[BTS:RFC]: The Dawn Comes Softly

[Tycho]

Table of Contents:

Part I: The Rats
Part II: Chess Pieces
Part III: Moskau
Part IV: The Thunder is Far, the Storm is Near
Part V: All Part of the Plan

 

[Tycho]

Part I: The Rats​

Spoiler :

"I don't think I need to tell you gentlemen why you're here."

"Not at all sir." Navidson leaned back in his chair and smiled, his hands knitted behind his head. "This is about the Russian situation, isn't it?"

"Aye," spat the Director. He curled his lips back in an almost animalistic snarl, his teeth as straight and as perfect as a military cemetary. The Director tapped his cigarette against the ashtray on his desk, letting it's thin smoke curl up and away in the dimmed room. He was thin, rakish, and looked as if he slept once in a century, with deep, brutish circles that looped underneath his eyes, which despite the tired look to him were piercing and full of hate. A thin nametag was clipped to his chest, with the name 'C. Dulles' printed and stamped out in neat black font. "The Russkies are up to no good as usual."

"What's up this time?"

The Director exhaled smoke slowly, and tapped the desk as he looked off into the distance. "Kerensky has indicated that the Russians are perturbed at the loss of Soviet Manchuko and Manchuria. The collapse of the German People's Republic has not helped matters out at all, and despite them having allies in the People's Republic of China, the world is not as kind to the commies as it was a decade back." He took another drag on the cigarette and exhaled again, the tendons in his neck flexing hideously. "They don't have a lot of stalwart allies since the Italians sold them out to save their skins in the war. They're all that's left in Europe, the great Bolshevist lot."

Heinrich nodded next to Navidson. "We know this. And we also know that they successfully tested their first thermonuclear weapon five weeks ago. When are you going to tell the American people about that one, sir?"

The Director waved his hand vaguely in the air. "Soon. Can't do it too soon though. We need to do something to not set off a god darn panic, y'know? Don't want people running around in the streets, thinking that the Bolsheviks are going to bomb the hell out of us before the end of the day."

"How many do they have."

"Nukes? A lot. Too many to let us sleep peacefully at night."

"How many though? I'd like a number."

"Two thousand tacticals, short range ballistic missiles that they've set up everywhere. They have some in Kamchatka, some in Warsaw, some in northern Manchuko, on the edge of Siberia." The Director leaned forward, steepling his hands together. "But what worries us the most is that they've not only done that, they've also offered five hundred tactical nukes to the Indians and the Peruvians."

"That's the short range stuff," Navidson complained. "None of that can touch us; even if the Peruvians managed to get them to the neck of the isthmus, the majority of the nation is safe. Cleansing New Orleans would be a justice to the world in my opinion anyways."

"It's not the tacticals that the president is worried about," hissed the Director. "He's more worried about the ICBMs that they're building, and the ones that they already have."

"How many do they have then?" Heinrich took out a notepad, his moustache bristling as he scratched out notes onto the soft paper with a pencil. "And where do our agents say they are located?"

"Kerensky says that they've built forty ICBMs that he knows of." Navidson whistled, and Heinrich raised his eyebrows, while the Director nodded slowly. "That's not all though; Premeir Ivanov has ordered the building of two hundred more, ostenibly as a 'deterrent' against western aggression."

"And here I thought Ivanov was all about peace and his little dream of a utopic, worldwide commune," mused Navidson. He laughes sharply and shook his head. "Guess when the going gets tough, the ideals get left behind in the dust."

"Indeed," said the Director. "Which is why we are so worried. That many nukes will evaporate almost all of our major metropolitan areas, and we are still some twenty years away from any sort of thermonuclear weapon if the Turks don't give us access to what they know. We're trying to butter them up right now, make deals and everything like that, but we can't help that they got left behind in the dust when that useless cretin from Istanbul leaked everything he knew to a Ukrainian whore." He shrugged briefly. "Last I heard from the Turks, that kid's floating in the Bosporous somewhere."

"Ah, how wonderful," said Heinrich, dryly. "So what I'm hearing is 'we are dead'. Confirmed?"

"No," said the Director, pointing at the both of them. "That's where you two come in."

Navidson smiled. "And here I thought you just liked me because of my good looks, quick wit, and glib tongue."

"Shut up," said the Director. "I need you both to listen to me very closely, do you understand? This is a critical assignment that I am about to send you on; it's doubtful either of you will ever see me alive again."

"Cheery," drawled Heinrich. "A suicide mission."

"No; this is something bigger. Both of you are about to be given an assignment that will either save the world or doom it to the tide of the Bolshevist horde." He rapped the desk, nak-nak-nak, quickly, flexing his hand as he drew up his words. "Both of you are tasked with infiltrating the Soviet Republics and destabilizing the country from within."

Navidson whistled. "That's a tall order, hoss."

"I know. I wouldn't ask anything of this sort, even from my best field agents, but... times are desperate. If the Russians know that they have the upper hand, they'll strike, and try to push into western Europe, take it over and make it bend the knee. We can't allow the Bolsheviks to take everything from Berlin to Madrid; it would be insane. It's why I need both of you to infiltrate through your respective entry points, destabilize the country from within, and send us whatever info you find out."

"Why not get Kerensky to do this? He's been working for the agency for years."

"Kerensky's about to get his ass pounded by prisoners in the Siberian tundra if he isn't careful, and it's doubtful that he will be, considering how he's been this whole time. He's been a good agent, but if he's going to burn himself, we can't help him."

"So it's just us," questioned Heinrich. "Or do you have more?"

"We have loads more," said the Director. "But none of them are as good as you two right here." He pointd to Navidson. "You worked for five years as the leader of the Colombian guerillas against the Soviets in Peru and in Argentenia, which was good, good work. And Heinrich, you were one of the best field agents in Berlin until you pulled out, and not too soon I might add. They had a warrant for your arrest and your execution in one of those 'People's Courts' outstanding for you."

"Well that's comforting," said Navidson. "How expendable are we to the agency then?"

"Not as expendable as I'd like you not to be," said the Director carefully. "But I need this of you two; Navidson in Scandanavia, Heinrich in Brest-Litvosk. Loads of Krauts and Bjorkers are fleeing across the border into Russia, after Ivanov threw them right the hell open. You two are going to pose as immigrants, infiltrate, and establish yourselves."

"Easy enough." Navidson smirked and reached for a cigarette of his own in his pocket. "I can hardly see why'd you need us. Russia's riddled with internal issues as it is, since Ivanov's no hardliner."

"I know," said the Director. "The Party in Russia is split along multiple lines. Those that want to go further to the left, those that want to have a mixed economy, those that want a more authoritarian government in a top down manner, and those that want something simpler. Which is where the next task comes in."

"What's that?"

"Ivanov's no hardliner, but he's not exactly keen on the West, now is he?"

"Not at all," said Heinrich. "He's curt and diplomatic, but ever since he got snubbed in the bid for Berlin at the Hangzhou Congress, Ivanov's not been too happy about that one."

"Precisely. His second in command, Alexai Petrovich, is a gentler man; his nickname is 'Silk Bear' after all."

"Man, I hope there are no playgrounds in Bolshevist land," said Navidson. "Otherwise he'd get the crap kicked out of him for such a feminine name."

"Aye, but that's not important. What is important is that he's a much gentler individual than Ivanov is, and that's saying something. He's more interested in working with us in the West, rather than pulling apart. Which is where you two come in."

Silence hung between the three for a moment as Navidson and Heinrich worked it out in their minds. "Wait," said the Norwegian first. "You want us to kill the leader of the largest, most powerful, and fiercest nation on Earth right now?"

"Is that a problem?"

"That's a death warrant. I ain't signing up for that."

"The hell you aren't," swore the Director. "Ivanov has to be removed if we have any hope for us managing some sort of peaceable agreement between the West and with Russia. Do you understand that?"

"You're asking us to throw our lives away."

"Not at all; find someone to take the fall." The Director pulled out a thick and heavy file, kept tightly wrapped with rubber bands and thin strings, and dropped it with a heavy thud onto the desk in front of him. On the front was stenciled 'Jackal'. "Yuri Volkov; he's the perfect target to frame for the assassination of Ivanov. He's a hardliner, hates Ivanov's leadership, and lead's the second largest faction of the Party inside of Russia. You couldn't ask for a better target to set up for the fall."

Navidson chewed his lip. "Can we get others to kill Ivanov?"

"Yes, potentially, but it would be better if you did it. It's a lot simpler for a few people to manage it, instead of however many uncertain wildcards you pull."

"I have an idea," Navidson said. "Ivanov's a Muslim, right?"

"Him and about two-thirds of the rest of the party. Why?"

"Sunni? Shia? Or is he one of the Orthodox?"

"Orthodox, just like the majority of them in Russia." The Director narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"The Turks are Sunni," said Navidson. "And hate Ivanov. I can rope together some Sunni Russians, Chechens, and Turks together and kill Ivanov."

"Do you think you can pull it off."

"If anybody can sir, it's Navidson." Heinrich took off his spectacles and began to clean them delicately. He thought for a moment, stirring the words in his head, before he spoke again. "Sir, what if this assassination becomes a mess?"

The Director shrugged. "Who cares? The more Bolshevists and Russkis you take down, the less we'll have to deal with whenever they want to go to war. Make it a bloodbath."

 

[GreekAnalyzer]

Subbed!

 

[mrrandomplayer]

Oooh... Subbed.

 

[Niccolo Edwards]

This is going to be epic.
Subbed.

 

[CaterpillarKing]

Subbed

 

[Manuss]

Subbidy sub.

 

[Noyyau]

Ooohhhh I like this

 

[Dumanios]

This'll be fun.

 

[Tycho]

Part II: Chess Pieces​

>Enter password
password: **************
>Password accepted
>>Retrieving Files...
>>Retrieving Files...
>>Retrieving Files...
>>>Files Retrieved: Agency Operation OC7-90A-CCP-321
>Accessing Files...
>Accessing Files...
>Accessing Files...
>>Files Accessed
>>Select Option:

| Read
| Print
| Expunge
| Classify
| Erase

>>'Read' Option selected
>>Opening Files...
>>Files Opened
>>Have a pleasant day, sir.

Operation Glass Hammer​

Spoiler :

Spoiler :

​

Spoiler :

Spoiler Operational Details :

Date of Commencement: October 19th, 1950
Operatives:
[Redacted] (a.k.a) Wraithe
[Redacted] (a.k.a) Foxhound
Purpose:

• Seed discord into Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
• Break links between Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and the People's Republic of China
• Weaken tie

s between Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and the following nations:

• Soviet Manchuko
• Soviet Manchuria
• Soviet India
• Soviet Egypt
• Soviet Peru

• Procurement of intelligence beneficial to the intel community in America
• Assassination or Permanent Incapacitation of Premier Aleksandr Ivanov and the following officials:

• Minister V. Ivanovich
• Doctor S. Steiner
• Doctor H. Geiger
• Doctor N. Beagle
• Doctor J. Thompson
• L. Yang
• K. Byordov
• [Redacted]
• [Redacted]

Agent Overseeing Operation: Thunderhawk

Spoiler Personnel Files :

Foxhound: Born as [redacted] in Oslo, 1921, Foxhound and his parents immigrated to America after the collapse of the Scandanavian Democratic Union in 1937 due to extreme economic pressurs and internal dissent. Foxhound was raised in quiet suburbs outside of Arlington, Virginia, and was not much of a standout student, yet managed to net a scholarship to a prestigious school in New England, which was [redacted]. After achieving a degree in foreign languages and military science, he was approached by the Agency and asked if he would like to join the organization. Foxhound readily agreed, ostenibly as a translator, but expressed an interest in fieldwork. After two years of assignments, he was handed the keys to the efforts of the Agency in the Peruvian highlands in combating the Bolsheviks there.
Foxhound excelled at rapid, guerilla tactics, earning the awe and respect of his men in short order, and continuing a bloody campaign that had been started by his predecessor, Max 'El Lupo' Bakersfield. Foxhound was noted to have a particular joy in bombing government targets and executing political prisoners that they found, citing that it was a necessary act to defend his homeland. Foxhound shows almost zero emotion in the field, aside from a cocksure and haughty demeanor, filled with smiles. Foxhound was placed on probation in the Agency after the accidental killing of an undercover agent who had been captured and falsely interrogated under the pretenses that he was working for the Peruvian Soviets. Foxhound denied wrongdoing, citing that it was the fault of 'whichever dumb bastard couldn't figure out that he was one of our guys'.

Foxhound was selected for his dedication to the cause of stopping the rising tide of Bolsehvism in the West, and with his unique skills in a multitude of languages, which include: Norwegian, Swedish, English, French, German, Russian, and Ukrainian. His skills also include expert bomb making, sharpshooting, hand to hand combat, and cooking.




Wraith: Born as [redacted] in Nuremburg, 1919, Wraith lost his father in 1934 to tuberculosis, and his mother in 1943 in the chaos of the collapse of the German People's Republic while studying at the Nuremberg Technical Institution, the third most prestigious school in Germany at the time. Wraith graduated in 1945 with a doctorate in chemical engineering, and a master's degree in both political science and Russian. He was approached by field agents in 1947 under the auspice of him becoming an agent, which he readily accepted, having formulated a hatred for the Russians in their indecisiveness regarding the situation in Germany during the civil war that had claimed the life of his mother. Wraith emigrated from the German city of Nuremburg to London in 1947, and later to New York in 1948.

Wraith, being an expert at chemical engineering, has managed to perfec the art of nearly untraceable poison making, creating some of the most deadly and fast acting chemical agents that are employed by the agency. At the same time, he has made nigh untraceable 'slow burn' chemicals that have managed to successfully poison a host of peoples [refer to appendix 172-A for a full list] that have been deemed enemies of the West. Wratih was briefly employed at a shell corporation for the Agency at [redacted] but expressed interest in going into the field for his first time. Wraith is a born leader, and uninterested in hand to hand combat, or gunnery, and therefore excels more at intellectual subjects. Despite both of the agents going to impressive schools, Wraith's measured IQ falls at around thirty points higher than Foxhound's, at the 170 mark, and has demonstrated a cool and calculating demeanor that hardly cracks. Wraith was selected for this operation due to his hatred of Bolshevists, and the likelihood of him having to lead the operation in a more structured path, unlike Foxhound's initial plan.

Spoiler File of Aleksandr Ivanov :

Personnel Profile: Aleksandr Ivanov
DOB: January 22nd, 1901
Place of Birth: Sankt-Petersburg
Father: Ivan Ivanov
Mother: Natalya Ivanov
Siblings: 0
Eye color: Grey
Hair color: Dark brown
Ethnicity: Russian
Religion: Orthodox Russian Muslim
Political Views: 'Softline' Communism
Spouse: None
Sexuality: Heterosexual

Further Notes: Born to a family of political activists during the time when the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was just starting to hit it's stride in Russia, Ivanov was raised under the auspices of 'gentle' communism. Whereas Marx's belief was that violent overthrow of the system was needed to perfect communism, Ivanov and his family had the unpopular view in Russia that gradual revolution would come through peace and prosperity gifted to the people. Ivanov would study at a state run school until he was eighteen years old, at which point he was hand selected amongst thirty thousand other applicants to join five hundred people who had applied to the Moskva Revolutionary College. There, he would study political science, law, and economics, emerging with a degree in Law and a minor in Political Science.
Ivanov rose quickly through the party, despite derisive snorts and snickers that he was doing a bit more than just climbing the ladder peacefully and by his own merit. Despite this, Ivanov became the Chancellor of the People's Parliament in 1935, and the Speaker of the People in 1939, the highest non-Premier position in the government. The death of his predecessor, Nikolia Kozlov, was believed to be foul play, but was cleared as being the result of a diet high in fats and red meat, coupled with smoking, excessive drinking, and the fact that the Premier had been eighty seven years old at his death. Ivanov was elected to the leadership of the nation by the People's Parliament on June 2nd, 1940, where he has retained his position ever since.
While internally, Ivanov has secured a huge faction of people to his banner, hardliners have called him out on not following what is believed to be 'true' communism, leading to a mess of internal back and forth politics, even under the banner of one party. Ivanov has entered into conflict with two main rivals; Yuri Volkov, leader of the People's Front (a group of hardliners obsessed with the idea of a further swing to the left and towards a more authoritarian system) and Nicholas Kazamarov, leader of the United Union (a group of people interested in a further swing to the left, but towards a more open and diluted government control on the lives of the people). Because of this, Ivanov's health has been called into question over the past few years, despite being just forty nine years old.

Spoiler File of Yuri Volkov :

Personnel Profile: Yuri Volkov
DOB: November 7th, 1917
Place of Birth: Yakutsk
Father: Nikolai Volkov
Mother: Gable Volkov
Siblings: 3

• Nathanial Volkov
• Valeriy Volkov
• Rurik Volkov

Eye color: Green
Hair color: Black
Ethnicity: Russian
Religion: Non-practicing Orthodox Russian Muslim
Political Views: 'Hardline' Communism
Spouse: None
Sexuality: Heterosexual

Further Notes: Born to the son of a mason in the backwaters of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, it was not initially believed that Yuri Volkov was destined for greatness in Moskva. A brash child, prone to outbursts andt o fighting with other students at his local boarding school, Yuri was believed to be destined for a trade school, or for a prison. Despite this, he managed to pull astonishing marks from school towards the end of a long and bloody career with other students, and earned a scholarship to the Moskva Revolutionary College. Yuri would excel, but at the same time would become a political agitator amongst the student body, forming the People's Front (lit. народный сплоченност&#1100, a band of people who advocated for a harsher and more authoritarian look at communism in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, stating that the reforms of Premier Kozlov had been ineffectual in strengthening Russia by opening contacts with the western world, but had instead weakened it and brought the nation lower.
Despite his agitations in school, Volkov quickly gained support in the disenfranchised in the People's Parliament in Russia. The People's Front, which had started as an after school political club, quickly ballooned in size, gaining four thousand members in approximitely the first three months of Volkov's appearance on the political scene, and doubling every three months afterwards until it's final peak at around 33% of the Party's adherents in Russia. Volkov, seen as a threat, found himself checked by the 'softliners', but that only increased his anger. Speaking with a fiery charisma and passion, Volkov has rallied a sizable section of the Communist Party behind him, and gathers more and more power in Moskva. Not even an attempted assassination by the German People's Alliance (lit. Deutsch Volksallianz), who blame him for the lack of response from Russia in the chaos after the dissolution of the German nation, has stopped him, despite the loss of his left eye and a pinky finger on the left hand.
Volkov, gaining traction in the Party, seems ready to challenge his main political rival, Ivanov, for the chair of the Premiership in Russia, and steer it into what he calls "Novaya Rossiya", a new age of political power and upheaval in Russia. Only time will tell if Volkov is successful.

 

[Tycho]

Sorry for the lack of screenshots, but I'll be setting up the backstory for stuff before I light the powder keg here. Please be patient and provide any feedback that you feel is necessary here.

 

[CaterpillarKing]

Love the formatting! That's very cool

 

[Manuss]

Nice style!

 

[Noyyau]

The recursive spoilers really convey the whole "top secret document" feel

 

[TheNoob]

Subbed. Pretty cool so far.

 

[Tomorrow's Dawn]

Good to see you writing again, Tycho.

Is Spain a Chinese vassal or a Japanese one?
I recall vanilla RFC assigning ____ Tributary State to both of them.

And who knows, if this keeps me interested, I might be spurred to write again myself...

 

[trexeric]

Subbed.

 

[mrrandomplayer]

Good to see you writing again, Tycho.

Is Spain a Chinese vassal or a Japanese one?
I recall vanilla RFC assigning ____ Tributary State to both of them.

And who knows, if this keeps me interested, I might be spurred to write again myself...

Yesyesyesyesyesyes plz

 

[Tycho]

Good to see you writing again, Tycho.

Is Spain a Chinese vassal or a Japanese one?
I recall vanilla RFC assigning ____ Tributary State to both of them.

And who knows, if this keeps me interested, I might be spurred to write again myself...

Spain is currently a vassal to Japan (for some reason). This game has had some weird tributary states, like the Malinese to the British, or the Indians to the Persians at one point before Persia collapsed and reformed ten turns later, so maybe Spain being a Japanese vassal despite them trading about nothing between them is par for the course.

Also, good to see you again, Dawn. I hope that you start writing once more.

 

[Tycho]

Part III: Moskau​

Moskva was hazy in the early morning, filled with the smog that poured from the cars and the buses and the trains and all the other assorted modes of transportation for the populace that sent them scurrying to work, to prayer, to their daily lives as the sun rose over the proud Russian city. In the minarets around the great metropolis of some fifteen million souls, muezzins of Sunni, Shia, and Orthodox faith called their worshipers to prayer, crying out for all of the poor sinners in the world to come to their doors and kneel towards Mecca, prostrate themselves before Allah. Bhuddist temples throughout the city were also thronged with people, as well as the Christian chapels and the Jewish synagogues for early morning prayers before people sped on their way to work. Life moved quickly in the great city, but respect for old traditions still held strong, even as the march of time turned other cities into secular strongholds.

Aleksandr Ivanov himself was praying silently, kneeling forward in a room inside of the Kremlin with almost two dozen other members of the Orthodox Islamic faith. Silence wreathed the room with the incense that they burned, the tendrils of smoke brushing against the geometric patterns of the small prayer room. Ivanov's thoughts would have been hard to discern in that instant to any outsider; he certainly was not thinking about prayer that day, but where other men would have thought about money, power, sex, drugs, or almost anything else in his position, his thoughts betrayed nothing on the outside. He was a cipher, cool, calm, his receding hairline and heavy gut highlighting the tension lines on his forehead, as well as the constant flexing of his left hand. All that Ivanov was thinking about at that moment was a quiet beach on the shore of the Caspian Sea, the wind wafting over him, and the feeling of-

Boots clicked down the hallway to the prayer room, klik-klik-klik-klik, rapid and staccato in their movement. Ivanov and others opened their eyes in their kneeling positions, and cocked their heads towards the door; someone making that much noise as the man coming down the hallway was either running, or barely able to keep walking. All of the men in the room, officers and adjutants, military men and political members of the Russian People's Parliament, and even the imam himself, raised their heads out of the prostrate position and gazed at the door in puzzlement as one Boris Petrovich burst through the door and snapped to attention. The tall, heavily set and outrageously mustached lieutenant wore a casual uniform, and several bandages from a shaving accident a week before that had still not healed apparently. The young officer was out of breath and saluted to all of the men present in the room before speaking. "Premier Ivanov," he declared shrilly. "You are needed urgently in the Council room!"

"What for?" Ivanov rubbed his temples. Prayer time was one of the few times that he got to relax and think of something other than work, even if (as a good Orthodox Muslim), he was supposed to be thinking about subservience towards god. "That would be a good start."

"They wouldn't say," Petrovich said, his eyes fixed to the wall in front of him, still stiffly in his saluting position. "Volkov said that you should hurry though. The Council has some major news, purportedly."

Great, thought Ivanov. His morning would not be complete until he got to see the screaming radical up close and personal, and gotten an earful of how all of his policies were terrible, and how he should completely detach himself from the real world until he was as crazy as the Radical, Volkov, was. What else could possibly go wrong?

He got up from his position on the prayer rug; technically, prayer was not over, and he was supposed to stay with the rest of the people in the room and leave when he was done, but no one gave one damn if the leader of the Soviet world had to go or not. Everyone nodded at the room as he waved goodbye, smiling at people that he would see later today, and resumed their place in the prostrate position before God as Ivanov and the lieutenant left the room and walked swiftly down the marble hallway of the Kremlin towards the Council chambers.



"What do you mean, dead?"

The office that they were in was filled with the six mahogany desks that made up the seats for the people who chaired the Council for the governing of Russia. One was for Ivanov himself, the others for the respective ministers that held primary positions in the Council. Yuri Volkov, Minister of Defense. Alexai Petrovich, the second in command to Ivanov himself, and acting Minister of the Interior & State. Nikolai Kerensky, the Minister of Intelligence, and head of the Cheka, the Soviet counter-terrorist, intelligence gathering community of Russia. Maksim Sokolov, the Chief Diplomat for the USSR, and Vitaly Kuznetsov, the Minister of Education and Science, were both away, at least two weeks ride by train back to the capital. Large windows looked out upon Moskva, but they were closed against the chill of October, the clouds already foaming up on top of the city and looking ready to let loose.

Kerensky shrugged and crossed his arms. His wire rimmed spectacles wavered on the edge of his nose, seemingly ready to fall off and onto the ground as his upper lip twitched. "We don't know what the hell has happened to him sir. He's most likely dead, considering the last intelligence message that we received from him."

Ivanov threw his hands up into the air and pounded the desk in front of him forcefully. "How can we be sure, then? He might still be alive."

"It's been five days sir. He checks in every other day. He hasn't checked in by now, and his last status report did not give any good indications at all."

Ivanov sighed and slipped into his chair, cradling his head with his hands as he rubbed his face. Volkov looked at him silently, the eyepatch on one of his eyes twitching as he smoked a cigarette. Alexai Petrovich, short and heavy, smoked a cigar of his own, sipping at whiskey bemusedly as he watched Ivanov pound the desk slowly with his hand in a slow rhythym. "So," the Premier said thoughtfully, "we've lost our inside man at the CIA. What now? What do we know?"

Kerensky lifted a file from the desk beside of him, and tossed at Ivanov; it was bound with twine, and heavy. There were hundreds of pages inside of the folder, and Ivanov hurriedly cut the threads, opened up the file, and scanned the pages.

"This is ," he hissed. He lifted one of the pages, and raked his fingers across the page. Black lines covered almost everything, for line after line, with only a few words displayed here and there. "What the hell are we supposed to do with this?"

"That's all we know about whatever the Agency is doing next in our area of influence," said Kerensky. He straightened his spectacles and wiped his hands on his pants. "They are stepping up their guerrilla efforts in Peru and Nicaragua, Egypt had the Aswan Dam bombed two weeks ago by some madman that we are almost completely sure is on the Amerikan's payroll, and Mongolia and Manchuko are still in a hellish position, politically speaking. We can't touch the latter two, even if we came with the gloves they give to steel workers."

"Why the hell not?"

Kerensky shrugged. "In case you haven't seen lately, people loyal to the Golden Khanate party see your influence in Soviet Mongolia as an affront. They are working directly with the Americans, and we can do nothing about it, without setting off a goddamn powder keg. They are gaining ground now, and they will gain ground if we interfere."

Ivanov sighed again and looked broodingly at the other men in the room, his eyes landing on Volkov. "Don't you have something to say?"

"Not if the Premier wills it," he said blandly, examining his finger nails. "I only speak if I am given permission to do so on matters of opinion."

"Well here I am, asking your opinion. What would you do?"

"Does it matter? You won't listen to me anyways."

Slamming a fist into the desk, Ivanov rose forth from his chair, seething. "I don't have the god damned patience to listen to you backtalk to me like you are a spoiled teenager who thinks daddy doesn't love him! Give me your opinion that isn't a stupid, smart ass answer, or get out of my office!"

Volkov shrugged, and crossed his arms, wordless. He did not leave the office.

"Relax, Aleks," said Petrovich, the Bear. "He doesn't mean anything by it. We need a plan to work forward with."

"What plan, Alexai? What plan do we have?" Ivanov slammed his fist into the desk again. "We have the Americans breathing down our necks on every front, those god damned fascist lovers, and they won't let up. They know that we have nukes, they know that we have them aimed at their metropolitan areas, and if they are smart, they also know that we are unwilling to pull the trigger on them, despite everything that is going on."

"Keep the nukes aimed at them," said Volkov. His mouth twitched into a smirk. "And if they continue this, or we catch them in the act of doing something stupid, we may fire them."

"The entire world will decry us if we do that. We can't fire the nukes unless we are given a clear and present provocation for war. The Americans are looking to avoid that by any means necessary."

"Who cares what the world thinks?" Volkov stepped forward and leaned across the desk towards the Premier, his eye glowing feverishly. "All that matters is what our people think."

"You'd blow the world up with your precious nukes if you could!" Ivanov leaned forward, screaming into the other man's face. "For all you care, the entire world could burn if you got to use your precious nukes to bring the West to it's knees! Well guess what? We aren't here to satisfy your miserable bloodlust

Silence fell between them for a minute or so before Volkov slipped away from the desk Ivanov sat at to lean back against his own, his arms folded defiantly, his mouth twisted in a sneer. Ivanov watched him, his brows furrowed together, trying to piece together an opinion of the man. For the life of him, he couldn't decide if he was crazy or misguided.

Keresnky cleared his throat and nodded towards the stack of other files at his side. "We have some more work to do sir. The Chechen Republic requests more food aid this quarter, the Jewish Autonomous Oblast is demanding more representation in the People's Parliament, and... well, you get the idea."

Ivanov waved his hand weakly in the air. "Someone get me some coffee," he growled, his eyes closed and his left hand stroking his temple. "I can already see I'm going to need it."

Spoiler :

>Location: Kamenskoe, Kamchatka, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
>Date: October 22nd, 1950
>Time: 15:23:18, local time

Kostya Lyov Orlov was a simple man with simple tastes; he enjoyed fishing in the frigid waters off of the Kamchatka peninsula, drinking vodka with his friends at the local barhouse, and maybe a good bit of popular music that they could get on records from the capital maybe once a month, if the weather and the trains were permitting (not to mention the often cheeky and bored Soviet mail service, prone to mishap and wear and tear on fragile goods). During the day, he served as a dockworker, unloading cargo from ships and loading cargo onto ships, ships bound for ports unknown and which also came from ports unknown. Orlov didn't care who captained the ships, where they came from, or the cargo; he was a jovial man, took pride in his work, and didn't ask too many questions about what happened at night when the harbormaster shut it down and let black painted ships from Honshu and China and even as far away as from America dock at the port and smuggle goods away under the black cover of night. He only cared about the money that he earned, and about the passions that he pursued.

Which is why when the box he transported into Warehouse 32 on the docks of Kamenskoe began to shake, he didn't question it. It had airholes cut out of the box, felt moderately heavy, so more likely than not, it was a pet for one of the elite in town. Funny how they still had the 'elite' in town after the Soviet Revolution almost seventy five years prior, but Orlov did not pretend to understand the finer points of communism. If he did, he might have been able to see that any form of 'communism' in the eastern part of Russia could be, generously at best of course, called a total sham, but again, he did not care one whit.

When he returned from another run of cargo to unload into the warehouse, the box was shaking heavily, and heavy pounding sounds came from inside. Orlov stopped what he was doing and regarded the box curiously, scratching at his beard. What in the hell could possibly be in there?

"Open the god damned box," came a voice from inside of the wobbling crate. "It's hot as hell in here!" It shook again, and more heavy pounding came from within.

Orlov walked cautiously over to the box, and rapped the top of it. The pounding increased. "I can hear you out there," came the voice from within. "Open up this crate before I suffocate to death you stupid git!"

The voice was Russian, but it had a heavy accent to it that Orlov couldn't place. Still, though, he didn't want to question whatever strange boxes in warehouses told him, so he quickly produced a crowbar from some corner of the warehouse and pried open the side of the box carefully and slowly. Perhaps realizing that it was about to be free, the box slowed down it's wobbling and it's shaking, and the voice kept silent. Minutes of grunting and struggling went by as Orlov struggled with the tightly nailed lid of the box.

With a snap, the lid went flying away from the crate in a shower of splinters, while Orlov toppled the other way, his heavy, overweight frame flopping against the concrete floor of the warehouse, his head smacking against the stone. Stars spun in his eyes as he felt for the crowbar, but he left it alone as pain lanced through his head. Groaning, he struggled up into a sitting position as he clasped his head, in time to see a man clamber out of the box and out into the warehouse in front of him.

The man was lanky, tall and fair haired. Not necessarily blond, but a light shade of brown that he certainly didn't look Russian. He was dressed somewhat shabbily, the suit he had on marked with the stains of travel and from undoubtedly sitting in a cramped little box for however long that he had been trapped in there, with straw and bits of wood flakes stuck to his suit that he tried miserably to dust off. His smile was bright however, cocky and sure of itself in every single way possible as he straightened up and turned towards Orlov. The man frowned, puzzled by what he saw. "You aren't Markovic, are you?"

"No?" Orlov ventured carefully, still in awe of the man in front of him.

"A pity," said the man. "I was expecting him instead."

Orlov smiled weakly and shrugged. "Sorry," he said. "I'm not him. I know a man named Markovic though. Do you want me to go find him for you."

"No, no, no," said Navidson. "That's quite alright. I was just expecting... well, him. Things would have gone so much better if he had found me instead. I thought he had this shift?"

"He got moved to another shift two nights ago, sir." Sir seemed like the appropriate way to address the man now in front of Orlov. "He's been drinking a bit too much, and the boss doesn't like it when you come in staggering to work in the morning. Takes it out by taking away the best time of day to drink!" Orlov laughed.

Navidson chuckled, but didn't laugh. "Well," he said, reaching into the crate that he had emerged from. "I have to say, you seem like a charming guy."

Chewt. The bullet struck Orlov in is left eye as he was still laughing, the projectile tumbling in his head as it cut it's way through the flesh inside of the skull. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Navidson walked over to the body of the squat, heavyset Russian and tutted quietly to himself. "Such a pity," he said. "My aim is garbage." He readjusted his aim with the pistol and fired two more rounds into the dead man's head, just to be sure. Chewt. Chewt.

Whistling to himself, Navidson the Foxhound went back to the crate that he had emerged from and picked out the map, compass, Russian dictionary, and the extra magazines that he had left inside of there. "Now to find that useless German," he said.