Christopher Nuttall: The Fall of Night

They walked the remainder of the way into the Kremlin in silence, their only escorts a handful of security troops, intent on ensuring that there was absolutely no threat to the President and the bureaucracy that made up the core of Russia. Shalenko had once considered it overkill, before the series of attacks in America had begun; the Russian state might have suffered some attacks, but nowhere near the number of brutal attacks that the Americans had weathered. The price for that was a police state that would have had the old KGB reeling in astonishment and a disregard for any notion of civilised warfare. They paused for a second in front of the new statue of Stalin — Russia had been caught for years in a wave of Communist nostalgia — and then entered the Kremlin, passing through still more checkpoints and finally entering the main room. It had been renovated in the years since the new government had taken up power; it was now both a testament to Russian military glories in the past, and the advanced technology that Russia had adapted from the West. The old and the new merged seamlessly, all embodied in the face of the man who accepted Shalenko’s salute as they entered.

He was old, but with youthful eyes; his short-cropped white hair seeming too white to be real. He was shorter than Shalenko, with a stocky body and hints of a greater strength than seemed possible, but he dominated the room by the sheer force of his presence. No one doubted that the man facing them was the undisputed lord and master of Russia; Shalenko knew that if the President gave the order, his own troops would shoot Shalenko down within seconds. He was respected and feared, a hard man to love, but not a hard man to follow.

President Aleksandr Sergeyevich Nekrasov.

“General,” Nekrasov said, without preamble. His power sat easily around him; the only times when he had ordered one of his inner circle executed had been when the member in question had concealed information from him. Failure wasn't an automatic death sentence, not like it had been in Stalin’s day, but lying to him was never tolerated. The Russian disease could not be allowed to spread. “I trust that your inspections were successful?”

Shalenko nodded. “The vast majority of units are ready,” he said, truthfully. He had kicked arse and taken names all over European Russia and Belarus to ensure that the units were at their optimum condition. “The commando units need to have their specific targets assigned, but in most cases they would be capable of carrying out their missions without further preparation.”

“We have time,” Nekrasov assured him. They had been old friends for years, long enough to ensure that they understood one another. Shalenko’s private fear had been that he would be asked to take up the post of Minister of Defence, but Nekrasov had spared him that; the role Shalenko held was the one he wanted. “We will review the operation as soon as the entire Cabinet is assembled.”

They trickled in, one by one, as they were all cleared by the security forces. Nekrasov waited patiently as they came in, taking the time to exchange comments with a handful of people, asking after the health of wives and children with one breath and discussing the career of promising officers with another. The new Russia needed promising officers; Shalenko himself had ensured that dozens of officers who had talent received training to go with the talent. The reform of the Russian military since the end of the Soviet Union had been a painful process, but it had all been worthwhile; Nekrasov controlled what was perhaps the most powerful land force on the continent.

As the doors closed, Nekrasov tapped the table. “My Friends, it has been over thirty years since the power of Russia was broken by the Americans and their European lapdogs,” he said. “We were cast down and forced to be humble; our power and prestige was stripped from us and we were outcasts, always the target of jibes, always prevented from gaining the help we needed to develop ourselves. Our people starved as America abandoned us and Europe lectured; military bases moved ever closer to our powers and America deployed ABM systems intended to ensure that our nuclear arsenal was no longer dangerous. I remember the final withdrawal from Poland…

“I swore then that we would return.

“For the past ten years, we have been pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps,” Nekrasov said. The room was very quiet. “We have developed our energy sources and have been using them to earn hard cash, that we have in turn used to develop and reform our military, and finally give Russia something for us all to be proud of. Now, we have a window of opportunity… and a deadly threat to our very well-being.”

Shalenko listened as Nekrasov listed, one by one, the insults and indignities piled on Russia by Europe. Nekrasov had nothing, but contempt for Europe; Europe wasn't the Americans, who had the military strength and geographic luck to back up their words. Brussels hectored and hounded, persecuting Russian immigrants, while meddling in the endless state of Ukraine unrest and assisting the Baltic States to break their agreements with Russia. Ever since he had come to power, Nekrasov had used the advantages of Russia ruthlessly, from ensuring that the fuel that Russia supplied came at a high enough cost to impede Polish economic development, to using the positions in Belarus to build a support base for the greatest military attack the world had ever known.

“We have been preparing for this for years,” Nekrasov finished. “We have been waiting for the window of opportunity… and now we are ready. In a month, Operation Stalin will commence… and a continent will be brought to its knees.”

The reactions ran around the room. Some of them had known from the start that the operation would be launched unless something very significant occurred to prevent it. Some of them had thought that the entire operation was a pipe dream, or a desperately impossible gamble; they had never expected that anyone would actually try it. They all burned to avenge the multiple insults that Russia had suffered over the years, but Operation Stalin…

Nekrasov smiled at them all. “General?”

“I have completed my review of the units that have been assigned to Operation Stalin,” Shalenko said shortly. “The security requirements were quite high — most of the units have little idea that they will be going to war within a month — but training and supplies are excellent. The logistics chain has been carefully prepared and the logistics units will be able to supply the advance forces with everything they will need to maintain the offensive. It would be nice to be able to capture European supplies, at least of fuel and rations, but we are not dependent upon it. We just completed RED STORM, a major exercise, and I am pleased to report that the battlespace management system worked fairly well. Striking the balance between control from the rear and local awareness of conditions was tricky, but we believe that we have successfully mastered the art.

“The Special Forces units have been largely prepared for their own missions, although we have been unwilling to assign them any specific intelligence on their targets,” he continued. “Their role in the operation is absolutely crucial, but until we are ready to inform them of their targets, further training is likely to be counter-productive; we will begin practical training once all units have returned to their barracks and entered lockdown. Security will be maintained.”

He paused. “The operation has been extensively wargamed,” he concluded. “Assuming that everything goes in our favour, we will win within a month; assuming that the enemy is aware of our intentions and takes steps to thwart us, we should still be able to win, but within six months. It is therefore important that the long-range strike plan is launched; if we can destroy the European logistics chain, our victory is certain.”