374: The Maestro's last production (Part 1)
Saint Petersburg
Marshal Markov sat, somewhat uncomfortably, where the Tsar indicated. Vladimir offered tea, as Markov sat ramrod straight and tried to tune out the sound of the television in the background, playing reports on air-operations in India in boisterous terms. The evening news loved focusing on the air campaign - news of ground retreats were not exactly a priority for the Imperial Broadcaster.
In all his years of service, and yet he had never been called to the Tsar’s private rooms, and never alone.
“Your Majesty asked me to report immediately. How may I serve?”
Vladimir looked up from the teacups for a moment, then completed the pour, handing his Marshall a cup.
“And I thank you for coming so quickly and accepting this - rather unconventional setting.”
Markov took the proffered cup, bowing his head, as the Tsar continued.
“In two days the Armed-Forces Committee of the Duma will sit. Felix has informed me that, with the makeup of the Committee as it stands, they’re likely to vote for two recommendations to put before me. The first, is a recommendation to proceed with the Golubev plan - funding the reactivation of decommissioned officers in particular to help free up strength for deployments to India. The second…” he paused for a moment
“is a recommendation that you be appointed to one of the two vacant Senate positions, and retired with honours from the Command of our armed forces.”
Markov held his stance, but his teacup shook slightly in his grip. The years had caught up with the old Marshall. The shadows beneath his eyes had grown deep, and his steady hands often shook and tremored. Vladimir looked him in the eyes, trying to read him, then opened the floor
“I asked you here that you might comment on those recommendations before they reach my desk, and without my opinion clouding your candour.”
Markov set the tea down.
“With respect Majesty, the Golubev plan, it’s a conspiracy, not a contingency, and one that threatens the armed forces.”
Vladimir sipped at the hot drink as the TV continued to quietly blare combat noise in the background.
“There is considerable concern, even among the NKS, that the army is too small to sustain the kind of deployments to India we will need. They see us losing ground every day, and there are more than a hundred thousand officers who could be readily recalled. You do not see that as militarily sensible?”
In his earlier years Markov might have moderated his statements, but at seventy two, those tendencies had long faded.
“Those men were retired for a reason. The Imperial Army is still the Russian army in its blood for better and worse. It has old memories, old habits; some good, some bad. It remembers sacrifice and bravery, but it also remembers corruption, and bloody mindedness. The war kept it focused, but the only way to maintain what it had learned, the only way to make it a Roman and Imperial army, was to throw out those who would go back to their old habits the moment peace allowed them to get fat.”
“So you do not believe there is a role to be played, perhaps in allowing them to staff support postings and training posts while current officers deploy to the front?”
“Majesty, the moment those men are reintroduced, it will be as if introducing cancer. They will train others, influence culture, and subvert practices. The men who we retained are either proven veterans, or men trained by them. They may be stretched, but they are the only men who can maintain the army you wish to have.”
Vladimir leaned back in his chair
“I understand Krapotkin and Rodina see it rather differently.”
“They believe I have Germanised the army, that I have disrespected their service and Russian tradition. I am aware of what they say, Majesty.”
“And they are fools to say as such, but with the continuous retreats, and the mounting casualty figures in India, the President is not sure he can easily maintain the confidence of the Committee members. Losing ten thousand men in a victory is acceptable, losing them in retreat is harder for the politicians to accept.”
Dominion troops on the defensive - Dominion troops lagged behind both their allies and enemies in the quality of their equipment.
Markov’s hands were shaking severely now, he placed them on his legs to steady them.
“And, Majesty, I understand the political situation that puts the throne in, but remain convinced that the best way forward is the one we are currently pursuing. We must build up supply and organise while our foe exhausts the last of his strength, and then move forward to encircle and crush what forces we can before the wet season comes.”
Vladimir set his cup down,
“How long until you believe this offensive of yours can show results, results definitive enough to validate a decision by the throne to disregard the recommendations of its Military Committee?”
“Four weeks.”
“Then you’ll have your four weeks. It’ll probably cost us some construction effort in the Levant or something of that sort, but Rutenberg will get the IDs to stall the motion if he’s offered enough to do it.”
“I didn't mean to ask your Majesty to consort with Leftists and Jews.”
Vladimir waved that off
“He’s more reliable than half of the Conservatives Marshall! When he asks for something it’s uncomfortable, or expensive, but it’s never stupid.”
“And if he cannot resolve this matter?”
“Then I will disregard the advice, Sergei Leonidovich, and when you execute this last great offensive for your Emperor and Empire, it will become clear to the Public and the Duma that I was right to do so.”
Markov’s voice now was tinged with concern
“I cannot ask your Majesty to expose yourself politically on my account.” Autocrat or not, there were those who would be all too keen to find an example of the Emperor overriding the Duma and bringing about disaster as a result.
“Marshall, the right to disregard stupid advice is among the few things that makes this post bearable, despite all of its pressures and trials.” There was a smile behind those words, one Markov believed was a genuine one.
“Now, Sergei Leonidovich - India, where we find ourselves so badly outnumbered in a land far from our own. Show me again how you will do it.” With that, he motioned to the grand map of the subcontinent he had ordered installed in his private rooms.
Marshal Markov retrieved a pencil from his case, walked over to it, and began to reconstruct the sketch from memory.
His hands weren’t shaking anymore.
4th Shock Army Jumping Off Point
Karachi Perimeter
Tank commander Krapotkin stared out over the long line of waiting vehicles as the sun finally broke over the horizon. His crew had done all they could, Colonel Kolobanov’s final orders had been clearly received and the crew had strapped as much spare food, fuel, and spares as possible to the outside of their factory fresh mount.
Now all he, his crew, and the crews of the hundreds of others of vehicles could do was wait the last painful minutes.
“How long until it starts raining?”
Sultanov, his driver, pointed at the sky from his hatch, a beaming smile on his face. He’d noticed that about the newer generation. Boboev, the gunner, was the same. They didn’t arrive at the unit with the thousand yard stare of a veteran, nor the beaten gaze of the conscripts Krapotkin had known in his early years.
In the new army, a driver learnt how to drive, not how to fear his comrades.
“Depends on what sort you’re talking about. The monsoon kind, a few weeks. The other kind.” He checked his watch,
“any moment now.”
As if on cue, the horizon rumbled with booming and screeching sounds. They were followed by thousands of exhaust trials as hundreds of rocket projectors spoke in unison at the appointed hour. Tube artillery rumbled in the distance as shell stockpiles, painstakingly built up over the last fortnight, were loaded and fired.
Beyond their view, the fields in the distance plumed with smoke and flame as the barrage fell. The earth itself rippled, pre-mapped strong-points identifying themselves as concentrations of blast and inferno amidst the wider barrage face.
“Button up.”
The crew dropped their hatches and took their stations. The radio sparked to life as the unit confirmed its comms one last time. Sultanov, that tiny joker from Almaty, crackled over the intercom in his patchy Russian.
“How do the Germans say it again?”
How the Germans say it. God that made Krapotkin feel old. The Germans didn’t train Imperial tankers anymore, times had changed and there were enough veterans of the ‘41-42 campaign to take on the job. But to the newer recruits, especially those from Central Asia and the Far East, Germany and its role in the genesis of the Tank Corps had taken on a kind of mythological feeling.
Calls came in over the platoon level radio, Krapotkin acknowledged and flipped back to internal.
“Panzer Vor”
4th Shock Army rolled forward
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