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Darks63: Surprisingly, no. I never found Starcraft to be particularly worth the amount of praise and hype it receives. It's a solid game in its own right, certainly, but definitely not the best RTS made.
ColossusCrusher: I actually don't know who that's a picture of, but it's not Boothe.
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Although it should have been, the fall of Paris of the Red Army by no means marked the end of the fighting in France. A sizable portion of the French Army, one forged through years of mortal combat with Germany, still remained intact and surprisingly eager to fight. Although abandoned by her allies and facing an unstoppable military juggernaut, France determined to fight to the bitter end.
Infuriated by the French recalcitrance, Stalin demanded renewed offensives across the entire front, in spite of the winter snows that reduced both Soviet mobility and firepower by significant levels. But Red Army officers could do little but mutter their dissent and brace their armies for another bloodbath.
Initially, the offensives were successful, expelling the last French defenders from the vaunted Maginot Line. But as the Red Army advanced along the Swiss border, the winter took its toll, hampering the Soviets' ability to unleash its full might. Hordes of Soviet infantry clogged the roadways, straining an already collapsing and unreliable infrastructure. Allied air supremacy only exacerbated the problems. Supply convoys disappeared without a trace, wounded soldiers froze to death, and, despite clear Soviet quantitative and qualitative superiority, the French held their ground stubbornly.
The center was much less difficult for the Red Army. Under General Zhukov, 800,000 soldiers crashed through the exhausted French defenders, by mid-February bludgeoning its way southwest through Orleans and Vichy. Casualties were within acceptable parameters, but far in excess to any number if Stalin only had the patience to wait until the spring thaw. In the north, little of note save for the conquest of Normandy and, with the fall of Nantes, the isolation of Britanny can be said.
But other fronts were by no means quiet during the winter months. In Finland, where winter conditions were exponentially worse off, the Red Army pressed the crumbling Finnish army northward. Helsinki was already under Soviet occupation when Paris fell, but the government, now essentially deriving its existence from General Mannerheim's willingness to continue fighting, retreated to Murmansk and steeled itself for a fight to the death.
And in Persia, divided between Soviet and Commonwealth forces for years, Field Marshal Voroshilov slowly but steadily advanced in the face of the mammoth British and Commonwealth army desperately shielding India. For once, it seemed as though the years-long stalemate would be broken, if only because of the sheer number of soldiers pouring in, fresh from combat on the western front.
The Winter Offensives of 1942 were, in hindsight, unquestionable blunders on Stalin's part. Stukov, already possessing much of the Army's loyalty, gained further support as more and more generals became convinced of Stalin's incompetence and the threat he posed to their continued existence. A man who showed virtually no concern for how many hundreds of thousands died for little purpose had little chance against the self-made advocate of the military. With the exception of the ever-loyal Voroshilov and the remainder of the Officer Purge's bulwark of political commissars still infesting the ranks, Stalin was little-loved by the Red Army, a reality Stalin had little understanding of.
But the worst setback was in foreign relations. The United States, disturbed by the imminent fall of Western Europe and unnerved by reports coming back from the mysterious reserach facility outside of Gorkiy, finally emerged from its isolationist shell and declared war upon the Soviet Union. Though the entrance of the world's largest industrial giant could do little to save France or Italy at the moment, the Soviet Union was now met with a new foe, more daunting than any it had faced before.
ColossusCrusher: I actually don't know who that's a picture of, but it's not Boothe.
------------------------------------
Although it should have been, the fall of Paris of the Red Army by no means marked the end of the fighting in France. A sizable portion of the French Army, one forged through years of mortal combat with Germany, still remained intact and surprisingly eager to fight. Although abandoned by her allies and facing an unstoppable military juggernaut, France determined to fight to the bitter end.
Infuriated by the French recalcitrance, Stalin demanded renewed offensives across the entire front, in spite of the winter snows that reduced both Soviet mobility and firepower by significant levels. But Red Army officers could do little but mutter their dissent and brace their armies for another bloodbath.
Initially, the offensives were successful, expelling the last French defenders from the vaunted Maginot Line. But as the Red Army advanced along the Swiss border, the winter took its toll, hampering the Soviets' ability to unleash its full might. Hordes of Soviet infantry clogged the roadways, straining an already collapsing and unreliable infrastructure. Allied air supremacy only exacerbated the problems. Supply convoys disappeared without a trace, wounded soldiers froze to death, and, despite clear Soviet quantitative and qualitative superiority, the French held their ground stubbornly.
The center was much less difficult for the Red Army. Under General Zhukov, 800,000 soldiers crashed through the exhausted French defenders, by mid-February bludgeoning its way southwest through Orleans and Vichy. Casualties were within acceptable parameters, but far in excess to any number if Stalin only had the patience to wait until the spring thaw. In the north, little of note save for the conquest of Normandy and, with the fall of Nantes, the isolation of Britanny can be said.
But other fronts were by no means quiet during the winter months. In Finland, where winter conditions were exponentially worse off, the Red Army pressed the crumbling Finnish army northward. Helsinki was already under Soviet occupation when Paris fell, but the government, now essentially deriving its existence from General Mannerheim's willingness to continue fighting, retreated to Murmansk and steeled itself for a fight to the death.
And in Persia, divided between Soviet and Commonwealth forces for years, Field Marshal Voroshilov slowly but steadily advanced in the face of the mammoth British and Commonwealth army desperately shielding India. For once, it seemed as though the years-long stalemate would be broken, if only because of the sheer number of soldiers pouring in, fresh from combat on the western front.
The Winter Offensives of 1942 were, in hindsight, unquestionable blunders on Stalin's part. Stukov, already possessing much of the Army's loyalty, gained further support as more and more generals became convinced of Stalin's incompetence and the threat he posed to their continued existence. A man who showed virtually no concern for how many hundreds of thousands died for little purpose had little chance against the self-made advocate of the military. With the exception of the ever-loyal Voroshilov and the remainder of the Officer Purge's bulwark of political commissars still infesting the ranks, Stalin was little-loved by the Red Army, a reality Stalin had little understanding of.
But the worst setback was in foreign relations. The United States, disturbed by the imminent fall of Western Europe and unnerved by reports coming back from the mysterious reserach facility outside of Gorkiy, finally emerged from its isolationist shell and declared war upon the Soviet Union. Though the entrance of the world's largest industrial giant could do little to save France or Italy at the moment, the Soviet Union was now met with a new foe, more daunting than any it had faced before.
Yes, this is still alive, but it has been on a temporary hiatus. Don't worry, I should have an update up within a few days.
Jay, update within a few days!
I have read first and second masterpiece many times and now I must conquer this one too. Wish me luck, I wish you enjoyment of life.
I have read first and second masterpiece many times and now I must conquer this one too. Wish me luck, I wish you enjoyment of life.
Here's a short update to get things started. Updates will be much, much more frequent for awhile, so don't worry. 
---------------------------------
April 7th, 1942
Lieutenant General Devers walked leisurely into his headquarters, an abandoned wooden structure, possibly once a barn or shabby warehouse, ignoring the rustic look and feel to the place.
A staff officer approached the general, a stack of blank paper tucked neatly at his side. "The general is already waiting in your office, sir."
Devers nodded. "That's good. How long's he been there?"
The man paused to check the clock mounted on the far wall. "Less than ten minutes," he paused, trying to think of something else to say. "He seemed in a good mood."
Devers grinned. "Thanks," he said, before walking past the man and into a reconfigured tool shed. A man was sitting in the chair placed in front of Dever's meager desk and glanced up as Devers approached.
"General MacArthur," Devers saluted, taking his hat off.
MacArthur did not bother to stand. "You'll learn soon enough in war we don't bother with silly formalities like that. Wastes too much time better spent doing paperwork."
Devers chuckled, sounding more nervous than he actually was as he rouned the desk and sat down. "I never figured there would be this much of it, to tell you the truth."
"It gets easier," MacArthur assured him. He took a quick glance around the room. "Nice place they picked out for you."
"If things keep working out the way they have been, I'll have much better accommodations soon enough," Devers snorted, indicating to several papers on his desk. "I won't bore you with the details, but we sure did take the Russians by surprise."
"I can't blame them," MacArthur admitted with a short sigh. "There's not much out here to bother defending, except Vladivostok. What does intel. say on what you're up against?"
Devers pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly. "Reports are sketchy, but somewhere between three and four divisions around Vlad, and another a few dozen miles to the north that got mangled trying to bottle up the beachheads. The city garrison commander is no Zhukov or Konev, I think his name's Homenko, but he's competent enough to know he won't be making any breakthroughs."
MacArthur nodded. "The Soviets are more concerned about running away and holding a line before anything. It looks like they've given up Primorsk, but they'll be back. Word is that Stukov is sending a few of his armies from the west over to help bolster all the Siberian army units that are moving in to hold us off."
"I've heard about Stukov; rumor has it this is all part of some contingency plan he actually predicted awhile back. Hard to imagine what kind of person has everything planned out like that," Devers said ruefully.
"Wherever there's a plan, there's something that can go wrong," MacArthur said confidently. "He may be a smart Ruskiee, but we still have a few surprises left."
---------------------------------
April 7th, 1942
Lieutenant General Devers walked leisurely into his headquarters, an abandoned wooden structure, possibly once a barn or shabby warehouse, ignoring the rustic look and feel to the place.
A staff officer approached the general, a stack of blank paper tucked neatly at his side. "The general is already waiting in your office, sir."
Devers nodded. "That's good. How long's he been there?"
The man paused to check the clock mounted on the far wall. "Less than ten minutes," he paused, trying to think of something else to say. "He seemed in a good mood."
Devers grinned. "Thanks," he said, before walking past the man and into a reconfigured tool shed. A man was sitting in the chair placed in front of Dever's meager desk and glanced up as Devers approached.
"General MacArthur," Devers saluted, taking his hat off.
MacArthur did not bother to stand. "You'll learn soon enough in war we don't bother with silly formalities like that. Wastes too much time better spent doing paperwork."
Devers chuckled, sounding more nervous than he actually was as he rouned the desk and sat down. "I never figured there would be this much of it, to tell you the truth."
"It gets easier," MacArthur assured him. He took a quick glance around the room. "Nice place they picked out for you."
"If things keep working out the way they have been, I'll have much better accommodations soon enough," Devers snorted, indicating to several papers on his desk. "I won't bore you with the details, but we sure did take the Russians by surprise."
"I can't blame them," MacArthur admitted with a short sigh. "There's not much out here to bother defending, except Vladivostok. What does intel. say on what you're up against?"
Devers pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly. "Reports are sketchy, but somewhere between three and four divisions around Vlad, and another a few dozen miles to the north that got mangled trying to bottle up the beachheads. The city garrison commander is no Zhukov or Konev, I think his name's Homenko, but he's competent enough to know he won't be making any breakthroughs."
MacArthur nodded. "The Soviets are more concerned about running away and holding a line before anything. It looks like they've given up Primorsk, but they'll be back. Word is that Stukov is sending a few of his armies from the west over to help bolster all the Siberian army units that are moving in to hold us off."
"I've heard about Stukov; rumor has it this is all part of some contingency plan he actually predicted awhile back. Hard to imagine what kind of person has everything planned out like that," Devers said ruefully.
"Wherever there's a plan, there's something that can go wrong," MacArthur said confidently. "He may be a smart Ruskiee, but we still have a few surprises left."
Let the Americans starve in Siberia! Good for Stukov, now he don't have to transport the Americans far to the labour camps :rofl:
Btw, nice with an update.
Btw, nice with an update.
GeneralHannibal: I do seem to be facing an extraordinarily aggressive array of opponents. Considering my luck, I doubt the United States will act any differently.
Guangxi: That may be difficult, considering how long that takes to strategically redeploy.
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May 5th, 1942
Alexei Stukov moved silently through the battlefield, stepping over rubble and bodies and maneuvering around the twisted, broken metal hulks of the multitude of weapons of war. A quartet of Red Army soldiers were nearby, shadowing the Soviet minister, unnerved by Stukov's presence though they were hardened veterans.
Stukov made his way across the landscape and through the thin columns of smoke and steam emanating from the craters and ground as a light dawn breeze blew.
He stopped in the middle of all this carnage, pausing only a moment to gaze unflinchingly at a pile of soldiers sprawled on the ground as they had fallen in battle. Even the blood was still fresh and the flies had not yet had an opportunity to enjoy the benefits of last night's brawl. Stukov turned, looking out over the rolling hills before him. The Pyrenees mountains could be seen faintly in the distance, shrouded partially by the morning fog. More signs of the battle lay before him, a testament to the war that gripped the continent for so many years already.
The wind picked up momentarily, funneling through a gaping hole in the side of an armoured vehicle several paces away and howling eerily. Stukov could not help but shiver, though the brisk morning air bothered him very little.
A slight movement to the side attracted Stukov's attention. He turned his head to look. A woman was kneeling over the body of a fallen soldier, a tattered, muddied Dutch flag clutched in a death grip, her finger placed firmly on the side of his neck. She shook her head slightly before rising easily to her feet with a silent grace. She turned to face him and approached in complete silence.
"Getting sentimental?" Stukov asked flatly.
"I'm not the one shivering at the sight of a battlefield," Azuren retorted, a knowing smile on her face.
"I trust you are pleased with my army's performance?" Stukov asked airily, beginning his slow trek across the battered landscape.
Azuren followed. "You already know the answer to that question. Twenty-seven divisions, all understrength of course, with their backs to a mountain range." She paused for a moment. "Your methods are as ruthless as ever," she said, neither approval or condemnation in her tone.
"And yet things are not as they were the last time," Stukov responded with a growing anger. "Foe after foe rises up, like a swarm of gnats. Armies scratch away at the fringes of my empire, while a paranoid politician tries to usurp me from within."
Azuren laughed as they walked. "Alexei, your methods may be the same, but your attitude certainly has grown. You're more arrogant and egotistic than when you were Emperor."
"Is it an improvement?" Stukov asked, a sly smile on his lips.
"Hardly."
Stukov frowned. "Time has changed me, Azuren. After failing the first time, I try to avoid the mistakes of the past, yet I find myself inexorably drawn down that same road. Am I doomed to failure before I ever began?"
Azuren stared at Stukov, stopping in place. "You will have to let history decide that for you, Alexei."
Stukov sneered but let the subject drop without further argument. He paused to glance to either side of him. "Why haven't my escorts found us yet?"
"I ordered them to leave us in peace," Azuren replied, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Furrowing his brow, Stukov looked confused. "But how could you..." he trailed off in mid-sentence, the implications running through his mind. "Never mind." Azuren grinned.
"With the French crushed and most of Europe under Soviet control," Stukov began, turning attention to business. "It seems the Americans have decided to take their place. So far, they have not disappointed."
Azuren nodded slowly. "Already landing twenty divisions. They seem eager to fight you."
"Of course, Stalin wants to reroute our reinforcements to the Persian front, rather than send the western armies directly to Siberia."
"And you object?" Azuren asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.
"I would rather be on the offensive in one theater and defensive on another than defensive on both," Alexei sighed. "Inevitable defeats in Siberia can be blunted by victories in Persia."
Azuren shrugged, "Have you explained this to Stalin yet?"
"No," Stukov said bluntly. "And I doubt he will agree if I do. Disagreeing has become a principle for him now that I am becoming a nuisance to him."
Stukov turned away from her to look back at the Pyrenees, now clearly visible as the fog receded before the rising sun. Azuren stepped up behind him, her steps audible.
"This is a dangerous time for you, Alexei," she said softly into his ear. She moved to his other ear. "Perhaps you should begin thinking of your future."
A feral grin slowly crept up Stukov's lips, his eyes glimmering. "Yes, perhaps it is time to be a bit more...ambitious."
Guangxi: That may be difficult, considering how long that takes to strategically redeploy.
---------------------------------------
May 5th, 1942
Alexei Stukov moved silently through the battlefield, stepping over rubble and bodies and maneuvering around the twisted, broken metal hulks of the multitude of weapons of war. A quartet of Red Army soldiers were nearby, shadowing the Soviet minister, unnerved by Stukov's presence though they were hardened veterans.
Stukov made his way across the landscape and through the thin columns of smoke and steam emanating from the craters and ground as a light dawn breeze blew.
He stopped in the middle of all this carnage, pausing only a moment to gaze unflinchingly at a pile of soldiers sprawled on the ground as they had fallen in battle. Even the blood was still fresh and the flies had not yet had an opportunity to enjoy the benefits of last night's brawl. Stukov turned, looking out over the rolling hills before him. The Pyrenees mountains could be seen faintly in the distance, shrouded partially by the morning fog. More signs of the battle lay before him, a testament to the war that gripped the continent for so many years already.
The wind picked up momentarily, funneling through a gaping hole in the side of an armoured vehicle several paces away and howling eerily. Stukov could not help but shiver, though the brisk morning air bothered him very little.
A slight movement to the side attracted Stukov's attention. He turned his head to look. A woman was kneeling over the body of a fallen soldier, a tattered, muddied Dutch flag clutched in a death grip, her finger placed firmly on the side of his neck. She shook her head slightly before rising easily to her feet with a silent grace. She turned to face him and approached in complete silence.
"Getting sentimental?" Stukov asked flatly.
"I'm not the one shivering at the sight of a battlefield," Azuren retorted, a knowing smile on her face.
"I trust you are pleased with my army's performance?" Stukov asked airily, beginning his slow trek across the battered landscape.
Azuren followed. "You already know the answer to that question. Twenty-seven divisions, all understrength of course, with their backs to a mountain range." She paused for a moment. "Your methods are as ruthless as ever," she said, neither approval or condemnation in her tone.
"And yet things are not as they were the last time," Stukov responded with a growing anger. "Foe after foe rises up, like a swarm of gnats. Armies scratch away at the fringes of my empire, while a paranoid politician tries to usurp me from within."
Azuren laughed as they walked. "Alexei, your methods may be the same, but your attitude certainly has grown. You're more arrogant and egotistic than when you were Emperor."
"Is it an improvement?" Stukov asked, a sly smile on his lips.
"Hardly."
Stukov frowned. "Time has changed me, Azuren. After failing the first time, I try to avoid the mistakes of the past, yet I find myself inexorably drawn down that same road. Am I doomed to failure before I ever began?"
Azuren stared at Stukov, stopping in place. "You will have to let history decide that for you, Alexei."
Stukov sneered but let the subject drop without further argument. He paused to glance to either side of him. "Why haven't my escorts found us yet?"
"I ordered them to leave us in peace," Azuren replied, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Furrowing his brow, Stukov looked confused. "But how could you..." he trailed off in mid-sentence, the implications running through his mind. "Never mind." Azuren grinned.
"With the French crushed and most of Europe under Soviet control," Stukov began, turning attention to business. "It seems the Americans have decided to take their place. So far, they have not disappointed."
Azuren nodded slowly. "Already landing twenty divisions. They seem eager to fight you."
"Of course, Stalin wants to reroute our reinforcements to the Persian front, rather than send the western armies directly to Siberia."
"And you object?" Azuren asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.
"I would rather be on the offensive in one theater and defensive on another than defensive on both," Alexei sighed. "Inevitable defeats in Siberia can be blunted by victories in Persia."
Azuren shrugged, "Have you explained this to Stalin yet?"
"No," Stukov said bluntly. "And I doubt he will agree if I do. Disagreeing has become a principle for him now that I am becoming a nuisance to him."
Stukov turned away from her to look back at the Pyrenees, now clearly visible as the fog receded before the rising sun. Azuren stepped up behind him, her steps audible.
"This is a dangerous time for you, Alexei," she said softly into his ear. She moved to his other ear. "Perhaps you should begin thinking of your future."
A feral grin slowly crept up Stukov's lips, his eyes glimmering. "Yes, perhaps it is time to be a bit more...ambitious."
You should attack Spain next. Maybe into Manchuria as well . Would help you against the Americans.
. Would help you against the Americans.
GeneralHannibal: Spain is a distinct possibility, considering my lack of a navy, but regarding Manchuria, what do I attack it with?
--------------------------------------------
June 20th, 1942
Stalin sat hunched impatiently at the head of the conference table, smoking from his pipe and tapping his finger on the table slowly.
"He is late," Stalin observed tersely.
In the chairs to either side of Stalin, Molotov and Kaganovich turned as one to look at Stalin, nodding their agreement. "Perhaps we should proceed without him," Molotov suggested harshly, casting his gaze to the far end of the table distastefully.
Alexei Stukov sat calmly at the other end of the table, reclining back and propping his head up as if contemplating.
"Then this meeting would be pointless," Stukov countered with an easy calm. Whether or not it was a facade, Stukov was clearly not showing any sign of intimidation from the trio.
Finally, the doors behind Stukov opened and General Popov, general in command of the three infantry divisions of Moscow's military district and administrative head of STAVKA, hurriedly walked inside, breathing heavily and looking flustered. "I-I'm... sorry, comrades," Popov apologized. "I was busy seeing comrade General Bagramian off at the train yards. His army is being shipped east."
Stukov smiled and nodded understandably. "It's alright," he said reassuringly.
"Yes," Stalin interjected sternly. "We are all curious as to the situation in the east."
Popov made an abortive smile before sitting down across from Stukov, hurriedly passing out several copies of the same report to the gathered men. He quickly cleared his throat. "Before beginning, I would like to pass on comrade General Zhukov's apologies for not being able to make his report in person."
"Far too busy in France," Molotov said, snorting slightly.
"Yes, that was his reason," Popov answered, oblivious to the undercurrent tone. Again, Popov cleared his throat.
"One moment," Stalin interrupted. "Before beginning, I would like to bring up a matter raised in a communique from comrade Beria. Apparently, he is barring comrade Uritskiy's NKVD operatives from entering France, Italy, and the Low Countries."
"Indeed," Kaganovich started angrily. "Without NKVD oversight, how can Western Europe's industries and infrastructure be converted to further the revolution?"
Popov stared at Stalin, mouth hanging open. "I...uh... I believe..."
Stukov politely interrupted the general. "Comrade Zhukov has discussed this matter with me recently," he said, a self-satisfied smile plastered to his face. "He informed me that our military resources are too stretched to adequately provide security to facilitate a retrofitting of Western Europe."
"But..." Lazar began to say.
Stukov cut in quickly. "The Soviet Union's infrastructure is already dangerously strained as it is keeping Central Europe peaceful and transporting our Red Army to meet the American aggressors. To attempt any more would be only folly, and antagonize us to the occupied people further."
"B-but the revolution..." Lazar sputtered.
Again, Stukov blocked Kaganovich. "The revolution cannot be brought to the people at the barrel of a gun. Further military administration must be maintained for risk only reversing our gains," he finished, a finality to his words drowning out Kaganovich's protest.
Stalin stared silently at Stukov for a moment long. "Please, comrade Popov, proceed," he said calmly. The look he shot Stukov belied that gentle tone.
"Yes," Popov said uncertainly. "Moving on...The general summary of the situation is promising. The bulk of the Italian army has been confirmed destroyed in Turin, over twenty divisions surrendered. Rome will certainly fall within a week, and progress down the peninsula is meeting ineffectual fascist resistance."
"Excellent news," Stukov added tersely.
"Yes, it is," Popov replied, unsure how to respond to interruptions. "In Persia, the stalemate has finally been broken. Casualties against the Allied armies are moderate, but the British are in full retreat. Comrade Marshal Voroshilov predicts total expulsion of Commonwealth forces from Persia by the end of July, and comrade Marshal Budennij concurs."
"Any response on the diplomatic stage?" Stalin asked, eyes still on Stukov and Popov but directing the question to Molotov.
"None," Molotov replied. "The imperialists and capitalists remain determined in their opposition. Our liberation of Europe has only hardened their determination, it appears."
"What fools," Stukov chuckled.
"And, of course, what new from the east?" Stalin questioned.
Popov hesitated, the color draining marginally from his face. He knew what often was the result of bringing unfavorable news to Stalin. He finally spoke at length. "The Americans continue to advance," he said nervously.
"Really?" Stalin responded, raising an eyebrow.
"Y-yes," Popov nodded.
"And just how successfully are they advancing?" Stalin prodded calmly. Stukov could almost feel the storm building within the dictator.
"General Dement'ev h-has... been forced to evacuate Tynda, and Ohktosk has been evacuated by the Pacific fleet. And I am sorry to report that comrade General Homenko has surrendered in Vladivostok after a valiant defense against the American Patton."
Popov nearly flinched as he finished, expecting Stalin to erupt like a volcano. When the tirade did not appear, even Stukov was surprised. Molotov and Kaganovish looked to Stalin in confusion. But Stalin simply sat still, absorbing the news as if nothing had been said and they were still waiting for Popov.
After a minute of silence, Popov spoke up again. "That...i-is the summary of the military report, c-comrade Stalin."
There was another pause, Stalin saying nothing. Finally, he rose to his feet, turned toward the window, and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. Once done, he walked down the table toward the door. As he passed Stukov, he spoke finally. "Well, we will have to do something about that, won't we?"
At with that, he was gone.
--------------------------------------------
June 20th, 1942
Stalin sat hunched impatiently at the head of the conference table, smoking from his pipe and tapping his finger on the table slowly.
"He is late," Stalin observed tersely.
In the chairs to either side of Stalin, Molotov and Kaganovich turned as one to look at Stalin, nodding their agreement. "Perhaps we should proceed without him," Molotov suggested harshly, casting his gaze to the far end of the table distastefully.
Alexei Stukov sat calmly at the other end of the table, reclining back and propping his head up as if contemplating.
"Then this meeting would be pointless," Stukov countered with an easy calm. Whether or not it was a facade, Stukov was clearly not showing any sign of intimidation from the trio.
Finally, the doors behind Stukov opened and General Popov, general in command of the three infantry divisions of Moscow's military district and administrative head of STAVKA, hurriedly walked inside, breathing heavily and looking flustered. "I-I'm... sorry, comrades," Popov apologized. "I was busy seeing comrade General Bagramian off at the train yards. His army is being shipped east."
Stukov smiled and nodded understandably. "It's alright," he said reassuringly.
"Yes," Stalin interjected sternly. "We are all curious as to the situation in the east."
Popov made an abortive smile before sitting down across from Stukov, hurriedly passing out several copies of the same report to the gathered men. He quickly cleared his throat. "Before beginning, I would like to pass on comrade General Zhukov's apologies for not being able to make his report in person."
"Far too busy in France," Molotov said, snorting slightly.
"Yes, that was his reason," Popov answered, oblivious to the undercurrent tone. Again, Popov cleared his throat.
"One moment," Stalin interrupted. "Before beginning, I would like to bring up a matter raised in a communique from comrade Beria. Apparently, he is barring comrade Uritskiy's NKVD operatives from entering France, Italy, and the Low Countries."
"Indeed," Kaganovich started angrily. "Without NKVD oversight, how can Western Europe's industries and infrastructure be converted to further the revolution?"
Popov stared at Stalin, mouth hanging open. "I...uh... I believe..."
Stukov politely interrupted the general. "Comrade Zhukov has discussed this matter with me recently," he said, a self-satisfied smile plastered to his face. "He informed me that our military resources are too stretched to adequately provide security to facilitate a retrofitting of Western Europe."
"But..." Lazar began to say.
Stukov cut in quickly. "The Soviet Union's infrastructure is already dangerously strained as it is keeping Central Europe peaceful and transporting our Red Army to meet the American aggressors. To attempt any more would be only folly, and antagonize us to the occupied people further."
"B-but the revolution..." Lazar sputtered.
Again, Stukov blocked Kaganovich. "The revolution cannot be brought to the people at the barrel of a gun. Further military administration must be maintained for risk only reversing our gains," he finished, a finality to his words drowning out Kaganovich's protest.
Stalin stared silently at Stukov for a moment long. "Please, comrade Popov, proceed," he said calmly. The look he shot Stukov belied that gentle tone.
"Yes," Popov said uncertainly. "Moving on...The general summary of the situation is promising. The bulk of the Italian army has been confirmed destroyed in Turin, over twenty divisions surrendered. Rome will certainly fall within a week, and progress down the peninsula is meeting ineffectual fascist resistance."
"Excellent news," Stukov added tersely.
"Yes, it is," Popov replied, unsure how to respond to interruptions. "In Persia, the stalemate has finally been broken. Casualties against the Allied armies are moderate, but the British are in full retreat. Comrade Marshal Voroshilov predicts total expulsion of Commonwealth forces from Persia by the end of July, and comrade Marshal Budennij concurs."
"Any response on the diplomatic stage?" Stalin asked, eyes still on Stukov and Popov but directing the question to Molotov.
"None," Molotov replied. "The imperialists and capitalists remain determined in their opposition. Our liberation of Europe has only hardened their determination, it appears."
"What fools," Stukov chuckled.
"And, of course, what new from the east?" Stalin questioned.
Popov hesitated, the color draining marginally from his face. He knew what often was the result of bringing unfavorable news to Stalin. He finally spoke at length. "The Americans continue to advance," he said nervously.
"Really?" Stalin responded, raising an eyebrow.
"Y-yes," Popov nodded.
"And just how successfully are they advancing?" Stalin prodded calmly. Stukov could almost feel the storm building within the dictator.
"General Dement'ev h-has... been forced to evacuate Tynda, and Ohktosk has been evacuated by the Pacific fleet. And I am sorry to report that comrade General Homenko has surrendered in Vladivostok after a valiant defense against the American Patton."
Popov nearly flinched as he finished, expecting Stalin to erupt like a volcano. When the tirade did not appear, even Stukov was surprised. Molotov and Kaganovish looked to Stalin in confusion. But Stalin simply sat still, absorbing the news as if nothing had been said and they were still waiting for Popov.
After a minute of silence, Popov spoke up again. "That...i-is the summary of the military report, c-comrade Stalin."
There was another pause, Stalin saying nothing. Finally, he rose to his feet, turned toward the window, and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. Once done, he walked down the table toward the door. As he passed Stukov, he spoke finally. "Well, we will have to do something about that, won't we?"
At with that, he was gone.
TC Pilot, you dastardly fellow, you need to add this to your sig! Here I was reading your other AAR but none the wiser that a new Stukov tale was underway. For shame!
Darks63: Indeed. Perhaps it's time a replacement is found?
Delex: I'm not familiar with what that means.
Morpheus506: You've been reading my other AAR? Then why haven't you posted!?
GeneralHannibal: Usually it means he's got something planned, and with a man like Stalin that's never a good thing.
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July 4th, 1942
Times like these, Alexei Stukov knew there must be a God somewhere out there. There had to be. After all, why else would all these things happen if not as punishment for his own actions? The price to be paid for sin was heavy indeed.
"Happy Fourth of July!" one of his junior NKVD officers exclaimed cheerily as he entered the office.
In a blur of motion, Stukov drew his revolver and fired it, sending the three other NKVD scrambling to the floor as they reached for their sidearms. They hit the floor only moments before their comrade crumbled lifelessly, an incredulous look on his face.
"He was a traitor," Stukov said, pre-empting any questions on the matter as his aides rose hesitantly.
Stukov arched an eyebrow as he noted the distinct absence of a response from the Kremlin's guards. He wondered how many more gunshots he could fire before a guard or two would arrive as he eyed his remaining aides.
He quickly shelved such thoughts and brought his mind back to the situation at hand. He had no doubt that the Americans would be a formidable opponent when they finally enetered the war. There was no pliable Earl Browder to manipulate the country into foolish isolationism like last time. When the Red Army invaded, if ever, they would face an enemy far greater than any up to this point.
The casualty rates will be absolutely enormous, Stukov mused.
Reports had arrived in at almost midnight the previous night. Stukov had been awakened to news that made the Americans more than just a formidable foe. It was an act of unprecedented military prowess, logistical planning, and administrative boldness. The entire length of the Levant coast had fallen to the United States in the blink of an eye. It was a feat that had even shocked Stukov.
And worse, all that stood between the American expeditionary forces and the whole of the Middle East were a few divisions pinned to the Suez Canal and idling leftovers and garrisons of the fighting in Iraq against the French. It was the Siberia debacle all over again. Transport capacity was already strained to the breaking point, and those armies not already en route to the east were tied to defending Europe, which the Americans had proven was equally vulnerable when five American divisions had landed in Dunkirk just before the turn of the month. Zhukov had diligently done away with the upstarts, but the sitation was far from resolved.
Stukov sighed and rubbed his eyes, the slightest hand motion causing his aides to flinch.
"Don't worry," he said with a smile. "I won't shoot any of you without good reason."
For some reason, his words did little to reassure his men.
Delex: I'm not familiar with what that means.
Morpheus506: You've been reading my other AAR? Then why haven't you posted!?
GeneralHannibal: Usually it means he's got something planned, and with a man like Stalin that's never a good thing.
-----------------------------------------
July 4th, 1942
Times like these, Alexei Stukov knew there must be a God somewhere out there. There had to be. After all, why else would all these things happen if not as punishment for his own actions? The price to be paid for sin was heavy indeed.
"Happy Fourth of July!" one of his junior NKVD officers exclaimed cheerily as he entered the office.
In a blur of motion, Stukov drew his revolver and fired it, sending the three other NKVD scrambling to the floor as they reached for their sidearms. They hit the floor only moments before their comrade crumbled lifelessly, an incredulous look on his face.
"He was a traitor," Stukov said, pre-empting any questions on the matter as his aides rose hesitantly.
Stukov arched an eyebrow as he noted the distinct absence of a response from the Kremlin's guards. He wondered how many more gunshots he could fire before a guard or two would arrive as he eyed his remaining aides.
He quickly shelved such thoughts and brought his mind back to the situation at hand. He had no doubt that the Americans would be a formidable opponent when they finally enetered the war. There was no pliable Earl Browder to manipulate the country into foolish isolationism like last time. When the Red Army invaded, if ever, they would face an enemy far greater than any up to this point.
The casualty rates will be absolutely enormous, Stukov mused.
Reports had arrived in at almost midnight the previous night. Stukov had been awakened to news that made the Americans more than just a formidable foe. It was an act of unprecedented military prowess, logistical planning, and administrative boldness. The entire length of the Levant coast had fallen to the United States in the blink of an eye. It was a feat that had even shocked Stukov.
And worse, all that stood between the American expeditionary forces and the whole of the Middle East were a few divisions pinned to the Suez Canal and idling leftovers and garrisons of the fighting in Iraq against the French. It was the Siberia debacle all over again. Transport capacity was already strained to the breaking point, and those armies not already en route to the east were tied to defending Europe, which the Americans had proven was equally vulnerable when five American divisions had landed in Dunkirk just before the turn of the month. Zhukov had diligently done away with the upstarts, but the sitation was far from resolved.
Stukov sighed and rubbed his eyes, the slightest hand motion causing his aides to flinch.
"Don't worry," he said with a smile. "I won't shoot any of you without good reason."
For some reason, his words did little to reassure his men.