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Wow , the Kremlin seems like a really fun place to pla-- er , work in . Really great way of explaining the craziness going on in the world XD .
 
grayghost: yeah. if you read our in-game chat comments, you'll see that we faced the same situation of brain meltage :p

Raze: constaninople, pah! Byzantium all the way! ;)

Erkki1: thanks! :D

canonized: yeah, the Kremlin (or at least the foreign ministry) is quite an interesting place...and I did actually try to make as much sense out of the nonsensical DoWs as I could ;)

VILenin: thanks! :D though I've not read any Terry Pratchett, ever :eek:

comment day again! :p
 
Myth said:
grayghost: yeah. if you read our in-game chat comments, you'll see that we faced the same situation of brain meltage :p

Raze: constaninople, pah! Byzantium all the way! ;)

Erkki1: thanks! :D

canonized: yeah, the Kremlin (or at least the foreign ministry) is quite an interesting place...and I did actually try to make as much sense out of the nonsensical DoWs as I could ;)

VILenin: thanks! :D though I've not read any Terry Pratchett, ever :eek:

comment day again! :p

Judging by what your sense of humor seems to be, I would recommend him, he's quite funny. :)
 
VILenin: I'll take a look sometime, though about 99% of what I read nowadays is military history/theory stuff :p

update coming up!
 
9 Kilometers northeast of Bakhtara
April 7, 1936


Vacietis rubbed his temples with his fingers. Organizing logistics for the invasion of Iraq from bases in Persia while Persia remained futilely defiant was challenging, as the locals were uncooperative. They were not hostile as they felt no particular loyalty to their king, but they had no reason to actively aid the invaders. Vacietis smiled thinly, they had no reason yet. He was going to make sure to that the news of Persia's final surrender would almost overload Persia's poor infrastructure in an attempt to spread the news to every corner of the dead empire. The Persians had recently done it themselves, after all. Even in the remotest corner of Persia, Tabriz, rumors were spreading that the Soviets were defeated.

Vacietis had to laugh, though it was dark and with little mirth. While Bochenkov and Chernyak had busied themselves with the irregular soldiers in Hamadan, Persian cavalry had ridden into Teheran and evacuated the Persian royal court from Hamadan back to the capital. The Persians made sure to squeeze as muc propaganda use out of this pseudo-victory as possible, using the Siemens facilities in the city to transmit the news to every corner of Persia. This news had immediately turned all Persian villagers from being relatively amicable, if not entirely cooperative, to simply stone-walling all attempts by the Soviets do requisition anything because of their belief that soon the Soviets would be driven from their country. Vacietis understood the sentiment, no one wanted to be branded a traitor when, presumably, the Persians would march back in to reclaim all their lost territory.

However, Vacietis knew more than the villagers did. He knew of the power of the Soviet Union, he knew the strength of his Front. The irregulars in Hamadan had been defeated and dispersed and Vacietis immediately orderd that Bochenkov and Chernyak reclaim Teheran. Both their divisions were in relatively good shape, especially compared to the state of the Persian cavalry, which had not received any supplies between the encirclement of Hamadan and their recent relief of Teheran. As such, the cavalry was barely a force worth considering and Vacietis had the utmost confidence that they would easily defeat the Persians. Two well supplied and well organized divisions assaulting the positions of a tired and weakened cavalry division could only end one way.

027-01-AnotherBattleforTeheran.png

Bochenkov's and Chernyak's attack toward Teheran, with the aim of reclaiming the capital.

Vacietis was actually pleased, at this stage of the campaign. It was obvious that the Persian resistance in Teheran would crumble in a mere hour or two and the infantry of his eastern thrust would finally enter the city, only more than three months after they set out from Baku. However, Petrushevskij was on the verge of claiming Babolsar and promised to turn eastwards and claim Bandar Abbas as well, all within the next two weeks. Given such a concrete deadline, Vacietis knew that the end of the campaign was finally in sight. Knowing this, he had summoned the representative of the underground Persian Communist Party, Ja'fer Pishevari, who he had last seen when he had torn Pishevari's hopes of a conditonal peace to shreads.

It was at that moment that Pishevari was shown into Vacietis' impromptu office. The man did not look too pleased, Vacietis could easily see, at being summoned by a general—even if the general was a field marshal, a Front commander and a theater commander with full political powers. Vacietis smiled to himself as he absently offered Pishevari a seat, perhaps it was that last part that was the source of Pishevari's ire. As the man seated himself, Vacietis leaned back and simply watched him with some amusement, which he hoped wasn't too blatant. Pishevari carried himself somewhat stiffly, which was further contrasted by Vacietis' ease. Having seated himself, Pishevari simply looked at Vacietis expectantly, though Vacietis also detected apprehension in his eyes; the man wasn't as confident and collected as he affected. He remembered their previous meeting as well as Vacietis did.

Vacietis smiled slightly wolfishly, he knew that the conversation to follow would be interesting. Returning his body to an upright position, he began without any sort of preamble. “How quickly will the Persian Communists be able to put a government together?”

Pishevari was taken off guard by the direct question. Vacietis noticed his eyes widen and saw him gulp and lick his lips before he answered. “Ah...we have all the, ahh, the apparati of government established already. We merely need the power to govern and—”

Vacietis nodded. “Good, good. So the Communists are ready to take up power immediately if necessary?”

Becoming slightly unsure of himself, Pishevari hesitated. “Uh, yes. Yes, we are. Again, we just need the power—”

Vacietis waved him to silence, understanding that his constant interruptions were going to irritate the man, if they had not begun doing so already. “Good. Persia will be yours within two weeks.”

Pishevari was totally dumbfounded by this. “W-what? But, the Royalists hold Teheran! No government established outside Teheran would be taken seriously by the people! I don't see—”

Smirking, Vacietis waved his mouth shut again. “Do you believe everything the so-called Royalists throw out as propaganda? I am beginning to doubt your Communist credentials.”

Pishevari's face grew red and his mouth worked, but no words left it. Vacietis could tell that he was furious and humiliated. “Babolsar and Bandar Abbas will fall within two weeks. Teheran is in no danger of a permanent Royalist occupation. In two weeks, thus, Persia will be entirely ours. Not yours and mine, just mine. Soviet Persia. We will hold every single strategically important spot in the country. However, it will not be annexed. Persia will remain nominally independent, so long as the government takes its foreign policy from Moscow. The question is this: will you so-called Persian Communists be a part of this new Persia, lead this new Persia in taking its orders from Moscow, or will you be removed alongside the Royalists?”

“That...that is no choice!” Pishevari was angry and flaggergasted.

Vacietis smiled sweetly at his furious face. “On the contrary, one choice leads to subjugation and the other leads to defeat and either death or permanent exile. I will ask one last time. Will you be subjugated, or will you be defeated?”

Pishevari, who had been sitting stiffer and stiffer as the conversation went on, slumped in his chair. Vacietis had broken him and they both knew it. “We will be subjugated.”

Vacietis beamed. “Good!”
 
"We will be subjugated." Choices, choices, decisions, decisions. Well, Peshivari was wrong about one thing, he did have a choice, it just wasn't much of one. Nice update.

Oh, and you were right about one thing. "Hulk Smashed" right down to my bones. Very painful.:D
 
Lots of stabbing taking place here I see :D . And finally some subjugating also! :cool:
 
grayghost: thanks! and yes, I can imagine that being hulk smashed would be painful :D

General Jac: yes, the subjugating will come soon! :p

VILenin: definitely :D

comment day again!
 
12 Kilometers south of Konya
April 10, 1936


Kuznetsov sighed, he was beginning to get tired of Turkey. The Turks’ obstinacy in continuing to resist was wearing his patience thin and had long ago worn his vodka supply into nothingness. He sighed again, he was dry and would remain so for the near future. Though this was a hard blow, he knew that he needed a respite from alcohol and wondered if the campaign could have gone any differently if he had not drunk at all. Tightening his lips, he knew that such thoughts were futile and turned to the task at hand: reducing the Turkish stronghold in the south, their positions around Mersin and Gazientep. He had left Berman and Deev to continue their efforts to cross the Bosporus, a task which he believed would be easier given that Rear Admiral Panteleiev had defeated the Turkish fleet a second time off the northern Anatolian coast on the 7th. Kuznetsov himself was taking both Marchenkov’s and Saladze’s corps to bring overwhelming strength to bear on the three possibly out of supply Turkish divisions in the south.

Thus the balance of force was in his favor, given that he was marshalling eight mountain divisions against one mountain and two infantry divisions. However, Saladze was not yet in position to be of any use, still marching through Afyonkarahisar and toward Kayseri. Thus, the attack Kuznetsov was about to launch was to comprise of only the five divisions of his and Marchenkov’s two corps, facing two of the three Turkish divisions. He was fairly confident of victory, however, as his advantage of numbers was still over twofold, though his and Marchenkov’s combined staffs could only effectively command four of the five divisions. Kuznetsov knew, however, that this should be enough to push the Turks out of their mountain fastness.

028-01-AttackingMersin.png

Kuznetsov was positioning his forces to bring force to bear on Istanbul and the southern Turkish stronghold of Mersin-Gazientep.

Kuznetsov had settled for a night attack the Turkish positions, which were overseen by Lieutenant General Calislar. Consequently, at 1900 he was watching his men fade into the darkness as they infiltrated toward the Turkish positions. He stared at the shadows of mountains, brightened by the occasional flash of small arms or, more distantly, of artillery, and simply waited for the first reports to filter back. When these came, the news was interesting; it seemed that the Turks were caught outside their positions as they were marching toward Gazientep and his mountaineers were driving forward quite easily, greatly aided by Marchenkov’s divisions to the west. The Turks seemed to be breaking surprisingly quickly, though Kuznetsov had a suspicion that the fighting would be harder than the preliminary reports indicated, once the Turks regained their feet and began effectively coordinating.

028-02-BattleofMersin.png

The battle of Mersin.

Kuznetsov briefly considered radioing Berman to urge him to push for Istanbul but knew that it would be superfluous and unwanted; Berman and Deev both knew what they had to and would most likely not take kindly to further urging on Kuznetsov’s part. He made sure to pass on any intelligence concerning the German advance to them to give them a sense of urgency in case they did not already have it; the German advance was coming dangerously close to Istanbul as it was. They were just north of Ploesti as it was, with most likely little other than tatters of the Romanian army and the relatively impotent Bulgarian army in between them and the city that controlled the Bosporus.

Kuznetsov was worried, if the Germans took Istanbul then that would seal his fate, as most likely his head would be delivered on a platter to Stalin and the Politburo. He was unsure whether this was merely a figure of speech or a real promise, but he did not relish the prospect either way, whether he actually lost his head—and life—or not. Yet he knew that his subordinates knew how important Istanbul was. Kuznetsov could only sigh, knowing that he was in that unenviable position of a commander who was stuck between a rock and a hard place, to either bother a subordinate unnecessarily or to say nothing and simply hope. Kuznetsov disliked imposing his will on people unnecessarily, but he was also an overly pessimistic person; he knew this for himself.

Taking a deep breath, Kuznetsov turned away from the direction of the radio, toward which he had looked unconsciously, and back toward the dark mountains that lay southward. He could pick out more frequent flashes and supposed that the Turks had rallied and were proving more difficult to defeat than the earliest reports indicated. A shadow of a smile crossed his face, preliminary reports were always unduly optimistic or pessimistic when the fighting took place it night; the phenomena was virtually a law of war and always due to the confusion provoked by night fighting, which tended to largely break down in coordination and executing even before any attack was actually launched.

Kuznetsov bit his lip, his thoughts straying more toward Istanbul than Mersin and Gazientep. The latter two could only delay the victorious outcome of the campaign by some time whereas the loss of the first to Germany would change the entire strategic picture. If Kuznetsov could not take and hold that city and it passed to Germany, then the Soviets would have a massive, open flank that was the northern and eastern shores of the Black Sea, as well as its less important southern shore. STAVKA had decreed that this was not allowed to occur, and Kuznetsov had to obey STAVKA’s will. Grimacing, he turned back and forth indecisively between looking southward and looking northward.

Turning back to the window, he grasped a hold of the windowsill and clenched his teeth, attempting to overpower his urge to make contact with Berman through sheer force of will. A part of his mind was busy rationalizing that this was the exact sort of situation when he should have some vodka nearby, as vodka would dull his worry and allow him to concentrate on the task at hand—battle and future victory in Mersin.
 
He sighed again, he was dry and would remain so for the near future. Though this was a hard blow, he knew that he needed a respite from alcohol and wondered if the campaign could have gone any differently if he had not drunk at all.

Indeed, I wonder if the russian tradition of giving orders while drunk is really that effective :p .
 
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But Germany doesn't seem to be anywhere near Istanbul! Surely the Soviets can get a across the straits before the Germans get thru Bulgaria! If not, then perhaps Kuzentzov deserves a Siberian retirement. :eek:
 
Erkki1: thanks, and congrats! :D

General Jac: maaybe...:p

VILenin: you'd think that the Soviets would be able to manage to get across...:p

comment day again!
 
rcduggan: yeah, as discomb said, the turks still have a few boats that can wander out of istanbul harbor every now and then and make my troops go :eek: *flee* :p

Discomb: yep :p
 
Teheran
April 17, 1936


Vacietis sat atop the throne of the Persian king, nonchalantly throwing one leg over on one of the throne’s arms. To his sides sat his corps commanders; Apanasenko, Gaj and Efremov were to his left and Petrushevskij, Bochenkov and Chernyak to his right. Staffs and aids stood to on the fringes of the room, looking toward the great doors that led into the chamber. These doors creaked open and inward swept his old friend Ja'fer Pishevari, along with three men Vacietis could not identify though, given that Pishevari stood in the second rank of men gave Vacietis the thought that the front two were to lead the new state and government that was to be formed. The Persians seemed slightly taken aback by Vacietis’ sitting position but after some hesitation, which Vacietis noticed was largely dispelled by a forceful Pishevari, the band of four forged on toward the throne. As they closed in, Vacietis held up a hand to stop them and returned his leg to a more proper position. He smiled benignly at the Persians.

“Welcome, Pishevari! I take it you are here for the transfer of power.”

Pishevari glared at Vacietis before growling out an affirmative. He knew by then that Vacietis enjoyed teasing him, but he was easily baited. Everyone who had a greater sense of perception than a brick wall could see that Vacietis was certainly planning on enjoying what was to come. “So Pishevari, would you please introduce your friends here? I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting these servants of the Kremlin.”

Red shot up Pishevari’s face as he took a deep breath. Vacietis smiled to himself as he saw that Pishevari knew what he was trying to do; sow a little bit of discord amongst the party. “This is Dinshah Irani, he will be the Persian head of state.” Pishevari hesitated before continuing. “And this is Soleiman Mirza, its head of government. Next to me is Mohammed Bahrami, our head of intelligence.”

Vacietis raised an eyebrow. “Head of intelligence? Perhaps he would have been better suited to handling negotiations with me than you were?”

Pishevari grimaced as Bahrami stepped forward. “Perhaps so, general. My specialty lies in the politics of court intrigues.”

Pishevari raised his hand as if to physically drag Bahrami back but refrained from doing so and merely spoke up. “Nonsense, we agreed that I would be the best suited for the task! Irani is too important and Mirza is little more than an amateur at this! I am the foreign minister, after all!”

Vacietis raised both his eyebrows at that remark. “You are? Surely not yet, you are not. You merely aspire to be at this moment.” Vacietis stood up and threw out a hand to the guards on either side of the great doors. “Guards, show the next party in!”

As they moved to obey, his eyes darted down to see a wave of consternation strike the four Persians in front of him. Before any had a chance to speak, another party of Persians were entering the chamber, led by the Persian King Reza Pahlavi. Pishevari, who had stood gaping at them, rounded on Vacietis. “What is this treachery?!”

Vacietis smiled sweetly at the two groups of Persians, both of whom appeared dumbfounded at the presence of the other. “There is no treachery, dear Pishevari. I merely wish to officially oust the old government and usher in the new. These royalists, as you so deridingly called them, will be allowed to retire in peace to any location within these borders that they wish to, and the Kremlin will undertake to guard them.”

Vacietis examined the reactions of this announcement closely. The four communists were angry and flabbergasted, while the old government members were noticeably relieved and surprised. Vacietis continued, “Comrade Stalin has no wish to breed enmity between the great Soviet and the Persian peoples. Thus, the Politburo has embarked on a campaign of forgiveness to the old government.”

Turning to Reza Pahlavi, Vacietis performed a half-bow with his arms spread wide. “Good sirs, you are forgiven for being imperialists and for resisting the worldwide revolution. No backstabbing from the Persian communists will harm you as long as you are guarded by the NKVD.”

He then cast his eyes to the four communists at the very foot of the throne dais. “And you, my dear comrades, will inherit the fully sovereign powers of your predecessors, barring certain actions.”

A chorus of smiles broke out from them before they were frozen by Vacietis’ next words. “You will have no foreign policy that is not tied irredeemably to the Kremlin. You are to make no domestic policy changes without reference to the Kremlin. You will not modify the size of your armed forces or make any changes in the government without the approval of the Kremlin.” He smiled sweetly at them as it dawned on them that they would have very literally no power within their own country. “I am sure that approval will not be unreasonably withheld.”

He nodded to the guards, who began ushering the usurped government out of the chamber, before continuing. “As long as oil flows from Abadan, the Kremlin will look not unkindly on minor infractions.”

Pishevari looked incredulously at Vacietis. “Are you implying that we must use our oil to barter for minor freedoms that are due to us as a sovereign nation?”

Vacietis raised an eyebrow again. “Implying? No, I am not implying. I am explicitly laying out the rules that you must follow. You forget, Persia is no longer a sovereign nation. You are legally recognized as being a puppet of the Soviet Union. Your nation is a powerless entity on the world stage. You have neither juridical sovereignty nor empirical sovereignty. As long as you satiate the Kremlin’s thirst for oil, it will do little to interfere in your affairs. You wish to be foreign minister, Pishevari, but your domain will be minute. You will do nothing but obey Moscow, as Persia will certainly not have a foreign policy separate from that of the Kremlin. Your comrades here will have more freedom, but not much more.”

Vacietis finally sat down again, but continued speaking. “Persia made the mistake of resisting the revolution. This is your punishment. You are powerless, you will have to accept.”

029-01-PersiaSurrenders.png

The Persians surrendered!

Raising a hand to forestall Pishevari from peaking, Dinshah Irani finally spoke for himself. “Yes, you are correct. We have no choice but to accept such terms.”

Vacietis smiled. “Good.”