today, Serhiy?"

"Pretty good," he said. He pointed back towards the door that he had come from. "Horribly cold outside today. Hardly wanted to get out of bed; my heater's broken again."

"Again? How many times has this been now?"

"Three, since December. Landlord's a cheapskate, unfortunately. Pretty sure he just puts tape and glue onto the thing and calls it a day." Serhiy shook his head. "Spends most of my rent money on cheap vodka and cigarettes instead of trying to help us out. Can't wait until I get out of that dump."

The receptionist nodded with his words. "How's the hunt for someplace else going?"

"Well, I have a few places lined up, one really nice place down by Gorky Park, but I'm not sure if I can afford it for too long... might have to get some roommates, three bedrooms are very expensive to have for one man's flat."

Ivana smirked and shook her head from side to side, brushing a strand of blond hair over one of her ears. She was looking especially pretty today; her long blonde hair had been let down out of the bun that she typically wore, and her glasses framed the rest of her face perfectly. Her eyes were soft and grey, and uncharacteristically was smiling today. Serhiy felt something stir within him, unconscious and unbidden. Before he had time to think, he was speaking.

"Say, would you like to get drinks sometime? I know a place about three blocks from here... they're cheap but good, good quality stuff, can eat there as well if you would like. I mean, if you want to that is. I never eat there myself, I mean... well, I usually go just to drink with friends at night, so I can't really..." Serhiy trailed off abruptly as the words he had been saying started to sink into his mind. Quite suddenly, he could feel a hotness rush up to his face.

Across the desk, Ivana laughed at him, and he could feel himself growing more and more scarlet. "You know what? Sure, I'm up for drinks. Are you free tonight, by chance? I'd love to go with you if you don't mind. If you have nothing else to do, that is."

"Oh no," he said hurriedly. "I never have anything to do. I mean, I have things to do, but... uh, not tonight, I mean, I'm free tonight-"

"But not at this moment," came a drawl from further down the hallway. Without even realizing it, Serhiy snapped neatly to attention, saluting towards the man he could not see in front of him, frightened to turn his eyes to look. Slowly, the clicking sounds of boots upon the floor approached him, until the form of Captain Markov appeared, tall, thin, and wearing a dour expression. "At ease, soldier. You were almost late this morning, you know."

"Yes sir," said Serhiy. "I'm sorry sir, I didn't mean to be-"

"I said at ease, soldier. You can drop that hand. The important thing is that you're here right now... but do try to keep your personal plans with others restricted to outside of work, will you?"

"Yes sir." Serhiy struggled not to do another salute.

"Very well then. The rest of the unit is waiting."



Time: 0857 hours
Location: Moscow International Airport

"Mister Sokolov, are you listening?"

With a start, Marlen woke up in his seat. He didn't know how he had been able to do that at the terminal, but somehow sleep had come naturally. Blearily, he looked around the seats around him, most of them empty, until his eyes landed upon his assistant, Ilari. The young man, fresh out of college, was looking at him with a concerned air. "I'm sorry Mister Sokolov, did you want to sleep?"

"No, no," he said. "Maybe. It's not important. I can sleep on the plane when we're out of here." His mouth tasted like metal, and he peered into his bag. "Do you have the bottle, Ilari?"

The other man shifted his eyes uncomfortably. "Mister Sokolov, you know I'm not supposed to give that to you. The studio gave me explicit instructions not to let you drink until we finished reviewing the script today... if we could just get this done right now, I can give you the bottle and-"

Marlen sighed, and put his head back in his chair so that he was looking up at the ceiling. "What a load of crap," he muttered. "I could handle myself so well before, and now that they have literally paid for a babysitter for me, I can't do anything." He flicked his eyes towards the former student. "Tell me, boy, is this job what you had in mind when you graduated from the university?"

Ilari still averted his eyes from Marlen's. "No, Mister Sokolov."

"Then what is it that you wanted to do? If not this, than what?"

"I wanted to work in the government. But the bureaucracy is already filled to overflowing with officials and the like."

"Just as well," said Marlen. "Government work is hell. My old man used to work with the Party before he retired, was a representative in the People's Parliament until he got fed up with it. Only reason why he stuck with the job for so long was because he truly did enjoy it. Do you enjoy politics, Ilari?"

"Yes sir."

"Political theory? Or actually working in it?"

"The former," he said. "But I would like the latter as well. They said that I needed experience, though, outside of the public sector. Said that I needed to... diversify my abilities and knowledge before I could get a job there."

"That's true enough." Sokolov looked at his watch. "Is our flight still on time today?"

"No sir. Delayed for an hour. They are working to clear the tarmac right now from the snow and ice. They've warned us that the flight may be canceled as well."

"Great," he muttered. "That would fit perfectly into a day like this, wouldn't it?"

"I couldn't honestly say, sir."

Marlen sighed. "We can go over the script some more, I guess. What is it that they want me to cover again?"

Ilari thumbed through his stack of papers in his lap, the entire assortment threatening to fall out of his lap and onto the floor. "Well, we take the flight to Irkutsk, and then we take the train to Tomsk... apparently, they are having a music festival there, and they want us to cover it... and here's what we need to hit while we are there in the town..."



Time: 0913 hours
Location: The Kremlin

The door to Ivanov's office opened with such a force that it slammed into the wall behind it as it swung open. Private Adrian Kuznetsov, newly minted member of the Red Guards, dropped the newest issue of Novyye Tendentsii hurriedly and kicked it under the desk where he was sitting at, trying to look attentive as Yuri Volkov stormed past him. "I won't stand for this," he shouted behind him, "I won't deign to stand to this, not after all I've done for the motherland! Find a new minister, Ivanov, see how far that gets you!" Roughly, he jerked his hat and coat off of the rack in the anteroom to Ivanov's office, shouldering the heavy overcoat on. Other people in the anteroom, Ivanov's secretary, the other two members of the Red Guards assigned with Adrian, and the receptionist, looked up at the red faced minister of defense. "I won't stand for this," he muttered. "I won't stand for this any longer."

From Ivanov's office came Petrovich, Ivanov's right hand man, wheeling himself out on his wheelchair. Though demoted from second in command of the Soviet Union, he still held authority in the Kremlin. "Yuri," he pleaded. "Yuri, please, come back, we need to talk about what is going on here. We need your input on the plans for the next few weeks, you are the minister of defense after all! Yuri, please, don't do this."

Volkov turned with a snarl towards the other man, and pointed into Ivanov's office. "If I have to deal with that useless swine anymore, I am going to shoot myself with a damned rifle. Adversity breeds character, that's what my father taught me when I was growing up, but I refuse to tolerate this any longer." Volkov flicked his eyes to Adrian. "You there, boy. On your feet."

"You have no authority!" Ivanov's voice rang out from the other room. "That guard is my man! You have no authority to order him at all!"

"What are you going to do," Volkov screamed back. "Stop me? You can barely get to your feet, old man! Time to face facts! Retire already! Or better yet, how about you just die? That would save us all a lot of trouble!" Roughly, he finished jamming his hands into his gloves and wound the scarf around his neck so that it covered his pale flesh. "Don't worry, I'll send him back. I'd like to have at least a little bit of an escort on the way back to my car."

Silence from the other room. Volkov turned abruptly away from it, and motioned Adrian to follow. The young man hesitated for a second, gave a rushed salute to Petrovich in his wheelchair, and quickly hurried out the door after Volkov, who was already seemingly halfway down the hall, so fast was he walking.



By the time Adrian caught up, Volkov was muttering to himself unintelligibly, but the mood he was projecting was enough to make Adrian keep silent. Aside from Volkov talking to himself, they walked in silence, their separate sets of boots clicking loudly against the hard floors of the Kremlin. As they passed by random soldiers and guards stationed throughout the building, they saluted, paused, and turned to watch Adrian walk alongside Volkov past them. If it had been any other time but now, the young guardsman might have felt proud of this moment, escorting the minister out of Kremlin, but he could feel nothing but a sick sense of shame. Not for any particular action, but because of what others might be thinking of the situation behind his back.

They passed by the reception area, the blond haired woman sitting at the desk glancing up at them confusedly as they passed by. In just a few moments, they were outside, Volkov almost kicking the door open in his unfocused anger. Adrian trotted after him through the freezing morning, flurries of snow blown directly into his eyes and ears. He squinted and then shivered heavily. He had forgotten his coat back in the anteroom to Ivanov's office. He hugged himself in the cold air and tried to rub his arms to warm himself up, but it didn't achieve much.

Volkov, noticing out of the corner of his eye, stopped in his tracks. He unwound his scarf, peeled off his gloves, and shrugged off the overcoat; he draped the heavy coat over Adrian's shoulders in the cold, passed the scarf to him, and the gloves as well. Shocked, Adrian didn't know what to say for a moment. The coat was finely made, from one of the more upscale, party elite places in Moscow, and the lining inside of it was already trapping his heat enough that he could feel himself growing marginally warmer as he stood there. The gloves and scarf were of similar make and quality.

"Sir?" He ventured with the question cautiously. "I don't think I can take this, sir-"

"Too bad," said the minister gruffly. "It's yours now."

"I can't take this for free-"

"Then it isn't free. Do you have cigarettes on you at least?"

Nodding, Adrian fished the packet out of his pocket and got out a cigarette, passing it to the minister. Volkov gave him a look, and he fished another one for himself; nodding curtly, the other man took the cigarette from Adrian, and lit his own. After a second, so did Adrian, and they stood side by side one another in the middle of Red Square, the wind gusting, and the flurries coming down harder and harder.

"How long have you worked here, kid?"

"It will be two months tomorrow, sir."

"How does it feel? Working here, that is?"

Adrian shrugged. "I like it most days. It's a long walk from where I live, but I like working here better than I did before. My brothers work in factories down in St. Petersburg, so I think about that often whenever I grow bored."

Volkov nodded. "Take my advice then, kid: get out of this job while you can. All you have to do all day is deal with crap people and wait, and wait, and get condescending remarks leveled at you all the time. Take my word for it. Leave. Go somewhere else, find a new job. I can provide recommendations if you are interested, and letters to help get you sorted out as well."

The young soldier stood numbly, the cigarette hanging limply in his mouth. "I don't know what to say, sir."

"Thank you would be a start. 'I'll take it', or 'I'll think about it' would be others."

"I'll... I'll think about it. I'm not sure if I can just leave right now, when I just got this job..."

Volkov nodded. "I can understand that." He finished his cigarette, leaned his head back up towards the sky so he could look at the dark grey clouds, and sighed. "Such a beautiful day. Such a beautiful day it is... Haven't had one of these cigarettes in so long, but I remember they were always nice on days like these." Jerking his head back into its normal position, he offered his hand to Adrian. "Take care, kid. See you soon hopefully. Business card is in the pocket if you decide you want to take me up on my offer."

"I'll think about it, sir."

"Please do." With that, Adrian shook his hand, and Volkov turned on his heels. Slowly, he walked across Red Square, a retreating, silent black figure against the snow until he disappeared completely, leaving Adrian alone in the midst of the snow, waiting and shivering. For what and what reason, he did not know.



Time: 0924 hours
Location: Sovy Theatre, Moscow

The line of people coming into the theatre stretched virtually around the block. Jakub couldn't see how they were able to stand in the cold, merely waiting for the possible chance to see the classical music group from Berlin perform, but apparently they were determined enough to brave the teeth of the cold right now. He stirred in his standing spot, watching as his fellow guard, Kasper "Kaz" Kahler checked the identification on people entering the theater and motioned them up to the ticket counter, and checked his carbine again. It was one of the newer, slicker ones, the SK-32 that had been handed out to the military about three months ago. Made from pressed steel, hard angular shapes, and very compact with a high magazine.

"There you go sir, enjoy your day." Kahler motioned an elderly German man up to the counter; his counterpart nodded happily and hobbled up there, his wallet already out in one hand as he started examining the price. "Cripes, do you mind taking over for a bit, Chownyk?"

"You drew the short straw today," said Jakub blithely. "Not my fault that you get to do it. How do you think I feel?"

"Probably cold as hell. I know I am." Kahler forced a smile onto his face as he took the identification card from a woman, scanning it quickly. "Thank you ma'am, enjoy your day." He waited until she was out of ear shot before speaking again. "Come on you pig, help me out over here."

"No can do, Kaz. I like doing nothing at the moment." Squinting his eyes, Jakub looked up at the slate grey sky, and cursed. "Do you think it's ever going to actually snow, or is it just going to pretend like it's getting ready to?"

"No idea." He scanned another identification card, this one for a Polish woman, and waved her through. "Was supposed to be ten degrees warmer today," he complained. "And I wake up this morning and I have ice forming right outside of my front door. Almost cracked my pelvis when I slipped on it."

"Hey man, that's your problem, not mine." The idea of seeing the nominally cool Kaz slipping and sliding around outside of his door like an idiot was amusing to him. "Whatcha doing tonight anyways, man?"

"Was thinking about going out to a bar or something. Been cooped up too much. Ready for spring to come here already."

"You too, eh?" Jakub turned to continue the conversation, but stopped short and leveled his gaze at the man that Kaz was examining an ID for. Slowly, he stepped forward, and nudged Kaz before speaking to the man. "Excuse me sir, but could you step out of line for a moment?"

The Dagestani man was unsmiling, and shook his head from side to side. "I'd prefer not to," he said coolly. "It's already cold enough outside as it is. Why do I have to step out of line?"

Quietly, Jakub flicked the safety off of his rifle. "Because I said so. And if you don't, I'm going to arrest you right here, and then you're going to get grilled like a kebab when the Cheka come and speak to you." He nodded to Kaz. "So you can either let my friend here inconvenience you just a little bit, or you can be inconvenienced a lot when they show up to haul your happy little face down to the Towers to handle you."

Sighing the Dagestani man nodded, and opened his stance a bit, taking his hands out of his pockets. "Go ahead then."

Jakub nodded to Kaz, who strode around behind the man and began the patdown. Starting with his back and his arms, he worked his way down the man's legs. Jakub watched Kaz out of the corner of his eye, but kept his gaze locked on the Dagestani man's own face. The other man seemed not to blink, nor even contemplate breaking eye contact. He just watched. Jakub could feel his skin crawling with the pure, unadulterated malice that was percolating behind those eyes.

"Hey Jakub?" Kaz was saying something to him as he started to pat down the man's chest. "I think you were overreacting just a little bit, I'm not finding any-" Abruptly he stopped.

"What is it Kaz?"

The other man didn't respond. The Dagestani he was patting down was looking deep into Jakub's eyes. Distantly, he heard Kaz mutter "oh cripes", but Jakub's rifle was already swinging upwards to point at the Dagestani's chest as his target slipped his hands into his pockets again and balled his hands up around something.

The last thing that went through Jakub's mind was a thought ordering him to pull the trigger immediately before the world erupted into fire around him.
 
Ha ha. This is beautiful. I am sure it shall become more destructive as time passes. :evil: I love that we get to take a look around the capital just before the attacks and can see into the minds of all the innocents who shall surely die in the next few hours.

Very nice opening with a suicide bombing outside a theater. If the theater catches on fire with all those people inside... well, emergency services could be a little distracted for a while.

I cannot wait until the next instalment. It shall be wonderful.

Just a minor note: If you're going for a 'military style' with the times cut out the colon. I'm not sure how many other militaries do this by the US 24-hour Zulu clock doesn't have them. It's just XXXX rather than XX:XX (8:48 AM would be 0848, 7:45 PM would be 1945). The Zulu is then used to indicate Greenwhich time (8:48 AM Moscow local would be 1:48 AM Greenwich Mean Time or 0148 Zulu, 7:45 PM would be 1245 Zulu). This helps keep everything on one timezone so that people don't have to worry about switching their clocks to the correct timezone (and arriving an hour too early or late). Of course they probably won't worry too much about time zones as the attacks are all in Moscow.
 
Crap, I have my phone set to a 24 hour clock, and I'm so in the habit of looking and thinking about time like that that I automatically put it in like that. I'll edit it here in a second and take care of it.
 
Part XV: Sidewinder​

Time: 0933 hours
Location: Sovy Theatre, Moscow

The wake of the blast was a blur of events happening in tandem; dead civilians were on the ground, sprawled everywhere, limp and unmoving. Others groaned and pleaded for others to come help them, people from across the street and the others that had been standing in line just a minute before. The front of the theatre was rubble, the spot where the soldiers had been standing at when the bomb detonated vaporized, leaving no traces of them or the suicide bomber behind. Screams mixed with the sound of the wind, and a few of the citizens in line had the mind to look for a telephone booth that they could call the authorities and get some help.

Fifteen seconds after the blast was all it took. An ambulance, marked with the city's health service emblems, rolled up to the scene. Out from the back of the vehicle, the doors swung open, and a quartet of men and women tumbled out onto the snow. Any relief that the remaining civilians might have had was abruptly cut short as they recognized automatic carbines and submachine guns being toted by the three individuals, all in EMT apparel. There was a split second for some of them to start screaming and pointing, others to duck and take cover, throw themselves in the way of friends, brothers and sisters, wives and husbands, family, before they opened fire on the remnants of the crowd. In less than a minute, it was over, spent shell casings littering the ground around the back of the ambulance as the gunmen looked out over the scene. Striding forward, two of them took up positions at the doorways of the theatre, and two others took up positions around the emergency exit.

With some silent command, the first group detached incendiary grenades from their belts, snapping the pins off, and throwing them into the theater entrance. They were already ignited as they tumbled through the air, and they were joined by more of them, a dozen in all. In less than a minute, the front of the theater was awash with flame, and the first few coughing, gasping people tumbled out of the exit. Before they could realize the situation that they were in, the gunmen surrounding the exit opened fire, cutting them down swiftly. When the bodies had finished tumbling, they kicked open the emergency exit door to the sound of screams from the inside, emptied the rest of their clips into the darkness, and detached their own incendiary grenades, dropping them by the exit. They stood long enough to make sure that it was all but impassable, nodded to one another, and joined the other gunmen as they climbed into the ambulance. Once all were aboard, the ambulance turned on its lights, and drove swiftly away from the burning establishment.



Time: 0934 hours
Location: The Kremlin

"What the hell was that?" Ivanov was muttering as he shouldered his way to the window. Petrovich looked at him confusedly as the premier opened up the curtains on the grey, Russian morning, looking out over the city. Furrowing his brow, Ivanov traced the trail of smoke rising up from a distant part of the city with his eyes. "What the hell is that?"

"Gas line explosion perhaps?" Petrovich wheeled himself over to the window so he could look out as well. "Maybe something industrial? We had one the other month, remember? When the pipes froze over, and the line ruptured about five blocks from here?"

Ivanov nodded, but he wasn't really paying attention. He snapped his fingers towards the anteroom, where his guards where. "Is there anything on the radio?"

"No sir," responded a soldier. "All clear at the moment. Some chatter about what happened in the city, but they have no idea what it is at the moment."

"Do you want to leave the Kremlin?" Petrovich pointed at the smoke column, already mixing with the clouds. "We can flip it into lockdown if you want. Might be a bit much since we don't know what's going on right now."

"True," muttered Ivanov. "Just a bit... concerning is all." He strode back over to his desk, and thumbed through some of the papers on his desk. "Do you know where Kerensky is? We were supposed to meet ten minutes ago, and he's never late to things like these, not like Volkov. We needed to discuss this intelligence report that he had sent me to look over just the other day, from the Americans."

"Last I heard, he went home from the day." Petrovich pulled out his pipe, placed tobacco into it, and struck a match. "Said he was feeling sick when I last saw him. Looked very ashy faced, pale and sweating. Might have a fever by the looks of it."

"Very well then," sighed Ivanov. "We can go over it tomorrow I guess, or whenever he's feeling better. Just a massive pain to deal with, you know?"



Time: 0936 hours
Location: V. I. Lenin Subway Station, Downtown Moscow

"Hey, Viktor." He was tapped on the shoulder by another guardsman. "Word down from central, they want us to close down the train lines here right now."

"What?" He turned and stared at Artemiy. "Why in the hell would they want us to do that? We're in the middle of rush hour right now!"

"Some sort of explosion at Sovy just happened, whole place is up in smoke right now. They think its a ruptured gas line, but they're trying to sort out what the hell happened over there right now. Central phoned down to say that they want the sub lines closed for a little while so they can sort out what happened and make sure we aren't getting bombed again."

"Cripes," spat Viktor. "So what do we do then?"

"Clear people off of the platform, wait for the next train to arrive, and then hustle them up above ground as well, get them out of here. Most of them are already above ground right now, but we need to clear stragglers off of the platform and get this place ready to go."

"Sounds good then." Viktor hefted his compact VK-99 up in his hands, feeling the weight of the submachine gun in his hands. "Let's sort this out then."

The two of them made their way from the stairwell leading out of the subway station over towards the platform, passing by the tall marble columns, the murals of famous communist leaders that had led the revolution in Russia during the transition times. Random men and women standing and passing by them stopped to look as they went past before hurrying on. When soldiers were making their way to the platform to clear people out, you knew that you wanted to be somewhere else.

The platform itself was relatively clear, maybe two dozen people spread along a hundred foot or so expanse; old men and women, a few younger adults, portly businessmen tapping their feet impatiently, the whole lot. Grimacing, Viktor put on the most serious face he could muster and walked beside of Artemiy as they made their way down the side of the platform, tapping on people's shoulders and nodding to them.

"Sir, there's been an issue that has cropped up," Artemiy would begin. "We need you to leave the platform now, get above ground, and seek some shelter somewhere."

Groans would commence, sighs and snorts would issue, and outraged expressions would emerge. A few tried to argue with Artemiy - especially the older men - pointing at his face and talking about the lack of respect that they were being given right then, before Viktor stepped in, unsmiling, and spoke.

"That wasn't a suggestion. Get off the platform and out of the station now, or you're going to be under arrest."

That got the majority moving. A few still tried to press their luck, but Viktor's gaze eventually made the majority of them trail off into silence before they paced away angrily, cursing about the two soldiers as they walked off.

"Remind me never to cross you," Artemiy said at one point. "You are one of the scariest men I've ever had the pleasure of working with."

"Glad to be scary," snorted Viktor. "And you are too kind for a job like this."

They strode up to two women standing at the platform, strong German features etched into their faces. One of the women was taller than the other one, her body wrapped in a thick, heavy coat for the weather outside, and looked haughtily down her nose at the two soldiers as they came up.

"Ma'am," began Artemiy. "We're going to have to ask you to leave, there's been something that has come up, and we need everyone to leave the platform and the station right now for their own safety."

"Our mother is on the next train," she said. "We need to wait for her."

"Your mother should be fine on her own," said Viktor. "And what he said isn't a suggestion."

"We won't leave without our mother. She's ninety years old. Can barely walk. Just got out of the hospital yesterday for hip surgery."

"And you didn't drive to pick her up?" Viktor narrowed his eyes at the two women, and glanced at the shorter one. She looked younger by maybe ten or so years, twenty five where her sister was thirty five at the youngest. Her eyes met his as well, blue and shadowed, before her eyes widened and she turned her head back to floor again. For some reason, Viktor could feel the hair all over his body start to bristle.

"No, we have no car," he could hear the woman distantly saying. The roar of the subway train was already sounding from around the bend of the tracks. "We need to wait here for her."

Artemiy was shaking his head. "We can't allow you to do that," he was saying. "We need you to leave right now, and-"

Viktor stopped him abruptly, leveling the submachine gun at the woman's chest. "Hands on your head," he snarled. "Right now."

The German woman's eyes flashed with something. Fury? Anger? It could have been all of those, but it most resembled hatred. She flared her nostrils, and turned to face Viktor fully, so that his gun was a mere couple of inches away from her chest. "And what cause do you have for this?"

"The cause of 'if you don't do what I say right now, you're not only under arrest, but you're going to be in prison'. That's my probably cause right now." The roar of the subway train was growing louder. "Hands on your head. Do it, right now."

"Viktor, what the hell are you doing?" Artemiy looked embaressed, his face growing scarlet as he stood beside of him. "Why are you doing this right now-"

"Pat her down, Artemiy."

The woman glared at him. "I won't tolerate this."

"Tough, because now you will." Viktor motioned for Artemiy to step forward, taking his eyes off of the woman for a moment. "Come on man, I need you to do this for-"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the woman's hand slip into her pocket covertly. In less than a second he had flipped the safety off as she drew the gas-powered pistol out of here pocket, the snub nosed handgun held at the hip. "Get down," he heard himself distantly scream. "Get down right now, everyone!" He could see the girl next to the woman break away from her and dash down the platform, but his gaze was only for the woman, her hard features painted with hatred.

"Für das Deutsche volk!" She shouted as both of them squeezed the triggers of their weapons. Both Viktor and the woman were knocked back on their feet, the woman sent sprawling onto the tiled floor of the platform, a red puddle already blooming underneath her. Viktor felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him, and when he touched the area around his stomach, he felt a curious wetness. Struggling, he got back up to his feet, and hobbled after Artemiy, shouting distantly as he pursued the younger woman down the platform.

"Stop!" The young soldier was shouting. "Stop! Stop or I'll shoot!"

The subway train rolled up to that platform, filled with people up against the clear glass doors and the windows whose eyes grew wide as they saw the scene in front of them. Viktor was ten, twenty feet away from his partner and the young woman when she stopped in front of the slowly decelerating train. He could see tears in her eyes, and a terrified expression on her face as Artemiy leveled his own gun at her.

"Get down," he was shouting, "get down now! On your knees!"

In response, she slipped her hands into her coat. Artemiy shouted something unintelligible at her, but Viktor couldn't hear it; the only thing he could hear was the sudden roar around him as the woman disappeared at the center of the explosion alongside Artemiy, while Viktor himself was slung like a doll across the platform.



Time: 0940 hours
Location: Moscow

The bombing at the Sovy Theater had come earlier than Wraith and Foxhound had planned; so had the explosion at the subway station. Ever the stickler for planned schedules, Wraith was undoubtedly annoyed at the turn of events, but was forced to proceed anyways. Plans never survived first contact with the enemy, and such meticulously laid groundwork could only ever serve as a grave marker for even the most finely crafted plots.

It was at 9:40am, Moscow time when the real campaign began. While the two earlier blasts had tipped off some in the city about what was to transpire, nothing could prepare them for what was about to come.

In rapid succession, three more theaters were bombed by the same group that had targeted the Sovy Theater. For two of the theaters, they followed the example that they had at Sovy, setting them ablaze; for the third and final one, they linked up with another four gunmen and women, and stormed the Fyodor Volkov Theater. There, they rounded up approximately seventy hostages and phoned in their success to Wraith and waited for more orders.

Halfway across the city, at the Lukashenko Elementary School, an early morning assembly of the students was abruptly shattered by gunfire and screams. Another group of eight gunmen kicked in the doors of the school, seized many of the adults and teachers standing by the doorways, and shot them. Spraying more gunfire up into the air, they herded the children together into the center of the assembly hall, radioed to Wraith about their accomplishment, and waited for further orders. The sounds of weeping and crying children were silenced by glares and snarls from the gunmen that had taken the school.

At two locations in the city center, two separate buses carrying civilians to the central shopping district of Moscow were abruptly halted when two separate bombers on either bus detonated their explosives. The flaming wreckage of the buses were on the same long, three mile avenue, so that their burning ruins could be traced by the smoke trails climbing away. Relief sent to those places were stopped before they could reach the crowds of civilians and soldiers already helping out; suspicions rising about the reports of ambulances with gunmen in it kept many of the emergency medical teams sent from the local Moscow hospitals from helping people early on.

For all of those successes early on, there were plenty of bungled attempts. The attempted detonation of a bomber on a subway train bound for the Taganka Children's Park was foiled by faulty explosives; the bomber was subsequently beaten brutally by those onboard his train until he lost consciousness and was summarily arrested when he was pulled off of the train. Another team of gunmen made the mistake of stepping out of their vehicle to assault a local clinic and take hostages; upon entering the premises, they discovered that instead of a civilian clinic, they had discovered a military health center. Three of the gunmen died swiftly, and the last one retreat outside before pulling the pin from a grenade, biting down on it as it exploded. Still another group of gunmen, sent to bomb a military checkpoint near Arkady Park, found that the detonators failed to take effect. Suspicious, checkpoint guards shot the driver as he attempted to pull out a gun, and arrested the other three.

Yet, perhaps the biggest accident of them all was perhaps the attempted attack upon the Filipov Military Base. The troop truck that had been planned to sneak into the base undetected with five gunmen, was stopped abruptly at the gates; they had gotten lost, and discovered much to their chagrin that they were twenty minutes late to their assigned task. The watchful soldiers, under orders to stop any sort of vehicle that they deemed suspicious, attempted to arrest the group of gunmen attempting to go through. In a panic, the young, inexperienced driver slammed the acceleration forward, in a desperate bid to break through the gates. Instead, he found that their reinforced steel plating stopped the truck abruptly, and the Russian soldiers around the wounded truck opened fire instantly. All onboard were killed in the hail of bullets.

By the time the soldiers around the truck went through the bodies, discovered that they were dressed in Russian Army uniforms, and thought to inform the Kremlin, it was already too late.
 
I've been sick the past few days, but I will try to push out an update by Saturday/Sunday. Just a small update, friends.
 
Tycho said:
I've been sick the past few days, but I will try to push out an update by Saturday/Sunday. Just a small update, friends.
Click to expand...

Why I never...

Tycho you heathen. How dare you put your own body's needs above publishing this story. [/Sarcasm]

In all seriousness, I hope you get better soon and I look forward to the next update.
 
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