1955: The lonely Peace ( IC )

[Joohan]

The Lonely Peace

OOC

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The was fought, Everyone lost. Now is the time for vengeance.

[Costa Fierro]

March 5, 1955. Washington D.C, United States of America
A black 1953 Packard Clipper slithered through the streets of Washington D.C, its occupants the driver, careful to keep control, and a younger man by the name of Víctor Cardozo Piazza, the Republic of Argentina's diplomatic representative in the United States. Cardozo was dressed for the weather, a thick woolen coat closed tightly over a crisp black suit. His hair was slick back. His face did not have the blemishes nor wrinkles of many of the older men he was tasked with meeting. At just 38 years old, he was one of the youngest, if not the youngest diplomat in District of Columbia. He wished he was back home, in Buenos Aires. It was summer there, and he enjoyed that more than the frigid winters of Washington. The route between the embassy and the massive building that housed the United States Department of State was fairly simple, a right turn onto Q Street Northwest for three blocks, and then a left turn onto 21st Street Northwest for the remainder of the journey.

Cardozo was in the back of the Packard reading that day's copy of the Washington Post, browsing through the stories of the day. It was mostly domestic news, the Democratic leader pledging to restore the policies of the New Deal when Congress resumes, more about the president facing new challenges. Cardozo flicked a page over and found more domestic stories, this time regarding the numerous civil rights protests and actions that were taking place in the southern United States. He hadn't paid too much attention to them. The international news section was filled with much the same. News of rebuilding, news of more conflict, although the continued conflict in what remained of the Third Reich was starting to come to a close. The government in Berlin had finally reestablished control on the Rhine and was closing in on the Nazi capital Nuremburg. The Indochinese were expanding, the Soviets were rearming once again, and the civil war in China raged on. Cardozo hoped that Argentina's contribution to international instability would be minimal.

The Packard halted and Cardozo stepped outside, into the cold. He pulled his coat tighter and quickly made his way up the stairs and into the Diplomatic Reception Rooms, where he awaited his meeting with the Secretary of State.

~~~~~~

David K.E Bruce cut a familiar figure as Cardozo entered the office of the third highest government official in the United States. He had a number of meetings and encounter with Secretary Bruce since he was posted to Washington in 1951. There was the usual explanation of pleasantries before Cardozo handed the Secretary a folder containing a number of documents and letters, the first of which was a letter from the President of Argentina himself. Secretary Bruce read it and scoffed, something which affronted Cardozo somewhat.
"You do realise the non-intervention policy doesn't apply to Latin America," Secretary Bruce said, putting the letter and his reading glasses on the desk in front of him. "What part of "no we will not support your war with Chile" do you not understand?"
"Mister Secretary," Cardozo replied. "We understand perfectly well the position of the United States on this issue, but what you don't understand is that our government has exhausted all our diplomatic options. We've tried negotiation. We've tried arbitration. We've tried diplomacy. The Chileans have remained steadfast in their claims that the territory is theirs even if we have proven, and your government has proven, that the territory belongs to Argentina."
"It's funny," Secretary Bruce said, reclining in his seat. "I had the Chilean ambassador in here two weeks ago giving me the same spiel. Only difference was that his government hadn't already decided to nationalise American companies without proper compensation."
"My President offered mediation and it was refused," Cardozo replied. "What happened after that was not in my control. What my President does to improve the lives of his people is up to him. And how he goes about it is up to him. I have as much control over government policy as you do."
"So why are you here?" Secretary Bruce asked. "You've already made up your mind, I've given you my answer, we have no more to discuss."
"Actually I do," Cardozo replied. "We were not expecting support from your government, so now all we ask is that you do not support the Chileans. That means no aircraft, no ammunition, nothing."
Secretary Bruce laughed loudly. He looked at Cardozo with an incredulous look on his face. "You're not serious?" he exclaimed. Cardozo stared back at him, unflinching. The Secretary laughed again. Then he realised that Cardozo wasn't having him on.
"You're goddamn serious," Secretary Bruce said, changing is tone. "Just what kind of bullshit are you trying to pull here?"
"It's very simple, Mister Secretary," Cardozo replied. "You wouldn't support us so we want to make sure you won't support Chile."
"You really think you can just waltz in here and make demands of us?" Secretary Bruce said. "You must be out of your goddamned mind."
"We need assurances," Cardozo said. "Whether or not you approve of our course of action, we are pursuing it. If we cannot rely on your support then we need assurances of your neutrality. Your interests in Chile's copper industry will not be affected if war does break out between Argentina and Chile, and if you look further, we are offering some concessions for American businesses in Argentina."
"No amount of concessions is going to get anything from us," Secretary Bruce replied. "Invade Chile at your peril. Have a good day, ambassador."
"You too, Mister Secretary." Cardozo got up and left.

~~~~~~

Quinta de Olivos, Buenos Aires. March 7, 1955.
"Currently there are no indications of any additional reinforcement of Isla Navarino beyond what we already observed prior to Christmas," the man said. Dressed in a grey suit, white shirt, and black tie, the man was quite thin, almost gaunt looking. He had slicked blonde hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. He spoke Spanish like a typical upper class Argentine would.
"We have observed the Chileans positioning aircraft at an air strip to the north of Punta Arenas, and several naval vessels have anchored in Bahía Windhond in the south of Navarino. We believe this to be indicative of a response to our own movements and concentrations in Tierra del Fuego itself."
"And what does this mean for us?" President Perón asked.
"The literal interpretation is that the Chileans know of our intentions," the man replied. "It would be obvious to anyone that we intend on resolving this dispute militarily, but when and how, I would hope, still remains a mystery for them."
"Do you think they know of our plans?" the President asked.
"I'm not sure," the man replied. "It is unlikely that the Chileans know of the exact details of our plans, but as I said, it's clear where our disputes lie and therefore it would make sense that they reinforce those areas."
"Have any of their battleships or cruisers moved?" The man flipped through a couple of pages.
"Not yet," he replied, bluntly. "All indications are that the Almirante Latorre and the Almirante Cochrane have not left Valparaíso, the Chacabuco also remains in port too. However, the other two cruisers are unknown to us at the present time." This was not news the President wanted to hear. The Chacabuco was an elderly cruiser from the turn of the century and while still a capable ship, was slow and outdated. The other two cruisers were ex-US Navy, and much more modern and much more capable. Their whereabouts being unknown were troubling.
"Mi Presidente," the man said. "Perhaps it is time. While our ground forces may not be in the right position, our aircraft are. We can win aerial supremacy over Chile." The President considered the man's proposal for a few seconds, then nodded.
"Very well," the President replied. "Prepare the orders and I will sign them." The man nodded and left the office.

[Joohan]

Kingdom of Serbia
Macedonian Hill country, East of Stip
March 1st, 10:30
50th Infantry Brigade, 3rd Inf Battalion, Delta Company, 1st " Hoplites " Platoon

Macedonia held a, for the most part, Mediterranean climate: It's summers were long and dry, while it's winters were short and only moderately cold. This was, or rather, had been, the impression of Macedonia held by the great majority of Greeks who had fled into the North country following the communist uprising in their homeland. For the men and boys who had volunteered their services toward the Serbian armed forces, however, this image of home in Macedonia was being shattered like the ice which clung to the metal of their rifles - much to the amusement of Sargent First Class. Rodovan Buha.

Sfc. Buha, the platoon Sargent for the Hoplites, glanced at his wrist watch while walking his way in between his resting platoon. Buha had stopped the platoon half way up the mountain in order to rest for twenty minutes. This had been around 17 minutes ago. Buha, a brutal looking Serb of 35 years, was amused watching the famously thin blooded Greeks huddle together for warmth about the area. Some soldiers would stick their hands down the front of their pants for extra warmth, while some bearded men had begun the recent development of using their bayonets to cut their beards off, in order to stop their facial hair from freezing over with snot. Buha, though also cold, was not nearly as effected. In addition to having grown up in the famously frigid Pešter plateau, he also maintained the inhuman abilities of never being bothered by trivial things like sleep deprivation, exhaustion, thirst, hunger, heat, or cold - abilities that seemingly all NCO's appeared to possess.

The Hoplites, like the rest of the 3rd inf battalion, were conducting a 4-day field exercise in the mountains east of Stip. Over the course of those four days, the Hoplites would ruck march a total of sixty five kilometers across the frozen hills, seizing a series of objectives sent down from Brigade. The 50th infantry Brigade was the second newest edition to the Serbian Army ( behind only the 51st Infantry Brigade, which had been commissioned later on that exact same day ). The 50th was significant because of it's soldiers: 4,100 Greeks, and 300 Albanians. The 50th and 51st Brigades ( the 50th's sister brigade, made up of Bulgarian refugees ), had been the brainchild of the War Department. The Revolutionaries in the South had fervently brought the communist ideal into every faucet of society - an ill turn of events for those families which clung too tightly to either their faith or their land. Tens of thousands of refugees and opponents to the regime had flooded into Serbia, seeking asylum from the revolutionaries who had dominated their homes. Regent. Dusan and his cadre in Belgrade had agreed to settle the hordes of refugees in Macedonia - but still lacked the means to provide them any real long term solution to their current condition. A few years went by and Belgrade had finally begun to get creative about the solution. In 1950, the War Department had commissioned for the creation of 50th and 51st Brigades: fighting units made up of Greek, Bulgar,and Albanian volunteers - boys eager for the glory of war, and men longing for retribution against the communists.

Sfc. Buha had been one of numerous Serbian NCO's to volunteer his services in helping to create the unit. Buha had been a soldier for his entire adult life: he fought the Germans first as a naive private when they invaded the old kingdom of Yugoslavia, then he carried on his fight as a guerrilla soldier with the Chetniks, and then most recently having served under then commander ( now regent ) Zivko Dusan against the treacherous partisans. Buha was a seasoned warrior, exactly what was needed to train the recruits of the 50th brigade.

Buha looked up toward the gray sky, at where the clouds shrouded the direct rays of the sun. Small flurries had begun to fall and accumulate themselves on top of the shivering Greeks. Another 10 kilometers of ruck marching ought to get them warmed up, Buha thought cruelly to himself. He looked back down at his watch, seeing that their break had ended exactly three seconds ago. Buha cracked his neck on either side before exhaling...

" BREAKS OVER MEN! Time to ruck up, hup-to! We've got 10 more clicks to go before we set up base. And great news: Bravo company's out for blood! Keep your eyes peeled for any Dragons! If we get snuck up on before the days out, and i'll ensure not a single man here will be cold tonight. Move-out! "

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Kingdom of Serbia
Belgrade, Nemanjina Building ( the Executive/Cadre office )
March 1st, 11:00
Meeting of the Cadre

The Cadre, as they had come to be called, were the present elite officers of the Chetniks - and chief functionaries of the present regime. Sixteen members in total, each representing the head of a major government institution or associated state industry. The Cadre had been the driving force behind Serbian society for the last eight years, and wholly held responsible to the rebuilding of the kingdom. Serbia, under the Cadre, had taken a radical route in it's reconstruction. The traditional and conservative female populace of Serbia had seen a great redistribution of their number out of the home and into nearly ever sector of Serb society. Women laborers, managers, scientists, bankers, doctors, and even political leaders ( as evidenced by two ladies of the cadre ) were a common sight in the new Serbia. Nearly eight years of war had robbed the kingdom of a whole generation of men, leaving the gender ratio quite uneven. The only places were women had yet to see a greater presence were in the Clergy and the military. Women were continually excluded from the Clergy for obvious reasons, and the military likewise ( though women were making up a larger part of the support services ). An additional civic duty placed upon women by the Cadre and the Chetniks was that to produce sons for the nation. Having been in effect since April of 1950, each fertile and healthy woman between the ages of eighteen to forty was expected to produce at least four children - preferably more. Serbia under the Cadre was, perhaps appropriately, a young and radical state.

As was protocol, the Cadre had assembled at the beginning of the new month to review last month's proceedings and to bring forth new endeavors for the coming month. February had been marked by an increase in subsidies to livestock production, the continued mechanization of mining operations ( with most of the already small male population vying to join the military as opposed more menial labor, mechanization across numerous industries had become a recent and necessary trend for the economy ), a note of black outs in Kosovo on account of decaying power lines, and several new roadways having been finished in Macedonia. The theme, over the last several Cadre meetings, was that of steady progress. The state of the Kingdom when the Cadre had first received it 8 years ago was one on the verge of collapse. Industry was reserved strictly to Belgrade and Nis, commerce was non-existent, most villages subsisted strictly on locally grown food, less than 1 in 10 people possessed electricity in the home, and the few hospitals left in the nation were constantly swarmed with people dying over the most basic of infections and wounds.

Using the Chetniks as their enforces, Regent. Dusan and his Cadre pushed through their plans of reconstruction - no matter who had attempted to oppose them. Ancient families had their estates nationalized to make way for state owned industrial farms. Local banks were brought to heel by the newly created Central Bank in order to more effectively control the Dinar. The death penalty and forced labor would be used liberally by the justice system to discourage trouble makers and alleviate labor costs on public works. The Cadre's seizure of power in Serbia was brutal, but necessary. In recent years, they've been able to loosen their previously vice-like grip over the populace, allowing for greater public liberties. Even still, the new Serbia is guided by the vision of the Cadre - one of strength, unity, discipline, and progress.

The meeting room used by the Cadre had once been used by the royal cabinet before the invasion - a piece of heritage which Dusan and the Cadre were proud to bring over into their new regime. With the review of last month's progress having been concluded before launch, the reassembled Cadre would now begin discussions on the new month's proceedings. The first to speak, was Secretary of War. Paul Hadžić. A stout and sneering general, whose medals clung proudly to his gray uniform. As was protocol, Hadzic stood while speaking to the Cadre - though truly, his words were most directed towards Regent. Dusan.

" The 51st and 50th Brigades have made, according to testimonies of their leadership, significant strides since their inception 5 years ago. PT scores have risen across the board, as have shooting averages, sickness as well as legal suits among soldiers have dropped significantly, and the first officers among them have been independent at their work for several weeks now. Not only are these brigades to fighting standard - they have managed to outperform most other units in the Army! " Hadzic's voice was Gruff from years of yelling under fire - a common affliction among veteran soldiers in Serbia.

" Speaking of legal action, how did the proceedings for those two privates carry out? " Dusan said, interrupting the Secretary's report. At 46 years old, Dusan looked well for his age: A full head of brown hair, a slim physique, and perfect white smile ensured the affection of many Serb woman - from Afar of course. His hands were folded in front of him as he waited patiently for Hadzic's response. " Oh well... they were both found guilty. The boy who had actually hit the man was given 25 lashings, while his friend was given only 11 respectively sir. " The Regent having referred to an incident which had been reported in the last Cadre meeting, were in two privates had harassed two civilians ( a brother and sister of Bosnian origin ) near the Croatian border. When one of the privates touched the sister, things turned ugly, a fight ensued, and one of the privates would up sending the brother to the hospital with broken ribs. It hadn't been a proud affair for the Army, or the Cadre. Many soldiers in the military were young uneducated men, like the two privates in question - both were only 17, and neither one had received an education. The military was full of men such as these privates, and though discipline had certainly improved over the months, instances such as this were still far too common.

" Nice to know. Please, continue Paul. " Dusan was among the few individuals in the Cadre who was allowed to call Hadzic by his first name, and the only one permitted to do so in public. " Yes sir. Those privates though, are not indicative of the rest of our Armed Forces. Across the board, our discipline and overall martial readiness has greatly increased since this time last year. The transition from rebel fighting force to a proper military force is, in my and my staff's opinion, complete - and we are now ready to carrying out large scale military operations. " A kind of buzz filled the room with that final phrase. Without having named it, everyone in the room knew which operation in specific he was referring too.

" Is that so Paul? "

Nodding deferentially, Hadzic replied, " Yes it is sir. And may I suggest, that we seriously begin considering operation Midwife. As it is a time imperative operation, the sooner we carry it out, the better. "

" If I may interject, " Said a voice from across the table, " do you really think that we are in a strong enough position to carryout such a task at this time sectary? " The voice was that of Secretary of State. David Babic - Hadzic's rival in the Cadre. Babic, unlike Dusan, showed every bit of his age: bald, portly, and graying in his beard - one would hardly have guessed that only eight years ago, he was a top commander serving under Dusan during their war with the Partisans. Babic, an experienced diplomat, masked his voice of emotions as he questioned Hadzic.

Hadzic was not so skilled in as hiding his feelings as was his opponent, " It is not a matter of if we are strong enough - it is more that they are presently weak enough that we are able to carry this action out. The longer that we wait, they will have more time to reorganize and rebuild their numbers, and soon operation Midwife will have lost any chance of ever succeeding - secretary! "

" Constantine, " Dusan interjected between the bickering secretaries towards Mikhail Constantine, Grand Secretary of Intelligence, " What is the current situation in Turkey? "

The Grand Secretary of Intelligence cleared his throat before rattling off his report on the war in Turkey, " It has yet to change sir. The Turkish military is still in a state of perpetual route from the Socialists. A few more months, and the entire country is expected to be occupied. "

Dusan placed a finger to his chin, " Hm... Then there is no hope of a successful counter attack then? "

" It is unlikely sir. "

" And once the Turks are finally defeated, " Hadzic boisterously interrupted, " The reds will move their armies back towards our border, making operation Midwife immensely more difficult - if not impossible! "

Looking to counter his rival, Babic chimed in once more. " Nonsense sir. Secretary. Hadzic, how many years until we are on a war footing with Croatia? " One point of the Cadre's agenda, which no member was in dispute of - and indeed - was intrinsic to the vision of the new Serbia, was of an inevitable war of unification with the traitorous Croats. During the invasion of the old kingdom by Italy and Germany, the Croats had cooperated with the invaders in destroying the unity of the kingdom. In return for the betrayal of their king and country, the Axis gifted the Croats with their own nation - lead by the Ustase ( a fascist cult of murders and sadists ). The crimes of the Ustase regime against their countrymen, and all mankind, were monstrous and unforgivable. The Chetniks had attempted a disastrous invasion in 1947, but were quickly repulsed. It had been silently accepted by both sides that a future war between the two nations was inevitable.This next war though, the Cadre was determined upon victory.

" We will be on a war footing within two and a half, to three years. " Hadzic lifted up a cautionary finger, " But, that is for a conflict with Croatia alone. If we must also concern our military with defending the Southern border as well as the north, then we will be unable to wage war against either... Sir, it is imperative that Midwife be carried out sooner rather than later. If we do not mitigate the threat in the south, we will hamper any plans of future unification with Croatia. "

Babic spoke up once again, " And sir, I am stating that a conflict with the Balkan Socialist Republics is ill advised, considering our current economic and martial state, and that we should continue with our reconstruction efforts until such an operation is more feasible on our end. "

The members of the Cadre all collectively held their breath as they looked towards the Regent. Dusan closed his eyes as he rested his head into the back of his chair, mulling over the propositions of his ministers. Dusan did not like war - what had remained of his youth had been stolen by war. He had been an artillery captain when the Axis first invaded Yugoslavia, and he remembered the soul crushing defeat he felt after only ten days of war when Belgrade surrendered. He remembered the years of anxiety and paranoia he felt while fighting a hopeless war of attrition against the Nazis. He remembered the intensity and exhaustion of the civil war with the Partisans, that conflict which made him undisputed leader of his fatherland and guide of his nation's future. Dusan was tired of war - but he was not ignorant. Though he longed for an end to war, he knew that it was inevitable for Serbia. Either from the Fascists in Croatia, or the Communists in Greece - Serbia would be brought to war once again. Dusan vowed that Serbia would never be conquered again. If war was to come, Serbia would be ready.

Opening his eyes and looking over towards Hadzic, Dusan gave his verdict. " Secretary. Hadzic, begin preparations for Operation Midwife. "

[Robo-Nixon]

March 2nd, 1955. Los Angeles, California, United States of America

The Saffron sun kissed the City of Angels long before those who had moved into it the last years had opened their eyes, revealing lush lawns sprawling with West Coast flora and driveways hosting one or two colorful cars per near-identical house stacked beside each other in a neat fashion. Choosing to leave the 4-bedroom house in the L.A. suburb late enough to get stuck in traffic on the one-sixty-eight seemed like a conscious choice to Constance Baker, a mother of two balancing the duties of her home and the desk job at the architecture firm downtown. Her husband, David, was the quiet type of romantic to her, a family man who waved her goodbye in the morning while she served breakfast to the small ones and kissed her on the forehead when she came home, dutifully having put the children to bed and prepared an evening meal for the three of them. David's mother was a constant annoyance while Connie was at home but of the necessary kind, not only did she tend to the home and the children, her presence blocked David's self-guilt.

As a World-War-widow, Gloria Baker's foremost consolation was the safety and success of her children and grandchildren. Her oldest, David, had made it through navy service in peacetime, was now married with children. While David remained in the Navy's officer reserves, she considered him past danger now and was more concerned with whether her two daughters really had made the right choice by going off to college, studying law and medicine, respectively, and if they would become married if they chose to pursue their careers. Her late husband, Arthur, would surely not have had anything against this era's advancements for women, having been the most progressive of Democrats back home in Minnesota. She'd approved of Constance's life choices too, for her late husband's sake, taking care of another generation of children as her son's wife pursued a career of her own. Even when she voted, she had her husband's memory in mind.

Robert Taft, back in 48', had channeled a people's disappointment over the war and sheer pointlessness of the death of thousands of Americans on the beaches of Sicily, including Gloria's husband Arthur, who left children without a father back home. The new conservative movement rescinded Roosevelt and Truman's commitment to post-war internationalism, repeating the success of Henry Cabot Lodge in 1918 and strengthened the Republican party as a largely unified pro-neutrality coalition with congressional majorities and through votes like that of Gloria Baker's, the White House. The American century had been proclaimed, as the world around the United States fell apart, and despite limited trade to markets in Europe and Asia, domestic consumption was at an all-time high and the economy grew rapidly over the next years. People like Constance and David Baker, with humble backgrounds in the Northern White farmer class were now part of a middle class with living standards that seemed contemporarily futuristic in its quality.

Voting for the first time in 52', they had all reelected Taft over the Roosevelt-linked diplomat and businessman Averell Harriman, whose message of American super-power status and adherent reponsibility for the stability and peace of the world did not resonate with this middle class. Conservatism and Liberalism still split American voters from each other over party lines to a significant extent, but the horrors of war seemed so alive from the news clips aired on TV and pictured in the newspapers that isolation seemed to be the only foreign policy Americans could approve of. Until the United States would be threatened, of course.

March 5th, 1955. Washington D.C, United States of America

"Call incoming from Secretary Bruce, Mr. President."

The President, with his wide-awake mind behind the wrinkled cheeks and slow right eye, picked up the oval office phone. A skilled legislator, much like his predecessor, with extensive and detailed knowledge on domestic matters from the growing segregation issue in the Deep South to education quality in Oregon, he loathed having to deal with foreign policy. Bruce, an old-money career diplomat, ran the state department like his own business, and conducted foreign affairs independent from the President, the only asterisks being that he had to inform his superior about his doings and that support from the White House was conditional.

"David, my dear boy, how are you?" He said, letting his deep voice traverse into the device he held against his ear.

"Mr. President." The Secretary replied, sternly. "I could be doing better. Argentina is on the warpath." The statement sounded less like a warning and more like a fact. There was silence for five seconds or more, but the President open his mouth soon enough.

"Well... what can we do to stop that David? We don't want an armed conflict in South America. It would look bad, it would be bad for business."

"I don't have a formal action plan for the moment. Possible sanctions to prevent escalation will be insufficient. The ambassador I spoke to, snarky little feller', was absolutely convinced he could've gotten some promise of neutrality or support to Argentine claims in the event of a war. Told him that I'd rather eat my hat than give Argentina a free pass to invade West. He wasn't too happy about it."

"I see. Don't inform congress about this meeting, yet, and draft your... action plan? We'll discuss it tomorrow."

The President hung up, and called in his personal secretary to the office. "Get me Richard Bissell. I want the CIA."

The Central Intelligence Agency was a relatively new organization, established from the wartime OSS, and had grown to be the foremost extension of U.S. non-diplomatic influence abroad. Espionage was carried out for national security and safety assistance to U.S. corporations abroad was provided, but from its headquarters in Langley, the CIA had developed to be a strong and independent agency with significant unaccounted funding and planned covert operations with numerous agents stationed around the globe. Bissell, another Taft-administration bureaucrat carried over from the Democrats had his current focus on development of reconnaissance aircraft and stealth technology, but President Dirksen knew that people like Bissell and Bruce craved the excitement of international crises. Bissell must've been in his office, because the President's secretary announced that he was on the line nearly right away.

"Dick. Listen up. How briefed are you on the Argentina-Chile situation?" The President leaned back in the photogenically uncomfortable chair.

"I know the details, Mr. President. As briefed as can be." Bissell was calm and collected.

"The Secretary of State just called me and..." The President of the United States was interrupted by the Director Central Intelligence.

"David told me. I'm helping him draft his... action plan. I suppose that you want covert operations on the table. Because the war option is, obviously, not." The President soured, but was relieved that work was proceeding.

"You are correct, Dick. It is not on the table. What do you imagine we can do to... derail this war?"

"We don't have sufficient connections in the Argentine military to oversee a coup d'etat, additionally, Argentina is not politically divisive enough to achieve this at the moment. We are unlikely to placate the government, but we could give it a try. Unless Brazil and Argentina's other neighbors are willing to act as a continental police force, we will simply have to support Chile unofficially. Arms, military advisors, et cetera."

"I don't want it to come to that. How much would... President..." He searched for the name of his international colleague. "...President Perown like a state visit? We could send Bruce, he could come here or... better yet. We could send a congressional delegation. We have got plenty of cockerel congressmen and senators that'd like to raise their international status."

"Very well Mr. President. We shall consult about options in the future I hope." Bissell waited for the President to end the call, and after the two exchanged formal goodbyes through the telephones, President Everett Dirksen sat up from the chair and stretched his tired back a little.

March 7th, 1955. Washington D.C, United States of America

Lyndon Johnson, the tall figure with the baton that controlled the U.S. Senate, and Sam Rayburn, the returned Speaker of the House of Representatives, rose up from their seats in the Oval office sofas after their meeting with the President. He'd informed them about the news he was getting about the rapid escalation in South America, and that he had outlined a response plan to any Argentine aggression. It included sending a special bipartisan diplomatic delegation from the U.S. to Argentina at once, preparing the possibility to send military aid to Chile and freezing all Argentine economic assets in the U.S. as well as issuing a near-complete trade embargo. The Secretary of Defense, Robert Cutler, with whom the President had met the day before, was sceptic, arguing that intelligence suggested that Argentine military capacity outweighed Chile's significantly and that what the U.S. would provide would be too little, too late. President Dirksen had dismissed his opinion, approaching his opposition party leaders instead.

They had decided to send Democratic Massachusetts Senator Jack Kennedy and Republican California Senator Richard Nixon, both being young, popular and heavily invested in foreign affairs, to Argentina, with a free mandate of de-escalation negotiations. Their plane would leave Washington that night, expecting to arrive in Buenos Aires on the morning of the 8th, with the hopes of meeting President Juan Perón himself, but with little to expect in reality. The naïveté seemed to the experienced diplomats of the U.S. who were not going, to be a symptom of isolation.

For the second time in two days, the Chilean ambassador was called to the State department, where consultations were held. Secretary Bruce could offer Chile little at the moment, and the vast U.S. navy and air forces remained in their Home bases as dictated by peacetime law established during the first Taft term in 1950.

[Labstoska]

Across a long dirt road leading up a moderate hill was a single black car, a rolls Royce in fact, in the commonwealth the mere fact of owning a car was an indicator of significant wealth the ownership of a such a car as this however was a sign of aristocracy. At the end of the path was a manor and old one too, unfortunately like many things in Britain it bore the scars of occupation; a few bullet marks here, a rebuilt wing there that didn't quite convey the same rustic feeling as the rest of the building and even in some places the car's occupants could see scorch marks. The car pulled up into the manor's drive and from the driver's seat a man dressed in a full black uniform stepped out, he moved towards the back end of the car he opened the door and Lord Harrow of Devon stepped out, lord Harrow was a thin, practically skeletal man with a balding scalp most hair that he had left was extraordinary greasy, it gave of the impression that Lord Harrow was a man better suited to selling certain luxuries at street corners than being a member of the British aristocracy, his clothes however spoke differently; his suit was completely white ,a fine contrast to both his car and servant, and it was evident that it had been tailored to fit his exact dimensions.

Lord Harrow walked up to the manor's door and gave it five quick knocks, almost instantly his callings were answered as the door creaked open and a rather elderly looking man in a butler's uniform opened the door and greeted lord Harrow before leading him up the short flight of stairs and into the study, the inside of the manor had been decorated with a plethora of historical artifacts many of which had no doubt been purloined from the British museum or at least the wreckage of it. If the opening room was enough to give a historian a stroke then the manor's study could strike then dead where they stood, every nook and cranny of it was filled Egyptian artifacts the walls were plastered with papyrus scrolls and lining the walls was a veritable collection of statues depicting various gods, and at very end of the room sitting behind a fine mahogany desk sat baron Greenwal of British reconstruction authority.

Baron Greenwal unlike lord Harrow looked like the peak of aristocracy; a portly man with a fine set of hair that went straight around his head creating the impression of lion's mane, the man also carried with him an aura of supreme confidence, after all why shouldn't be. baron Greenwal was in control of one of the most powerful economic tools in the entirety of the commonwealth: the BRA, a massive state controlled corporation in charge of rebuilding the infrastructure and industry of the British nation, lord Harrow on the other hand had no such prestigious position to wave around however he did have one thing greater then any title that could be bestowed, the favour of Prime minister Garrett. Harrow had been with Garret since the less scrupulous days of Garrett's career and had acted as his strong arm in the baron's house, his reputation among the barons as a harbinger of disappearances was well known and as a result their are many who would kill to simply be in his favour.

Greenwal looked up rather rapidly from his desk and despite an evident attempt to exude confidence it was evident to Harrow that the man was practically shaking and his face was covered in in cold sweat. Greenwal spoke first speaking quickly he said " Ah Harrow... to what do I... uhm owe the pleasure of your visit" Harrow burst out laughing at Greenwal's stuttering attempts at dialogue and said in a course voice particularly reminiscent of a scouse accent " Calm down Greenwal, I ain't here to carry you off into the night although that is in part why I'm here". Baron Greenwal's face now turned a particular shade of white he managed to mumble out a few indecipherable words before Harrow interjected again " Now the reason I'm here is because I have good reason to believe that our beloved prime minister Michael Garrett is attempting to replace you as the head of BRA with myself, as you know I've never been one whose felt comfortable in the spotlight, far too many dangers for myself but I believe you find yourself quite comfortable in the role so I believe that it is too our mutual benefit that you stay in your position." Greenwal remained silent, shaking like a leaf, Harrow sighed and reached his hand into his jacket's pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to the baron.

Greenwal's hand shakily took it out of Lord Harrow's hand and then lit it, soon the room was filled with a thin haze of smoke. When Greenwal had managed to calm himself down enough to speak he said "But why I've worked for him loyally for as long as the commonwealth has been in existence and not to sound too arrogant or anything but I'm a relatively well liked fellow among the baron's house there would be an uproar if I were to be vanished by Garret!" A sinister grimace snaked it's way across Lord Harrow's face "For the why I'm not entirely certain but I suspect that you were bang on the mark there, your liked among the baron's house and you happen to control one of the most powerful economic tools also not to cause any particular offence but you aren't the most strong willed individual are you, making you an excellent tool for the baron's to oppose the prime minster's. As for the how of the matter well as you know doubt know the North has been a thorn in our side for quite sometime, a number of warlords, communes and even a piece of the old government up in York is still clinging on and well let's just say Garret isn't too happy about that. " Greenwal raised his eyebrows and said " you mean to say that he's preparing for war with the North" Lord Harrow smiled "Finally your catching up, not only does Garret want war but he wants it fast considering that the Canadians appeasr to have their eyes fixed firmly upon the isles".

Realisation dawned upon the baron's face as he said "So that is how he wishes to destroy me by ensuring that I can't fill out some kind of quota for his war and then blaming any summery failures upon me, well if that's how he wishes to treat his loyal servants than the Barons house shall hear about this with both of our voices we shall..." The baron was cut off by a short sharp burst of laughter from Lord Harrow who then said "Look by help I didn't mean to incite a rebellion all i'm gonna give you is this information because when Garret comes to you asking for guns for his army and factories to build them you better have them so I suggest starting now" the fear and nervousness that had plagued the baron now returned in full swing "But... what about London" Greenwal was speaking into the BRA's grand effort to rebuild the decimated city of London however it was to little avail. Harrow practically spat out the words "London is a dead husk of a city, better to let it rot then anything else" With that Lord Harrow left the study and headed back to his car while Baron Greenwal rapidly made a phone call.

---

The city of Portsmouth was without a doubt the jewel of the Commonwealth, ever since Michael Garret had taken over the city it had been slowly transformed into a grand monument to the prosperity of the Commonwealth and new British feudalism. Prime minister Garret after securing power had hired architects from across the isles to come and design for him a new Portsmouth filled with large public space, majestic monuments, efficient transportation systems and to make it overall to emulate London, and it had largely become just that, all you needed to do was to ignore the large ring of slums that surrounded the city. One of the finer buildings of the city was the headquarters for the Commonwealth armed forces, a massive white building constructed in a form of Gothic architecture which had characterised a lot of the construction efforts of the Commonwealth. Within the building it was a labyrinth of different branches and divisions, each with very little power yet beneath it all there were the true chambers of power. One such chamber was a large concrete and circular room primarily occupied by a large round table currently occupied by four men: Prime minister Michael Garret, Field marshals Philip Wright and John Anderson, and finally air marshal Christopher Wormwood.

In front of all these men was a large map of Northern England which Garret was gesturing towards and said "Well gentlemen I believe that I asked you for war plans... Well any of you going to speak" Field marshal Anderson practically jumped at the opportunity to speak to the prime minister, Anderson was a fiery soul and had with him both a nationalistic zeal and a furious devoutness to the Thelemic faith he practically worshipped the ground Garret walked on. "Of course sir, we've planned an expedition of 250,000 men to head up North and put down the rouge states there, so far we seek to take Liverpool and push up to claim the lake district, from there we seek to turn back and take Leeds and Hull from their we should be able to take out whatever sort of successor state that remains in York finally from there we should be able to push up to the Scottish border, securing the entirety of England under Thelemic rule". A smug smile passed over Anderson's face yet Garret seemed unimpressed "Anything more, such as the specifics of how you plan to handle these small pseudo nations?"

Anderson was somewhat taken aback by Garret's response, so much so that Philip Wright was able to interject into the conversation, Philip was a far more reserved man who had fought in both the second and first great wars he had most likely seen more death than anyone else in the room, "We plan to send in small commando teams as well as a few missionaries to go along with them to meet with the smaller of these communities and see if we can intergrate them into the Commonwealth through more diplomatic channels, after of all I can't imagine that the small communes of the North can be doing particularly well. With the larger factions of the north we plan to take a far more shock and awe approach, hit em hard and hit em fast and hopefully we can knock them out before the war ends up dragging out" Garret nods and a smirk passes across his face as he turns towards the air marshal " And you Mr Wormwood, how should our most loyal air force aid in the campaign" Wormwood was the most timid of the group and rarely did much to raise the moral of his men or contribute to a meeting "uhm well we believe that it is best for the air force to take on a largely support based role in order to ensure that whatever limited industry survives and also so that we can make sure that we don't harm any further possible cooperation between us and these communities".

Upon hearing every man speak Garret stood up and said "Well gentlemen I'm glad to see that some progress has been made in a war plan but in a few months I will be expecting a far more detailed version of this war plan in a few months time, after all we wouldn't want our first expidtion in 5 years to end in failure, it would be awfully humiliating for everyone involved" with that last part he gave a sinister grimace to everyone in the room and then proceeded to leave, leaving the field marshals to argue over the Northern map.

[Revlona]

Office of the Minister of State
Rio de Janeiro

“Senior Secretary, I can not promise any help, none what so ever, for the unfortunate crisis that has taken control of your nation and of Argentina,” The Brazilian Minister of State said into his telephone.

From the telephone microphone that was pressed into his right ear, he would hear, “But Minister, Brazil is armed forces are the strongest in the region, and if they win against us they will simply turn to you,” The Chilean Secretary of War said.

“I understand this is your view on the matter, but I simply promise any form of support without the presidents approval,” The Brazilian Mininster said. “Now, I have other things I must deal with,” he said before hanging up.

Turning in he seat towards the imported oak doors he called out, “Emanuel, phone the president, inform him that I advise the armed forces to go to code yellow.

To: Argentina
From: Office of the President of Brazil

Representatives of the Argentinaian government, this memo is to inform you of the placement of the 22nd and 8th infantry divisions of the Brazilian Army at the border between Argentina and Brazil. Within accordance of the Brazilian constitution, this letter is being sent to you to inform you of this. Such measures are being carried out on all of Brazil’s borders in accordance with the presidents orders.

Otherwise, this letter is also being written to inform you that any attack on the Republic of Chile will be frowned upon by the Republic of Brazil. We note that World War 2 has just so suddenly ended, and starting a war in South America is not what any nation in the region needs.

[Nea Byzantia]

Thessaloniki, Province of Makedonia, Union of Balkan Socialist Republics, March 3rd, 1955


For the twelth week in a row, the crowd of half starved peasants gathered outside the Hall of the People. Formerly the posh palatial residence of a wealthy merchant, the Revolutionary authorities had requisitioned the building to host the weekly Workers' Committee. From the marble balustrade of the villa, Commissar Iorgos Banoukas watched the scene with a deep sense of irony.

A good decade earlier, Comrade Velouhiotis had declared the Hellenic Socialist Republic, vowing to liberate Hellas from the corrup, kleptocratic grip of the Fascists. He had vvowed that he would stamp out oppression from the land, and that the proletariat would hunger no more. He promised that if the People followed, they would have Elysium on Earth. Now, some ten years later, the Proletariat had tired of Orpheus' Tune. The people who once shouted for joy, and proclaimed loyalty to the Revolution and Velouhiotis, now cried for grain, and under their breath cursed "the Red Sultan".

Since the Politburo named Velouhiotis Supreme Leader, some 3 years earlier, things had only gotten crazier. The Workers' Committees were phased out in favor of direct rulings from Constantinople, with Commissars being appointed instead. The War against the Fascists in Turkey had been dragging on for 5 years, and the war effort was stalling. All the while, the people went hungry, and anger was building.

But Banoukas had not been idle in all this. Standing between the Hall of the People, and the actual People themselves was a good 1,000 People's Army soldiers armed with rifles, and about 3,000 People's Security Forces (the Supreme Leader's Secret Police) armed with batons and wooden riot shields. Banoukas was not fooling anyone, least of all, himself - if and when that mob got desperate enough, it would take a little more than a couple thousand malnourished boys, between the ages of 16 - 25 to stop the mob from breaking through and tearing the Workers' Committee to pieces.

Banoukas flippantly lit up a cigar and watched the crowd down below. His rumination was interrupted by the sound of a knock, in his nearby office.

"Come in!" Shouted the Commissar

In stepped Markos Lias, Banoukas' aide.

"Ah, Markos. Good to see you." Said Banoukas as he entered the office, cigar still in hand. "Please, sit." He insisted, gesturing to a chair. Lias took a seat.

"So," asked the Commissar, " Did you meet with the Supreme Leader?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, he did not quite take our warnings as seriously as we hoped."

"And the others?" Asked Banoukas, leaning in close, to a whisper "do Yanukov and Husnu at least have their heads screwed on straight?"

"Difficult to say." Replied Lias " Husnu is with the troops on the Anatolian Front, and Yanukov is in Bulgaria, making assurances to his local bosses."

"And our Dear Leader?"

"He was quite... aloof. Between you and me, I don't think he was completely sober during a single meeting. And I know you haven't seen him since the last Party Congress, before the Politburo made him...Supreme Leader, but ... well... let's just say, life in the People's Palace is agreeing with him quite nicely."

"Yes, I can imagine."

"But that's not all. While the Supreme Leader seems quite taken with his leisures, I noticed he seemed to be delegating more and more to his favorite."

"That bastard Kotzimakis?" Asked Banoukas

"Yes." Replied Markos "at this point, Nikos Kotzimakis handles all the Supreme Leader's business."

"I see." Replied Banoukas, puffing his cigar. He glanced nervously over his shoulder, towards the mob. "We need more guns." He said suddenly.

"Agreed. But the Supreme Leader will not help us"

"He will not help anyone. Except himself. Perhaps..." He paused.

"Perhaps what?"

"Nothing." Decided Banoukas. "You are dismissed."

Lias left.

Banoukas returned out to the balcony. The mob had grown since before. Not only in number, but in rowdiness. Minor clashes had already begun between protesters and Security Forces. As Banoukas watched a couple of troops pull a bloodied comrade from the grasp of some protesters, the seed of an idea began to form in his mind.

The Tide strikes the cliff no matter what; fighting the tide is suicide. Only by riding it can you avoid being crushed.

The rise of Kotzimakis to prominence in Constantinople, was as dangerous as it was unsurprising. The no-nonsense commander who had served in EAM since the German invasion, and had crushed the "Fascist terrorists" in the Peloponnese, in 1953, was no friend of Banoukas. If revolt came to Thessaloniki, doubtless the "Red Sultan" would sick his Dog on the revolters, and there's no telling who would be blamed for causing the uprising. Why wait to be accused of conspiracy and suffer the consequences, when you can actually conspire and potentially benefit. The hungry masses would revolt anyways, why not capitalize on the opportunity? Banoukas finished his cigar and chuckled at the irony of his thoughts. As Banoukas returned to his office, the small scale fistfights between soldiers and protesters had devolved into a full on street brawl, a common sight for Thessaloniki in those days.

---

People's Palace, Constantinople, Province of East Thrace, Union of Balkan Socialist Republics, March 5th, 1955



The sun shone brightly as Nikos Kotzimakis made his way into the spacious hall. Formerly the throne room of the Ottoman Sultans, the lofty chamber now housed the office of the Supreme Leader of the Peoples, Aris Velouhiotis. Despite the grand portraits and busts of the towering figure, depicting him as though he were a 20th century Caesar, or Alexander the Great, the real figure was much less inspiring. Years of rich food, fine spirits and expensive cigars had turned the Leader of the Revolution into a corpulent dwarf with a greying beard - in a word, Santa Clause. And Kotzimakis was his right-hand man; his chief elf. And he knew it.

"Good morning, Comrade." said Kotzimakis as he strode towards the raised dais, upon which sat the Supreme Leader, propped up on a large divan by pillows. Spread before Velouhiotis on his desk were various reports, a half empty bottle of Metaxas (Greek cognag) and a Cuban cigar.

"Ah, Nikos" exclaimed Velouhiotis rising laboriously from his divan, "There is no need for such formality. God knows you are like a son to me." he nearly tripped off the divan, but Nikos caught him before he could strike the marble floor. Clearly drunk again. "Thank you." murmurred Velouhiotis, "I don't know what came over me just now."

"You're tired." replied Kotzimakis reassuringly.

"Tired." repeated the Supreme Leader as he sat back up on his dais. He sighed. "You know me so well. I am tired." he looked over at the reports. He paused for a moment. "You know, Nikos, I miss the days of fighting in the mountains. I miss the long, sleepless nights, not knowing what tomorrow would bring. Now, it all just seems so...easy. So easy. So easy that its difficult. You know what I mean, Nikos?"

"Of course I do." replied Nikos, taking a seat next to the Supreme Leader. He put his arm on his shoulder. "Without you, none of us would be here. You've carried the Revolution on your own two shoulders. Yanukov and Husnu don't appreciate you enough, I think. But don't worry. I am still as always, your loyal soldier."

"Just like the old days, eh?" chuckled Velouhiotis, clapping Kotzimakis on the shoulder.

"Yes, just like the old days." he paused. "Why don't you go rest? Leave all these boring things to me."

Velouhiotis paused for a moment. "Nikos, I don't want to burden..."

"This is no serious burden for me. Its easy, so easy. Go rest, I promise, I'll look after all these things for you."

Velouhiotis paused some more. "I am tired." he decided finally. "Maybe I'll take today off, look over everything tomorrow." he rose from the dais, clutching the table for support. The two guards standing by the doorway, approached, one bringing the Supreme Leader his cane. "Truly you are the son I never had, Nikos." he said, as he limped towards the door.

"And you, my father." replied Nikos Kotzimakis, as the Supreme Leader left the affairs of state in his hands, for the third week in a row. Each day, the old crone was forgetting more and more, and forced to lean on others, more and more. So much the better, thought Nikos Kotzimakis to himself. Every Caesar needs an heir, even Red ones.

---

Malenas Prison Camp, Outskirts of Thessaloniki, Province of Macedonia, Union of Balkan Socialist Republics, March 6th, 1955

Brother Seraphim kneeled in his cold, dank cell, alongside his other brother monks. Though they no longer wore their usual black monastic robes, and had been shorn of their once majestic beards; they still rose from their bunks every morning, to pray towards the East, the rising Sun in their faces; to thank their Creator for another day lived on this Earth. This day was especially special, as rumor had it the monks were to be transferred - to what destination, they had no idea.

Brother Seraphim said to his brothers, "Fear not, for this day we commend our Fate to the LORD and Master, as we have every day before this."

"Amen." They all replied in unison.

The brothers had hardly finished their prayers, when the doors were thrown open, and in burst the guards, armed with rifles; barking orders. They lined up the servants of God and brought them outside the barracks, lining them up single file before loading them up into a truck usually used to transport cattle.

Seated in the driver's seat of the truck was Private Iannis Skorvou. He was smoking a cigarette, waiting for his colleague, Private Kosta Markopoulos. The lad always ran late, so Skorvou lit up a cigarette, waiting for his friend. Kosta would never arrive that morning. Instead, running from the guards' barracks came a plucky young fellow of 17. He climbed into the cab beside Skorvou.

"Where's Markopoulos?" Asked Skorvou

"Dysentery." Replied the lad "Sergeant sent me to replace him."

Skorvou looked the lad over. He was a mess. His boots were too big, his red beret was on crooked, and the peach fuzz on his cheek suggested he hadn't shaved in a couple of days. In short, the typical recruit. "What's your name?" Asked Skorvou remarking the Private had no nametag.

"Uh, Athanasiou." He replied

"You new here, Athanasiou?"

"Yeah."

"You look like shit." Remarked Skorvou

Athanasiou nodded. "Yeah, I thought I'd get a little extra sleep, but then you know, poor Markopoulos and all. Sergeant woke me up and told me I had five minutes to haul ass and get over here. So I just pulled on my gear and ran."

Skorvou noticed the lad had a cut lip. "You got in a fight recently?"

The lad nodded proudly. "Yeah, you should see the other guy." He added cockily. Skorvou laughed.

"Was it a fair fight, at least?" Asked Skorvou

"Fair? He was bigger than me, the bastard. Don't know how I knocked him down. Real David and Goliath story."

"Is that how you ended up in this shithole?"

"You might say that." Replied Athanasiou. "How'd you end up posted at a place like this?"

"Ah, long story." Replied Skorvou

He turned the key in the ignition, and the truck went out of the camp, heading down the long road to Edirne, where the monks were to be transferred to.

"Where you from?" Asked Skorvou

"Larissa." Replied Athanasiou

"Nice. I'm from Preveza." Skorvou finished his cigarette and tossed it out the window. "You want one? A cigarette?" Offered Skorvou

"No thanks." Replied Athanasiou.

Typical Recruit, thought Skorvou - probably indoctrinated like mad that the Army was serious business. He would learn in time to accept a cigarette, and enjoy the little things in life.

The truck had been driving down the dirt road for a good 20 minutes when Athanasiou pulled out a pistol and put it to Skorvou's temple.

"Hey man! What the..."

"Shut up and do as I say!" Shouted Athanasiou. "Pull over the truck."

Skorvou obeyed. He pulled the truck over to the side of the road. "Open the door!" Ordered Athanasiou. Skorvou obeyed. Athanasiou was about to speak again when, striking like a cobra, Skorvou knocked tthe pistol from Athanasiou's hand. The stranger wasted no time, punching Skorvou square in the jaw. Skorvou hit back just as hard. The two then began wrestling around in the tight cab, and striking each other; each struggling to gain an advantage over his opponent. Finally, Athanasiou shoved Skorvou back into the side door, smashing the glass window. The driver then received a sharp kick and was sent flying out the window; tumbling onto the dirt road below, exhausted and defeated. The truck then sped down the road at full speed, leaving Private Iannis Skorvou behind in the dust. Athanasiou crossed himself as he pushed hard on the gas pedal, kicking up dust behind him.

As Athanasiou was guiding the truck north towards the land of freedom tthe guards at the camp found Markopoulos, who was not suffering from dysentery, but was instead found tied up in a closet, dried blood caked on his face, and a black eye, with his uniform missing. This was immediately reported to the camp commander who called on the Army to begin combing the area. But it was too late, by that time, the truck had made it to the Serbian border

[Costa Fierro]

956 Calle Ayacucho, Florida, Buenos Aires. March 10, 1955. 7:30pm.
It was a very modest looking house in a middle class suburb of Buenos Aires. Most people who looked at it would have assumed a small family, or perhaps a nice old couple, lived there. It was a quiet, tree-lined, cobbled street. The house itself was surrounded by modest brick wall with iron fencing, allowing views onto the streets. It was a modern house, also built out of red brick, with a tiled roof, and the steel lattice work covering the windows, typical of houses in middle class areas.

Opposite was an equally modest house with much the same style. Two men had been keeping watch on the modest house across the street from them. The house was, officially, owned by a government employee working for the Ministry of Finance. In reality it was a surveillance post set up by the Secretariat of Intelligence to monitor the activities of one man. At least two Secretariat agents had been posted to the house for the past six months, but the man they were monitoring was worth the effort.

Joaquín Espejo Mansilla. The Secretariat had identified him as the key to the network of Chilean agents operating in Argentina. While killing him was an option, taking him alive was the preferred outcome of this operation. Turn the key and the door to Chile's entire spy network will open. The two agents that were monitoring him were told that he often ate out at various restaurants around central Buenos Aires, and returned home at the same time each night. The two agents watched as an Austin A40 Sports pulled up outside the house, and a man got out to unlock the gate. A wireless radio set sat on a small table inside the room where the agents were posted. One of the agents grabbed the mouthpiece and spoke into it.
"He's out," he said. "Grab him now!"

A roar of a V8 sounded down the street as a black 1949 Ford sped towards the Chilean. It skidded to a stop and two men jumped out and bundled the Chilean into the back of the car. The Chilean protested, writhed, and struggled, but the other two agents overpowered him. The two agents in the house celebrated with a glass of whiskey. They had got their man.

Base Aérea El Plumerillo, Mendoza. March 11, 1955. 6:30pm.
El Plumerillo had not seen such aircraft numbers in its history. The base had been entirely closed off to the public, but it was clear what was happening. The aircraft based there were a mixture of tactical bombers operated by 3 Air Brigade, normally based in the province of Santa Fe, and attack aircraft operated by 5 Air Brigade operating in San Luis. The aircraft were all prop aircraft, but were designed and manufactured in Argentina. The FMA B.1 Calquin was an agile tactical bomber produced in large numbers in Argentina and would be the main aircraft for this attack. They were accompanied by smaller numbers of FMA C.1A Ñancú, an attack variant of a twin-engine fighter developed just before the end of the war. Both were enough to deal a significant blow to the Chileans.

Mayor Teodoro Mazzoli walked away from that morning's briefing with mixed feelings. One of anxiety, as this was his first combat operation. His squadron was also the first one to attack, their target being Base Aérea El Bosque in southern Santiago. Mazzoli also felt a sense of trepidation; what would this do for Argentina? How long would the war last? What would happen? Those questions as of yet remained unanswered.

The plan for the attack was simple; the attack aircraft would takeoff first and attack the air base at Santiago with the aim of destroying as many aircraft as possible as well as damaging the runway. The bombers would continue onto Valparaíso and attack the Chilean naval vessels moored there.

Mazzoli walked back to the tent where his own squadron was gathered, and briefed them on the plan. Once that was completed, Mazzoli and his pilots walked to their aircraft and began their pre-takeoff preparations.

~~~~~

The airspace over Santiago was clear and calm. Mazzoli acquired visual of the Chilean air base and began his attack run, dropping down thousands of feet as he approached the runway. He waited until the right moment before releasing the two 150 lb bombs strapped to each wing of the Ñancú before pulling up and away. He looked over his shoulder and saw plumes of dust rising into the sky, and other aircraft making their attack runs. More plumes rose into the sky as additional ordinance was dropped onto the airbase. Mazzoli turned his aircraft around and made an attack run on the apron, opening up with the four 20mm cannon mounted in the aircraft's nose. A couple of aircraft on the apron exploded as Mazzoli pulled up and out of his run. He circled the airbase, monitoring other aircraft attack runs before ordering a regrouping for the return to Argentina.

As they flew to the north, Mazzoli noted additional plumes of smoke arising from the vicinity of Los Cerillos Airport. He got on the radio and asked about them.
"What do you mean?" a voice crackled over the radio. "Is that not El Bosque?"
"No!" Mazzoli yelled. "That is Los Cerillos! It's a civilian airport!" There was silence. Mazzoli audibly growled, then figured out what he was going to do once he landed back in Argentina.

[Revlona]

Brazilian-Argentinean Border
Near Sāa Borja

Colonel Tomás Luz Braga of the 22nd Brazilian Infantry division usual walked the streets with his men. But because the army was on a yellow code, he was forced to take a body guard with him at all times. The current body guarded trailed him as he inspected the rows of his men.

The odd mix of American designed rifles and the German SMGs somehow looked good on his men. They held them at attention as he passed, stopping here and their to adjust a strap or inspect a weapon.

Finally the “Dismissed” was snapped out, and the men walked off in gaggles. Tomás waited as his men left, until it was just him and his body guard left on the parade field.

“Staff Sergeant Cordeiro,” he spoke suddenly to his bodyguard, “What are your thoughts on the war in the south?” He asked.

“I don’t have much of an opinion Colonel, Argentina is attempting to become the dominate power in the region, Chile stood in their way, so do we,” he responded

“Yes, but this attack on the civilian airfield, what do you make of that?” He queried

“I served in the Second World War with the American sir, I remember a bomber pilot telling me how hard it was to find the correct target in the middle of the night, and this was a experienced pilot with dozens of missions under his belt. The Argentinian pilots on the other hand are inexperienced and saw what they believed to be the target, I feel like it was a mistake. That is my opinion colonel.” He said, highlighting the same feeling that Tomás had.

“Yes but this will likely just give the world ammunition against Argentina, and the world will expect Brazil to use that ammunition.” He said somberly.

His eyes in the distance looking into the distance because the 3rd and 5th infantry divisions had arrived along with the 1st heavy armor division had arrived to reinforce them.

To: Argentina
From: The office of the President of Brazil

Representatives of Argentina, this letter has been sent to inform you of our displeasure at the illegal Argentinian attacks against the Republic of Chile.

Most especially, this letter is to protest the aerial attack by Argentinian forces on a civilian airport in the beginnings of your hostilities.

We ask that you immediately withdraw your forces from Chilean territory and to allow Brazil to interpose itself as a mediator in negotiations between the two sides.

To: The Commonwealth of Britain
From: The office of the President of Brazil

We the people of Brazil congratulate the British people for throwing off the chains of oppression that the German foe we both fought years ago imposed on you.

But unfortunately we must recognize that the British empire has ended, and with its end, must come the end to all British claims overseas, including those in South America.

This letter has been written to inform you, the representatives of the Commonwealth that the 1st Brazilian Infantry division had marched north to reinforce Brazilian claims on the former British Guyana.

We are willing to fully endorse your nation as the successor to all British claims in Europe, at the expense that you accept the loss of Guyana.

[Joohan]

Kingdom of Serbia
Macedonian Forest, South of Skiope
March 9th, 23:17
A work camp

Spiridon was getting used to the Bulgars - a sentiment which he had never even contemplated before his time here at the camp. The nights festivities were finally coming to a close, and as the vodka ran dry, men began retiring to their tents. Though, of course, every night the workers of the camp drank vodka - tonight was a special occasion. For the last four weeks, the men had cut their way through the rugged hills of Macedonia, laying down hundreds of kilometers of railway in doing so; the line snaking it's way all over Macedonia. Today, they had finally reconnected with where they'd begun - the project was finished! Tomorrow, Spiridon and all the men of the camp would get to leave home for their families.

The Bulgars though, they wouldn't need to go far at all. Spiridon was initially from Belgrade, and took the job for some short term income - something which his wife and three sons needed. The government was always advertising new public works projects all over the country: power lines in Montenegro, Dams in Kosovo, pipe laying in Novi Sad, etc. Serbia had been devastated by the war, and even eight years into peacetime, and the nation was still rebuilding, with never enough workers. Of course, the military was the favored profession among able bodied men - and Spiridon himself had to agree. Though for lacking a decent pay, most individual expenses were taken care of ( least to mention a pride one felt for serving the fatherland ). Spiridon would have gladly rejoined the army, were it not for the blindness in his right eye ( an injury sustained while fighting Axis occupation during the second world war ). So, with no too many options and a familial duty to fulfill, he accepted the job and bid his family farewell for the next four weeks.

Upon arriving to the Macedonian camp however, he ( as well as nearly every Serb who had accompanied him ) were shocked to find that the camps inhabitants were almost exclusively Bulgarian! The disparity was at least six Bulgars to ever one Serb. They had heard that the Cadre had allowed refugees from the South temporarily settle in Macedonia, but never had they imagined so many; let alone, allowing them to take up jobs which should ( in their minds ) belong to Serbians.

Spiridon turned on his side while lying on his cot, trying to angle his ears away from the last few party goers outside. The darkness inside his tent was cut by the campfire light outside when his tent mate pulled the flaps back and walked in. Without opening his eyes, Spiridon greeted his tentmate, " Goodnight Hirsto. "

" leka nosht "

Hristo, Spiridon figured out, didn't know a single word of Serbian.

The first couple of weeks of working together between the Serbs and the Bulgars were rather tense. The Serbs had been used to thinking of the Bulgars as enemies for half a century. Their greed in the Balkan wars, the back stabbery in the Great War, and most recently having sided with the Axis. Serbs and Bulgars have been at each others throats ever since their respective Independence. The Bulgars though did not reciprocate their animosity - much to the surprise of men like Spiridon. They were not violent, tribalistic, or even bitter of the past. No, most of the men that Spiridon had come to know seemed simply tired. For where as the war in Serbia had ended years ago, it never really stopped in Bulgaria. Most of the men here at the camp were tired old men ejected from their homelands and forced to survive however they could. It's not like they wanted to be here. And what is more, though Spiridon hated to admit it, the Bulgars and Serbs had a lot in common:

Nearly every man at the camp was a veteran ( from opposing sides of course ), nearly all of them had families, all of them were Orthodox, everyone hated communists, and they all loved vodka!

Hirsto seemed to have been loving pretty hard at the party, Spiridon judged from how hard his friend fell onto his cot. Yes, he had come to somewhat enjoy their company. Though, that was not to say that all of his countrymen had. Most of the Serbs at camp had only begrudgingly accepted working along side the Bulgars ( the Cadre's monkey men had become a popular epithet recently ). In more private ( usually inebriated ) conversations between Serbs at the camp, many were of the opinion of sending the Bulgars back to their homeland - let the communists have their way with the fascist scum! Spiridon had kept his mouth shut during such talks - though he had grown found of his Bulgar coworkers, he wasn't going to out himself as some kind of sympathizer.

With the sounds of the party outside having finally past away, and with Hristo's drunk snoring as a kind of lullaby, Spiridon began to slowly drift off into sleep - visions of his sons running to meet him at the train station allowing him a final smile before oblivion.

Kingdom of Serbia
Underneath Belgrade
March 10th, 06:00
Underground Communication's Facility

Under the traitorous regime of Nedic, this facility had been the focal point of military operations and communications for his soldiers, as well as those of his masters ( the commanders of the Wehrmacht ). From this bunker, they would coordinate unspeakable crimes and atrocities for seven years - killing tens of thousands in an attempt to defeat those who would oppose their tyranny. From the secure confines of this facility, surely those men had felt isolated from the orders they gave - separated from the carnage and bloodshed which they inflicted. That is, until one fateful day in '47, when the Chetniks had finally discovered the existence of the facility and killed every man and woman inside. Their tomb now served as one of the most integral parts of Great Serbia's defense.

The chatter of men and machine in the room was almost deafening - the printing of spread sheets, phone ringing off the hook, the rapid chattering of type writers, the exhaust of war era computers running computations. The new nation's center for military comms appeared to be in a state of perpetual chaos and spontaneous activity. The whole facility seemed to operate by a system of rules and laws of which only the scattered and analytical mind of a specialist could comprehend. Within the main operating area, there were only two places which might have been considered tranquil: the RTO ( Real Time Tactical Operations ) map, a large map laid out close to the center of the room were in several specialists would constantly be moving figurines across a map of Southern Europe depending upon new information; and the conference room, which overlooked the chaos of the main operating room through the comfort of sound proof windows.

Five men were presently in the room: three generals of the army, one air marshal, and under secretary to the secretary of war. David Jovanovic. Jovanovic was oldest man in the room, showing his age nearing seventy. He seemed small in his gray uniform, and hardly had any silver hair left up on his head. His eyes were sharp though, and his movements likewise. Seated upright and forward at the conference table, his eyes raced across a dispatch in his hand. " Now, Marshal, your dispatch says that your carrier crafts would be able to make the flight into the Rhodope mountains from their Macedonian base to their drop zones within thirty minutes; was that... estimate taken with or without supplies on board? "

The air marshal ( the only marshal within the rather diminutive Serbian air force ) had sat himself directly upon the table top and puffing away anxiously at a pipe. Pulling from his mouth he responded surely, " The estimate was taken with supplies sir. Conducted two days ago over a series of flights. "

Jovanovic nodded over the papers before looking up at the sky marshal, " When the operation commences, it will be imperative that those paratroopers reach their destination in the anointed time. I don't think that I need to reiterate what is at stake here - the least of all your position marshal. "

" Hm... yes sir. " the marshal placed the pipe back into his mouth, still not used to being talked down to by others. None of the officers in the room were used to the matter frankly - but Jovanovic was a special case. Their appearance in Belgrade this morning was requested by Secretary of War. Hedzic in order to assess their current state of ready before the beginning of operation midwife. Jovanovic, his under secretary, was a direct representative on his part - placed to scrutinize every detail of their assembled commanders readiness state. Having been a colonel in the old Kingdom's army, years of military experience leadership had gifted Jovanovic a keen sense for disorder and weaknesses.

" General. Mamula. Please, remind me... " Placing his papers down in front of him, Jovanovic cast a steely glance towards the general who sat wide eyed and alert near the end of the table, " Upon your paratroopers drop into their respective checkpoints in the Rhodope mountains, what is the course of action in the Bulgarian theater for up to the three day mark? "

Clearing his throat, Mamula began, " Sir, the paratroopers will close the mountain pass using their explosive equipment. Upon completion, they will march North-west toward the city Blagoevgrad, were they will then be subsumed under the command of the 18th brigade and contribute to the siege. "

Jovanovic followed along with the dispatch as the general spoke, where upon Mamula had finally finished the under secretary paused before uttering a single word, " Sufficient. "

For hours they had been at this, and for hours more they would continue. Jovanovic would ensure that every detail of Operation midwife was ingrained in it's entirety to the generals before presenting his final report to his superior - who would no doubt provide said report to the regent himself.

[Conwy-Shire]

Oberkommando der Wehrmacht,
Deutschland

---

February 25th, 1955
Outside the Flemish Pocket,
Near Waregem

---

Unteroffizieranwärter Johann Weber grasped his Gewehr 43 with shivering hands, holding the trigger-section close in the folds of his patchy field coat. On a freezing Spring morning like this the metal felt ice-cold to the touch, and altogether far too dangerous in the hands of a sixteen year old. But here he was, tramping through the dew-laden grass of Flanders Fields. The crack of an errant branch snapped his attention back to the present. Alongside him, tramping along and sharing in the companionable silence, Unterfeldwebel Erhard cut a grizzled contrast to the green Johann. Erhard stopped, lifting his left leg to inspect the unfortunate branch severed by his boot.

"Afraid that Knochenkopf heard that?" the veteran asked, noticing Johann's surprise with a grin. Knochenkopf was soldier's slang for the SS military wing, and a diminutive of the Totenkopf worn as their badge. The crunch of frost under their boots resumed as they continued on.

"Uh, no, not-at-all" the boy spat out through chattering teeth. "Just damn cold is all."

Erhard nodded sagely at Johann's complaint, wistfully glancing down at his own left foot. The boy's eyes followed his and alighted on the veteran's metal prosthetic. He'd heard the stories from the other Soldaten at HQ. The Unterfeldwebel had served in Barbarossa, losing his foot to the frostbite and leaving the Wehrmacht with an honourable discharge, only to be re-conscripted once the civil-war broke out.

Their companionable silence resumed over the rest of the journey, breaking only when challenged by the watch post. It was a small dugout picket set into a hedgerow with a field of view covering a couple of square-kilometres worth of no-man's land. Further out - to the north-west - lay the Flemish pocket, where the last stubborn remnants of SS-Oberst-Gruppenführer Sepp Dietrich's command sat, starving and surrounded.

As Johann and Erhard settled into the outpost, the watchmen they were relieving took their farewells and made their way back to camp, their duties dispensed with for the day.

"I'll take first watch, boy," Erhard declared once they were both in the dugout. The veteran was scouring the dugout, searching cavities and lifting up papers, before he found his prize. "You take radio-duty and get a bit of shut-eye," he scrounged out a thin cigarette from within the folds of his coat, and flipped open the lighter he had just found. Johann opened his mouth to respond, but was too late - the grizzled veteran was already out the door, a thin line of smoke trailing behind.

~~~~~~

March 9th, 1955
Maybach II, Wünsdorf,
Near Zossen

---

A sense of urgency wafted through the halls of Maybach II, headquarters of the OKW. Whilst activity within the bunkers that housed the beating heart of the Wehrmacht had been muted for the past five years, foot-traffic had now sprung to life. Every pair of feet was carrying some important document or folio of intelligence from the Abwehr, or more importantly carrying trays of coffee to keep the Staff of the OKW awake and alert through the wee hours of the morning. The change was sudden and violent, but not unexpected. The SS had been split into three areas: the Flemish pocket, the Vorarlberg pocket, and the SS heartlands of the East. Blockades, bombing, and seasonal attrition had worn down both Vorarlberg and Flanders for the past decade, and whilst the OKW had committed to a defensive posture, the SS simply had too few supplies to sustain their forces.

It was understandable - and anticipated - then, that they would attempt a breakout; to go down in a blaze of glory, or perhaps in their misguided minds attempt to reconnect with the East. The time was fast-approaching, in-fact long overdue, but now that the Abwehr had picked up renewed radio chatter there was no more guessing. The frenzied activity had brought the High Council of the OKW together for preparatory war meetings. The Feldmarschälle were assembled in the Situation Room of Maybach II as Alfred Jodl, the Chief of Staff of the OKW, strode in. Flanking him were two adjutants, one bearing Manilla folders, the other: coffee.

"Mein Herren," he began, taking a seat near the middle of the table. The adjutant bearing coffee set down his load, and strode over to the typewriter to take the minutes. The clacking and whirring of the machine soon fell into the background. "Apologies for the timing. The inventories meeting just finished mere moments ago." Brows around the table were furrowed. The Inventories meeting was notorious for being quick and uneventful, merely rubber-stamping the continuation of materiel-production for the next month. "It seems, mein Herren, that two factory-complexes in the Ruhr never received the order to modify their production lines to Gewehr 43s. We never received confirmation for the production order from them because they were bombed in 1948. However, the local company undertook repairs and resumed production two years ago."

"And what, Jodl, were they producing?" von Leeb interjected, leaning over the table.

"Panthers."

Eyebrows shot up in disbelief. Not a single tank had been ordered for construction since the adoption of their defensive posture, and now two-years' worth of production sitting in stockpile.

"Panthers, you say?" Manstein piped up excitedly. "We'll have to get someone who can command them, and review Guderian's old tactics."

Jodl nodded. "That will be your job Manstein, and any subsequent use of those Panthers will be under your command." No-one moved to dissent, but as Manstein rose to take his leave Jodl cleared his throat. "But before you leave, we also have a matter of civilian governance to decide. The VDV, whilst successful in re-establishing local governance, is having trouble determining what form of government the German State will take on once we drive out the SS…"

"Ha," this time the interjection came from Model. "They'll want another Weimar Republic to drag us back down to the dirt. Never another Weimar, I say. No more republics." affirmative murmurs sung around the room.

"Prince Louis Ferdinand is currently residing in Hohenzollern Castle" von Küchler broke in. "A curtailed, even constitutional, monarchy would be palatable to both the liberals and the traditionalists." Manstein and Kluge nodded emphatically, the three of them - and most of the General Staff - were Prussian aristocrats through and through. "Especially when the alternative is a continued military junta."

Jodl outwardly groaned at the thought of keeping this military administration running for the foreseeable future. "I'll present the options to the VDV in Berlin. Let's hope they can be decisive on the matter. That was all mein Herren." The clacking of the typewriter ceased as the meeting came to a close.

---

[Nea Byzantia]

People's Gazette

ANKARA LIBERATED! PEOPLE'S ARMY DRIVE FASCIST OPPRESSORS FROM TURKISH CAPITAL!

March 9th - Truly a momentous occasion for our Glorious Revolution, as the hammer and sickle was hoisted above the Presidential Palace, where for so long, the Oppressors of the People reigned. Crowds of happy Turks greeted the People''s Army with flowers, flags and portraits of Supreme Leader Velouhiotis and Premiers Husnu and Yanukov. The 4 year siege has finally been brought to an end, and with it, hopefully soon, the War. Supreme Leader Velouhiotis, speaking from the People's Palace in Constantinople said "This is the tightening of the noose around the neck of the Fascist Military Turkish Regime."

Reports from POWs state that Turkish Dictator, Hayreddin Gumlek, who seized power after the assassination of Inonu some 5 years ago, fled the capital late last night, taking with him the Turkish gold reserve. In the Presidential Palace was discovered all manner of jewels and fine works of art looted from the nation's museums by Gumlek and his thugs. Once again, and example of petty bourgeois tyranny that Gumleck embodies. Military sources claim the Fascist forces have retreated East of the city, and are hoping to take shelter in the central Anatolian Highlands. Among the slain was Enver Pashredan, the ruthless head of the Fascist Secret Police, who was justly hung by a group of brave People's Army soldiers.

"Let this be a sign of things to come," proclaimed Premier Husnu, "The Dark Night of Fascism in Turkey is ending; and the bright dawn of Revolution is coming! May it spread to other lands also!"

---

People's Palace, Constantinople, Province of East Thrace, Union of Balkan Socialist Republics, March 9th, 1955



Thunderous applause erupted from the crowd of Party Officials and Members of the Politburo as Supreme Leader Velouhiotis finished his speech congratulating Premier Husnu and the brave soldiers of the People's Army who's courage had won the day at Ankara. As the applause died down, Velouhiotis continued.

"Comrades, there is one other thing I would like to say - one other item on our agenda before we turn our attention to the wonderful banquet prepared for us this evening. I would like to call forward Comrade Nikephoros Kotzimakis, my devoted friend and tireless assistant." The Party apparatchiks slavishly applauded as Kotzimakis came to the front. "Due to his qualifications, and tireless devotion to the cause of the Revolution and the continued stability of our Union of Balkan Socialist Republics, I am officially naming Comrade Kotzimakis as my secon-in-command; General Secretary of Internal Party Affairs!" More applause.

Supreme Leader Velouhiotis pinned a medal on Kotzimakis' lapel, and embraced him in a hug.

"Thank you." whispered Kotzimakis

"No, no. Thank you." replied Velouhiotis.

The applause continued on, and Kotzimakis - despite being reviled by half the Officials in the room as a parvenu hack, received a standing ovation. The hypocrisy was nigh unpalatable; but such was affairs in the People's Palace. As Kotzimakis returned to his seat, he received friendly claps on the back, and whispers of "Congratulations, Comrade", etc. All just as hollow and empty as the applause. Niko knew better; all these simpering sycophants would be the first to plunge their knives into his back, if and when they got the chance. Best to make sure they never got to. Half of these people I will kill when I become Leader, decided Kotzimakis in his head. At least half, maybe more.

As the lower and mid-ranking Party Officialdom made its way to the main banqueting hall for refreshments, Supreme Leader Velouhiotis, Kotzimakis and others of the Leader's Inner Circle, took shelter in a more private dining room; sealed off from prying eyes and ears. Arrayed before them was not the fancy finger-food, caviar and champagne of the Outer Court, but rather, simple homey dishes; gyro ala klephtiko with rice, tzatziki, a simple garden salad, and of course, retsina.

Seated with them was Kosta Mavrocordatopoulos, the Head of the People's Internal Security Service (the Intelligence Agency), PISS. As well as several high-ranking Generals and others. Kotzimakis realized he was seated among the Sovereign Council. Only two people were missing; the two Premiers: Yanukov and Husnu. As soon as the doors were shut, and everyone was seated on pillows on the floor, Arab-style, Velouhiotis turned to Mavrocordatopoulos.

"Kosta, is everything set up?"

"Yes, Supreme Leader, as per your instructions."

"Good. Let's eat!"

[Robo-Nixon]

March 11th, 1955. Buenos Aires, Argentina.

Walking back and forth by the balcony door in the Hotel Savoy junior suite did not shake out any good ideas from the Boston-accented Senator's brain. The American special delegation to Argentina had spent the day before struggling to come into contact with Argentine authorities at an appropriate level that would meet with them. The US embassy had not been to much help, lacking a proper ambassador for the moment and led by an obnoxious and disagreeable Chargé d'affaires that did not seem to understand the gravity of the situation in the same manner as the Special Envoys. The only meeting they'd held so far had been a dinner with an Argentine diplomat at the hotel's restaurant, during which little else than small talk and the basis US-Argentine relations had been discussed. Nixon, the older of the two envoys, had tried getting some information about war intentions, Argentine plans and whether or not there was any chance of successful diplomatic interference for this conflict. Kennedy had tried charming him, trying to impress the diplomat with a few Spanish phrases he'd picked up. Since they had not produced any valuable information for Washington whatsoever, nor had they met with Argentine officials, they would be, approaching the deadline, considered to have failed in this diplomatic responsibility.

"The political reality is that American influence down here is limited." Kennedy crossed his arms. His Senatorial colleague looked up from his yellow notepad.

"Think for a second. What do they want? What do we want? What do we both want?" Nixon frowned.

"Easy." The man standing answered. "They want Tierra del Fuego. We want peace and trade. Both of us..." He pondered the question. "Both of us would benefit from a foreign policy victory at home..."

"That's not a sufficient answer. Who are 'us', in that context?"

"You and me Dick. And El Presidente of Argentina. We have a free mandate to negotiate, what if we manage to steer this conflict off and spin it as a necessary policy for peace, recognizing Tierra del Fuego and ensuring some compensation to Chile?"

"Have even you read the CIA reports? Do you think I accepted President Dirksen's offer to join you because I wanted to win voters?"

Kennedy grinned, not fully convinced. The two men resolved that they'd report back to Washington before considering going home empty-handed.

March 11th, 1955. Langley, Virginia, United States.

"So, gentlemen". The man smoking the branded Cuban cigar spoke. "I believe we are ready to go from intelligence to action."

The CIA executives and operatives, gathered in the "red room", had fresh intelligence from Argentina. The bombing of Santiago de Chile, including its civilian airport, was the triggering event of the conflict that was to unfold.

"Delay sending this intelligence to the President", said Richard Bissell, the Director, "...we'll compile a report and make him our foremost weapon today. Meanwhile, we must get in touch with DOD and ensure we have resource backing if we must."

"Sir!" Exclaimed a young staffer, interrupting the room's business with a freshly sealed leather folder. "Brazil." He said, simply, placing it on the table. They all reviewed the information, of troop movements and meetings between Chilean and Brazilian officials.

"This might not be our war to fight, boys." Bissell said, satisfied, chewing his cigar. "Nontheless, approve a plan for the State department to offer Brazil 4,000 military advisors. Additionally, we'll try to get an airstrip built somewhere to further military presence and hence, our ability to participate in the events. I also want the Ecuador plan approved. Our contact with the Ecuadorian President will secure it. All we need is DOD's approval to anchor the 4th on the South American West Coast. Let's get this party started."

As the foremost hawk of the Dirksen administration, Bissell might have thought he was going to war at this point.

March 12th, 1955. 'Shangri-La' (OTL Camp David), Maryland, United States.

'Shangri-La', the country retreat of the President of the United States

President Everett Dirksen, sporting khaki pants, sweater, shirt and tie under the unbuttoned coat, escorted his political adversary, but nontheless friend, Speaker Sam Rayburn, across the grounds. Distressed by foreign policy talks in Washington and urges from all kinds of warhawks and internationalists to the President for him to clamp down on Argentina with a firm grasp, he escaped to the solace of what the late President Roosevelt had called his 'Shangri-La'. With approval ratings falling, slowly but steadily, Dirksen reasoned that domestic legislation that could show a real difference in the lives of people would secure his way to reelection the next year. With tensions growing abroad, he feared he could not expect to push through policy through congress fast enough, but he was not one to back down from a challenge.

Speaker Sam Rayburn was far more veteran than Dirksen, serving in his current capacity for the third time and commanding a powerful Democratic coalition in congress. Needless to say, the two had good reasons to cooperate, as neither party would benefit from political inaction in a time that required rapid and swift government intervention. Air pollution in dense industrial centers, housing shortages and a lack of highways for a nation with an ever-growing fraction of cars per capita, and it was on the latter issue that the two were meeting with their staffs in Shangri-La to negotiate funding for a national highway system. Allocating more than $20 billion dollars to a Federal Highway Trust Fund to accelerate the growth of the Interstate Highway System was deemed necessary, and so Rayburn had agreed to take part in this bipartisan investment, a natural continuation to the 1952 Presidential campaign during which Democratic candidate Averell Harriman had been the foremost proponent of this policy. The negotiations were friendly, the President being on better terms with Rayburn than others considering that they were joined together by the Conservative coalition created and maintained by Robert Taft. The coalition, dependent on its uniting figure and reluctance to engage in the world around the United States in the long run, however, was deemed to be breaking down.

"Mr. President, call from State." The after-talk coffee was interrupted by a Presidential advisor, and Rayburn waved him off in a friendly manner. Matters abroad could not be procrastinated.

"Alright Mickey, I'll take it in the main lodge." The President excused himself and made it uphill to his comfortable couch, allowing the Secretary of State's voice to come through. "David, what's important?"

"Argentina, Mr. President. We have the opportunity to deescalate this crisis by increased presence in the region. I need a green light for DOD to go ahead with a peace-plan involving Brazil."

The President, distraught by the need for the United States under his leadership to get engaged at all in the emerging conflict, sighed and scratched his forehead.

"You have my consent to go ahead. As you know, I'm tied up in Shangri-La talks and this is an administration priority at the moment. Goodbye."

Code: Select all

DISPATCH FROM THE STATE DEPARTMENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - ISSUED TO THE BRAZILIAN MINISTRY OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS - IN REGARDS TO CHILE-ARGENTINA CRISIS

-WITH ENSUING WAR AS A PREMISE, THE UNITED STATES SEEKS THE RESPONSIBILITY TO ASSIST THE BORDERING REGIONS WITH STABILITY, OFFERING TO:

-STATION 4,000 MILITARY ADVISORS WITH PROTECTIVE EQUIPMENT IN PORTO ALEGRE

-CONSTRUCT A MILITARY AIRPORT WITH UNITED STATES FUNDING TO PROVIDE SOUTHERN BRAZIL WITH AIR PROTECTION FROM POTENTIAL THREATS

-HOLD IMMEDIATE BILATERAL TALKS BETWEEN THE UNITED STATES AND BRAZIL TO FURTHER DEFENSIVE COOPERATION


In addition to the Brazil dispatch, the CIA contacts in the Ecuadorian government secured the naval base rights for the C-contingent of the United States Navy's 4th fleet, including the USS Iowa and USS New Jersey battleships, eighteen cruisers, twelve destroyers and the USS Essex, an outdated aircraft carrier, for stationing near Salinas, Ecuador. In addition, a diplomatic protest was sent to the Argentine government.

To: The Argentine Ministry of Foreign Affairs
From: The United States State Department

The United States of America fiercely condemns Argentine actions of war against the Republic of Chile. The Argentine Armed Forces are to stand down, halt all military action and rescind hostile action to solve the ongoing crisis by arbitration or face severe diplomatic and economic consequences that are unlikely to have a favorable end for Argentina.

Sincerely,
Secretary of State David K. E. Bruce.

[Reverend Norv]

SS-controlled German Reich
Near Prague
21:18, 7 March 1955
Home of Standartenführer Ernst Richter

The doorbell rang just after Marta was finished taking the children to bed, and Ernst felt dread flicker in his stomach as soon as he heard it. The traitors have broken through, he thought. I'll be called back to the front. My leave will be cancelled. He thought of his girls upstairs in bed, and closed his eyes against the pain of needing to leave them again so soon.

And then, because he had always done his duty by Führer and Fatherland, Ernst stood and walked to the door and opened it. Outside, at the end of the long driveway through the rolling hills of Bohemia, stood a man in the black uniform of the Schutzstaffel. He was of middling height and sallow complexion. In the gloom, the man squinted slightly at Ernst, and then asked: "Standartenführer Richter?"

Unbeknownst to the visitor, Ernst put his hand gently on the pistol that he kept on a table beside the door. Something is wrong here. "Yes?" he answered.

The second man, also in SS uniform, had been flat against the outside wall of the house, next to the door, where Ernst couldn't see him. He stepped into the doorway in one smooth motion, a Luger already in his hand. But Ernst was fast too: he seized the pistol on the table and tried to raise it. Before he could complete the motion, the first man - the sallow stranger - took a half-step forward, grabbed Ernst's gun by the barrel, and bent it backward until the front sight touched the back of Ernst's wrist.

The SS officer heard his index finger snap in the trigger guard like a dry branch. The pain was a thunderbolt, and it dropped him to his knees in the doorway, but he bit down on his tongue to stifle his scream.

Behind him, Ernst heard Marta's footsteps coming down the stairs. "Ernst?" she called.

The first stranger ripped Ernst's gun out of his broken hand and pointed it at the officer's head. The man's Swabian accent fell away, and was replaced by a Polish inflection. "Tell her to turn around," he said.

The brief struggle had hiked up the sleeves of the stranger's uniform. On his knees, looking up, Ernst could see the black line of numbers tattooed on the inside of the other man's forearm. Understanding struck him like a bullet, and he spat on the Jew's shoes. "Swine," Ernst hissed.

Somewhere behind Ernst, Marta let out a soft cry of despair. She doesn't want to wake the children. The stranger cocked Ernst's Walther. "Tell her to turn around," the man repeated.

Ernst cradled his broken hand. Without turning his head, he softly called: "Marta, turn around." There was a pause, and then he heard quiet sobbing and the rustle of his wife's skirts as she turned her back.

The Jew in the SS uniform looked at his companion for a moment, and then took off his cap and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Standartenführer Richter," he said, "you commanded an einsatzgruppe in the Ukraine in 1941 and 1942." The man's voice was taut as a violin string, fighting for control. "In that capacity, you supervised the murder of between five and seven thousand innocent people."

Ernst snorted. "Innocent," he repeated. He shook his head. "I won't beg, swine. They all begged, you know. All your little friends. I won't beg."

For a moment, the stranger's eyes were very far away, and then he looked down at Ernst. "This is for my father, Haskel," he said quietly. "And my sisters, Rifkah and Yudel. And my little brother Alter, who was five years old." He put the barrel of the Walther against Ernst's forehead. It felt very cold. "You didn't leave enough of them for my mother and me to bury. But we are not like you. Your family will have a grave to mourn your worthless life. That is our mercy."

Ernst looked up at the man, and tried to think of something more to say.

The Walther made a flat, snapping bang that echoed from the corners of Ernst Richter's living room. Marta, her back still turned, screamed like she had been shot too. From above, on the second floor, came the patter of small running feet.

Anshel Kessler turned away from the door, and tossed Ernst's Walther into the flowerbushes. He waited, as he always did, for the tears that never came. And by the time Marta ran to her husband's body and dropped to her knees in the warm blood that surrounded it, Anshel and his partner had vanished into the night as if they had never been there at all.

* * *

State of Israel
West Jerusalem
10:04, 9 March 1955
Givat Ram (Government Precinct)

The Prime Minister's office, Shimon Peres always thought, was a triumph of Labor Zionism. The Americans had the White House; the French, their opulent Palais du President. Israel had a boxy six-story office building built of sand-colored stone, its outer walls encrusted with humming air conditioning units. It resembled nothing more than a freshman dormitory at some American university, or the corporate headquarters of a minor insurance company. The building was entirely practical, modest, unglamorous, egalitarian. It inspired hard work and humility, not pride and grandeur. And that was, of course, the whole point.

Inside, on the second floor, was the cabinet chamber. It, too, was almost aggressively modest: whitewashed walls, tile floors, a plain hardwood table. Except for the maps of Israel adorning the walls, it could have been a dining room in any middle-class public housing development. Around that table, now, were clustered a handful of men in casual linen suits or olive-drab fatigues. And at the table's head sat an old woman in a floral print shirt and khaki slacks. She was short and stout, with swift intelligent eyes behind her large glasses, her wiry grey hair pulled back in a bun. This was Golda Meir: Israel's second prime minister, the Iron Lady of the new state, the guardian and grandmother of the Jewish people.

"Before we begin," Isser Harel was saying, "some good news." The burly, shaven-headed Mossad director - head of one of Israel's intelligence services and founder of another, the spymaster par excellence of the Jewish state - allowed himself a tight smile. "Ernst Richter, the Butcher of Žitomir, was executed at his estate outside Prague two nights ago."

A murmur of approval ran around the table. Harel nodded toward Moshe Dayan: the lean and balding general in olive-drab fatigues, one eye covered by a black patch. "As always," Harel added, "I am grateful for the assistance of the Palmach in the final stages of this operation." Dayan offered his own nod in return, and waved one hand, as if embarrassed by Harel's thanks. Peres covered his swift smile with one hand.

"One less Nazi in the world," Meir concluded. She rubbed the arm of her chair. "And the Wehrmacht is close to closing the Flemish Pocket." The prime minister's tone betrayed no enthusiasm for that fact, only grim anticipation. The German Army might be fighting the SS now, Peres thought, but the Oberkommando were willing accomplices to Hitler's crimes for more than a decade. It would take much more than a civil war for anyone in Israel to forget that fact.

"We believe that the Schutzstaffel's days are numbered," Peres agreed. He raised his eyebrows. "But we do not believe that the Nazi leadership intends to go down with their ship. In fact, some of them have already left Europe, and many others are planning their escape."

Meir pinched the bridge of her nose. "Where?"

"South Africa, for some of them," Isser Harel replied quietly. "Argentina, for many others. Peron needs military and industrial experts, and doesn't much care where they come from. And there are strong right-wing organizations in both countries willing to help shelter former Nazis."

"We are watching the conflict with Chile in part for this reason," Moshe Dayan added. "If there are Nazis working for Argentina, their tactics and experience will likely be reflected in how the Argentinians fight."

Meir leaned her elbows on the table. She didn't look at anyone in particular. "When I first came here in 1921, everything seemed new," she remarked distantly. "I was on a kibbutz then, with my husband. We farmed and wrote and argued. We believed that we had left history behind. That we could build a new world here, and let the old one die." The old woman shook her head. "I never imagined that we would spend the first years of our independence hunting murderers to the ends of the Earth. Blood for blood, year after year, just like it's always been." She looked at Dayan. "Do you ever feel that we have lost our way, Moshe?"

The one-eyed soldier was silent for a moment, and then shook his head. "No," he replied. "Wherever they run, they carry their cancer with them. We are all that remains of our people. We can't take that risk."

Meir nodded sadly, and then straightened her back. "Isser. Moshe. I want a preliminary assessment of the level of Nazi infiltration in Argentina. If they are just hiding, do nothing without my authorization. But if any of them have made their way into the government or military, kill them before they can amass any further influence." She looked out over the frames of her glasses. "Understood?"

Dayan nodded. Harel said, "Yes, Rosh HaMemshala."

"I will go to Washington," Peres suggested. "The Americans need to be informed. Quietly. Otherwise, they may take any covert action in Argentina as a violation of the Monroe Doctrine."

Meir nodded. "Yes. But Shimon: we inform them, yes? We do not ask their permission. Make sure they understand."

Peres nodded, and then took a deep breath. "There is one more thing, Prime Minister. As you know, the communists have taken Ankara. And Isser believes that the Serbs are moving troops toward the Thracian frontier." Peres squared his shoulders. "I believe that we can no longer afford to remain neutral in this situation. The Balkan Union, if it secures control over Turkey, could be a crucial ally against any future Arab invasion of Israel."

"The Union is dysfunctional," Harel observed sourly.

"Which suits us fine," Peres shot back. "They are too divided to bully us, but strong enough to deter aggression by our neighbors. The perfect ally."

Meir chucked drily. "And we are not - how to put it? - spoiled for choices, in this moment."

Dayan nodded. "The Chetniks may have fought the Nazis, but there's a reason why Serbia's Jews fought for the Partisans. There is no more room in Dusan's Greater Serbia for Jews than there is for Croats." He shook his head. "If we are to pick a side, then it must be the Union."

Meir nodded again. "All right. Shimon, go to Washington. Isser, assess the situation in Argentina. Moshe, go to Constantinople and offer Velouhiotis our assistance. Training, advisers, arms, limited air support. No dedicated Haganah combat units." The Prime Minister raised one arthritic finger. "I want this handled military-to-military, Moshe. Don't involve the foreign ministry. Shimon has enough to deal with as it is."

Dayan's teeth flashed white in a rare smile. "I understand," he agreed.

"Good." Meir checked her watch. "Now, I am due in ninety minutes in Kfar Saba to inaugurate a new kibbutz. So unless there's anything else, gentlemen?"

Dayan, Harel, and Shimun all shook their heads. Meir nodded. "Excellent. Keep me apprised." And with that, the old woman struggled up from her chair, and marched determinedly on to her next engagement.

Isser Harel stared after her for a moment, and then remarked: "You know, I genuinely am not sure if there's anything on Earth that can kill that woman."

Peres grinned, and offered his hand to Dayan. "Good luck in Constantinople, Moshe."

The general's handshake was firm. "And to you in Washington, Shimon."

[Joohan]

Kingdom of Serbia
Macedonian countryside
March 15th, 20:11
Village Tavern

The chilling winds outside cut through the empty streets of the quiet village, perturbing the otherwise peaceful night. An unusually frigid march evening, the townsfolk had heartily taken to the warmth of their homes - except for those to be found at the tavern. Near the edge of the village, the rugged cobblestone tavern shined like a beacon of merriment and debauchery. The inside of the establishment would have been hard to distinguish from any typical barn, were it not for the tender's booth along the wall.

The tavern held two floors, and a wide open space in the middle which the upper levels could look down on. Having no electricity ( like the rest of the village ), the interior of the tavern was illuminated by a roaring fireplace and candles set about all over. A musical troope had been staying in the town for the last two days, having been given the privilege of preforming at the local air force base for Serbia's defenders. They had decided that tonight was a fine night for drinking - and what is more, a fine night for music! Tapping their feet, and shrilling with glee, the troope sat in a circle at the center of the tavern and played the most gay and rousing drinking songs they could think of. Inside the circle, women and girls danced and clapped and laughed along as the music played - some drunk, some just happy. There were actually quite a disproportionate amount of women in the tavern that night. A shortage of men since the war had made Serbia a much more womanly country - something which Vlado did not mind.

Seated at a booth along the wall, Vlado and his comrades quietly watched the girls dancing around the flutes and drums. Vlado, or one of his mates, usually would have tried for a pass at one of them by now - but tonight they sat solemnly, and drank their vodka quietly. Though he couldn't speak for the others, Vlado was sure it was the nerves. At nineteen years old, Pfc. Vlado Kandic considered himself one of the luckiest boys in Serbia. Having joined the Army two years ago as an illiterate and naive seventeen year old, he was now apart of the exclusive and prestigious Airborne Infantry Corp ( and, on top of that, could now also read ). Vlado could count himself among the only one hundred and fifty men of the Serbian Army who could proudly hold the title of paratrooper - an honor earned through only the harshest of training, the memory of which made him chuckle coolly as he took another drink from his glass.

He was quite sure it was the nerves. In addition to the hollowed title of paratrooper, and distinctive maroon beret, members of the AIC were also granted exclusive knowledge reserved from the rest of the public - and indeed, even the military at large. Knowledge, such as the approaching Operation Midwife. Looking across the booth towards his platoon sergeant, a grizzled veteran of the resistance and civil war years, Vlado studied the scars on pain across his face. Vlado had been too young to fight during those days, his mother ensuring that all her children seldom leave the home for fear of the war ever reaching her young. Vlado's father though - he had fought. Mr. Kandic had just recently graduated from medical school when the Germans had decided to invade. At first he had tried to continue making a living as a physician under the Nedic regime, but with Nazi reprisals murdering a maiming his countrymen on a genocidal scale, he had realized he could no longer simply go about saving life; he had dropped his scalpel, and picked up a rifle. Vlado had been far too young to understand at the time of his father's selfless sacrifice - only knowing that he did not often see get to see his dad. His mother would, on quiet and lonely nights, tell Vlado stories about his brave and courageous warrior father - about his heroic fight against the fascists, and how he was helping to save the kingdom.

Mr. Kandic would be killed during Mihailović's misadventure into Croatia. His father's sacrifice would be the burning drive inside Vlado which drove the boy to manhood, to aspire to become a warrior his father could be proud of. Not only would Vlado become a soldier, he would become one of the best soldiers in the entire military! He was AIC, a paratrooper ( Freedom or Death ). Though, now looking at the scared faced of his grizzled platoon sergeant, Vlado was finally beginning to understand just how close to death he might be coming. He and his comrades would be dropping into the Rhodope mountains, deep behind enemy lines, in harsh tundra like conditions, and expected to survive for up to three days before ever seeing another friendly face; and it was all going down in just a few more weeks.

Vlado knew the risks of his chosen profession, just like his father had - and like him, he was willing to put his life down for the Fatherland! Still though, finishing off the last of his glass before leaning his head up against wood of the seat behind him to stifle his light headedness, he'd rather live to tell his war stories himself.

---

---

Kingdom of Serbia
Belgrade, State Department
March 16, 10:14
Office of Secretary. David Babic

He still couldn't believe their luck. Babic continued running his fingers over the various pictures, papers, pens, and other various objects which littered his desk one more time before his meeting - ensuring that it all looked pleasing in a cleanly aesthetic. The red sultan murdered - and his henchman Papadoulias likely murdered too. And coinciding with operation midwife... it seemed like almost divine intervention.

Babic held a somewhat more refined taste for high culture and refinement, something which was clearly reflected in the diplomat's personal work space. His office was a spacious and opulent setting, heavily borrowing themes and trends from the royals of the old kingdom. In his office, Babic sought to impress and entertain his guests with the more refined aspects of Serbian culture. Busts of Constantine the Great ( a native Serbian ) adorned hallowed places across the room, portraits of Peter I and Zivko Dusan hung side by side, a painting of the battle of Smederevo hung over an ornately gilded fireplace. the attendant and Babic's personal aide was adorned in a stately black uniform. Babic even served raspberry wine, in the place of the typical cheap vodka consumed by the great majority of Serbian peasants. Well, not for this meeting at least. No, tea would at the ready, because it so happened that Babic's scheduled visitor did not consume alcohol.

Truly, were it not for Hadzic being such an irreconcilable beast and brute, I might congratulate him on the good fortunes of Midwife. But, seeing as how that isn't going to change anytime soon...

At exactly 10:15, the extravagant white and gold doors of Babic's office were opened by another stately attendant in black uniform. " Mr. Secretary, Mr. Shehu, has arrived. "

Standing just behind the attendant, just past the door frame, stood a diminutive man in a rather plain green suit. His dark, almost Turkish complexion, as well as white taqiyah, immediately presented Mr. Shehu as an Albanian - one of eight thousand having fled from into Serbia from the USBR.

" Please, welcome him in. "

Standing to one side, the attendant allowed for the wiry frame of the former lawyer turned refugee leader into Babic's opulent office. Coming around from his desk with a diplomat's smile, Babic extended his hand with the utmost amiability. " Thank you for making the journey to Belgrade Mr. Shehu. " And as the he clasped the hand of the Albanian, the attendant made his exit from the room - leaving only Babic, Shehu, and Babic's personal aide.

" It was no bother at all Mr. Secretary, the new railroads down there run quite smooth. " Shehu's Serbian was heavily accented, but still far superior to Babic's Albanian. Placing a hand on his shoulder and bringing Shehu back to his desk, Babic continued,

" Please, sit down Mr. Shehu. My assistant has already prepared tea for us. " Right on cue, as both men had taken their seat, Babic's personal aide had laid a silver platter down upon the desk between them, and had begun pouring tea into the ornate china cups. Ever since the end of the second world war, tea had become a rare and desirable luxury throughout Serbia. The few bags of tea leaves which Babic kept in his possession were worth a fortune - and here his assistant had brewed an entire kettle! Shehu's eye's widened at the sight of the brown liquid pouring into his cup, the exact reaction which Babic had desired.

" You are too kind Mr. Secretary. "

Babic chuckled, " Oh nonsense. We in Belgrade understand the importance of keeping allies satisfied and amiable. " As the two brought the cups up to their mouths, they each paused briefly, Shehu to smell the wonderful smell of his drink, and Babic to capture the moment. As they both downed the warm and wonderful elixir, they each let out a sigh of pleasure.

" Ahhh. Well... then, if I may... delve immediately into the subject. What is the nature of my visit to Belgrade? Your subordinates were quite cryptic about the purpose of our meeting. " Hmm, Babic thought to himself, maybe his Serbian wasn't that bad after all?

" Oh, well, yes. Their secrecy was reasonable - as the nature of this meeting is of great importance. "

Shehu placed his cup back down upon it's plate and uttered his guess, " Is it in regards to the death of Husnu? Mr. Secretary, my constituents have been tracking the situation with much excitement. "

Babic gave a one sided smile as he placed his own cup down, before looking back up at Shehu. " It does, but I will expand upon that later. Your purpose here today, is for my government to inquire you about establishing of your own government, for the governorship of you fellow Albanians. "

The statement left a physical pause in the room. Babic continued to sip at his tea as Shehu could only sit in silence at stare at the secretary - disbelief etched upon his face. " You mean... a government-in-exile? "

Babic's smile now fully reached ear to ear as he pushed his cup away and leaned forward in his chair, " Not exactly. "

[Nea Byzantia]

People's Gazette

FASCIST TREACHERY IN IZMIR (SMYRNA)! PREMIER HUSNU MURDERED IN HIS BED!


(Hotel Grand Oriente, where Premier Husnu was staying on the eve of his assassination)

March 10th -A sad day for the Revolution, Comrades. A day that will live on in infamy. After a stirring speech and a night of revelry and celebration, Premier Husnu retired to his bed, to get some much needed rest. However, in the early hours of the morning, 4:00 am to be precise, armed assaillants entered his bedchamber, and stabbed the Premier to death multiple times. People's Army troops fortunately managed to corner the assassins as they attempted to make their escape from the Grand Oriente Hotel, where Premier Husnu and the Military Command were staying. All but one of the assassins was killed in the ensuing firefight, as the assassins attempted to fight their way out of the building. The captured assassin has been taken into People's Internal Security Service custody, for questioning. Supreme Leader Velouhiotis shed tears today, as he declared "Justice will be served; we will hunt down all those responsible, and those responsible will pay."

Some theorize that this cowardly assassination was an act of spite and revenge orchestrated by Fascist Tyrant Hayreddin Gumlek. "I wouldn't put it past Gumlek." said Senior Party Official Ismail Seytanoglu, "He is so monstrous; so devious and deceitful that he is less than human in my eyes. More akin to a savage beast."

Others, like the recently appointed General Secretary of Internal Party Affairs, Nikephoros Kotzimakis suggest the assassination have darker implications, "It is impossible that such a high-profile murder did not occur without some insider knowledge. Clearly, this points to an internal, Fascist conspiracy, embedded into our Military and Intelligence Agencies. Somebody knew this was going to happen, and did not act - either through negligence, or Heavens forbid, by design. This is a very real and sobering possibility."

The investigation is ongoing, and we will report the news as it comes out.

---

Athens, Province of Attika, Union of Balkan Socialist Republics, March 11th, 1955



Commissar Antonis Papadoulias sat down to eat his midday meal, in the dining room of the People's Hall in Athens, formerly the House of Parliament, until the Metaxas Dictatorship came to power in 1936, of course. Papadoulias had been a young Communist agitator back then. Not anybody important. Just some low-life peasant from Kephalonia. In 1937, he had made an attempt on the life of the Dictator himself. But Metaxas, upon discovering Papadoulias was Kephalonian (Metaxas himself grew up on Kephalonia), remanded the intial execution order to life-imprisonment. That was the story according to Papadoulias anyways. Since escaping prison in 1941, during the chaos of the German Invasion, Papadoulias joined EAM, moved his way up the Party ranks and had earned himself a cushy position in Athens. Not bad for a hick from Kephalonia. Since then, he had grown in both girth and arrogance, with the proletariat calling him "Fat Tony", even some Party officials took to calling him that (behind his back, of course).

"Who do you think killed him?" asked Papadoulias as he put down the newspaper he was reading, and forked another bite of pastitsio into his mouth. Chief of People's Police in Athens, Evgenios Loutrakios sat across from him.



"Seems awfully fishy to me." replied Loutrakios, ever cautious

"Ah, I don't like the implications of all this...'insider' talk coming from that cocky kid, Kotzimakis. I have a feeling there will be blood paid for this; within the Party, I mean." he paused, took a swig of retsina, and kept talking. "For all we know, that malaka Kotzimakis may have pulled off the murder himself, and he has Velouhiotis following him around like a gaithouri."(Greek word for donkey, used to denote a simpleton or idiot)

Loutrakios shrugged. "Could be."

" 'Could be?' I'm convinced!" insisted Papadoulias, pounding his meaty fist on the table "And next time I'm in Constantinople, I'll set Velouhiotis straight! Him and I are like brothers, you know. We go way back. Before the Revolution. Did I ever tell you the story about how I saved his life, single-handedly from an entire German battalion?"

Loutrakios sighed. He had heard the "true story", a million times, but he kept his mouth shut.

Fortunately, he was saved from the tedium by a guard who came running in.

"Sirs! You have to get out of here...NOW!"

"What the hell is going on?!!!" demanded Papadoulias rising from his seat, "Who are you? Why are you here!"

"The mob!...They came up from Piraeus...tens of thousands, armed with pitchforks, paving stones, everything...we...we tried to stop them, but...but"

"Where are they now?" asked Papadoulias.

Loutrakios pointed out the window into Syntagma Square below. Airisng out of the belly of the mob was a deafening cry:

"DEATH TO THE PIGS! DEATH TO THE GRAIN-HOARDERS! DEATH TO THE RED SULTAN!"

"We are so..." Papadoulias was interrupted by the sound of a brick coming flying through the window. He jumped back with remarkable agility for a man so rotund.

Reports of gunfire and glass smashing came from the hallway.

Suddenly, a mob of half-starved, filthy proletarians came charging through the doors of the ornate dining room; armed with pitchforks, hoes, sledge hammers and other makeshift clubs, most caked with blood; the people were too.

"There he is, the Malaka!" they shouted. Before Papadoulias could even react, he was picked up by the mob and tossed out the open window, head-first! His head burst open upon the pavement like a melon, with a splat. As for Loutrakios and the guard, neither survived the bludgeoning they received from the mob. Meanwhile, all around, Athens burned.

[Labstoska]

Across the Commonwealth ploughshares were being beaten into swords. The industrial power of the British reconstruction authority had changed it's attention from attempting to repair the great corpse that had once been the queen of cities and had instead turned it's attention to rebuilding and repurposing factories to produce a stream of supplies for the Northern expedition. The barons were also making sure to invest in the great enterprise of war, offering generous fees for those seeking to work in the new armouries that had begun emerging across the nation like flowers pushing there heads up after the long winter of peacetime. The entire national rhetoric had now been focused upon the taming the North, posters depicting Commonwealth soldiers helping out skeletal northerners lined the streets, the radio barked statistics and accounts of the suffering of those up north and in every town's square a Thelemic priest or demagogue of the Baron's party could be seen practically spitting out a never ending babble depicting the glory of reunification.

To the fighting generation who had fought and bled in the great war this was just another step in the great cycle of war and peace yet for those who couldn't remember the war it was all terribly exciting with festivals and military parades, the new generation was now beginning to be acquainted with war and so far they were liking their first impressions. The fact that the new generation was finding war an exciting prospect was incredibly good news for Garret, he was one that had followed Bismarck's train of thought that peace simply a prelude to every next war in fact he believed that there were many a benefit to war; it stimulated the industry of the nation, it raised national spirit and as long as the war went well then it portrayed the government as paternalistic protector of the nation. Indeed the winter of peacetime had hung over the nation for far too long, leaving the people to dwell and think about their previous experience with war which was in no way going to give them a decent amount of war lust. Of course the formalities of the Northern expansion had to be addressed, an offer of integration was to be sent out to each of the successor states that littered the North, yet it was not expected that many would accept.

---

In the aftermath of the great recruitment campaigns broadcasted across the country the Northern expedition had received an influx of soldiers ready to fight for it, one of these young men was Charley Sallow, a short yet well built youth from Crawley with pitch black hair and a face that was quick to offer a smile. He and ten other men of roughly the same age as him had been shoved into the back of bus straight after completing their training and were now heading off for a military camp near the border from where the expedition would begin it's drive towards Hadrian's wall. The past hour or so of them being in that bus had been one of almost complete silence any attempt to start conversation had been answered with a swift grunt or murmur, Charley could guess why nearly everyone he had ever met had some relative who had had to go through the horrors of the second world war and no doubt they had each received a stern warning, tears or extensive screaming. For Charley it was his mother. When Charley had come back his and his mother's pitiful apartment in his shiny new uniform expecting praise and lauding for his bravery, all that he had received was silence, the colour in his mother's face had drained completely before she had retreated to her room. The weight of this had hung over Charley's head for the past few weeks and now it was forcing him into silence, contemplating what could have made a person so hollowed out.

seven of the other men were wearing a badge depicting the eye of Horus that had been pinned to their jacket, Charley could hardly look them in the eye. For as long as he could remember he had been taught two truths: the first being that there was but one God, the second that the Lord Christ was his son. For most of his life he was encouraged to have these believes yet when Alastair Crowley came to Crawley the world seemed to turn on it's head. Gangs of men dressed in cloaks and robes ran through the streets desecrating temples and ruining any sign of what they called 'false faiths', his farther had been an extremely devout Christian and when the fires of the Thelemic faith had burnt across Crawley, he had died trying to defend his faith. When a few years later the Commonwealth took over management of Crawley, Charley had believed that they would restore some sense of religious order to the town but no, they simply announced that the only way to receive citizenship was to become an adherent of the Thelemic faith which at this point was just rubbing salt in his wounds.

The bus continued to trundle along and with every bump in the road Charley wished that the damn Germans had just stayed in their own territory, then all this madness would never have occurred, a nation where Charley had had to join the army just to get the suspicion of him and his mother's being secret Christians off their backs, there was no formal punishment for having a differing religion other than having your citizenship revoked but if you were to be found out by the more zealous members of your community then that could certainly entail trouble. Charley leaned back in his seat and attempted to remember a time in which a man could speak his mind.

To: The whomever it may concern within the republic of Brazil
From: The Thelemic commonwealth of Britain
We here in the Commonwealth are ecstatic that you have decided to recognise us as the inheritor of the British isles. We have no qualms of your occupation of Guiana, the Thelemic commonwealth has never pertained to be the successor to the British empire and we do not intend to assert any such claims.

With the establishment of a formal relations between our two states we would like to request that we should strengthen our ties with the construction of an embassy within your nation, our government would also like to look into the possibility of trade between our two nations, the commonwealth has been unfortunately lacking heavy industrial equipment and has instead been primarily focused on agricultural production. Our government would like to begin the mass importation of industrial equipment into the Commonwealth from the Brazilian republic. We hope to receive a response soon.

Yours sincerely
David Achareson, foreign minister for the Commonwealth of Britain

[Greater Liverpool]

The Italian Republic
Chapter 1: Un nuovo mondo, una nuova Italia
1st March 1955
Milan, Italy

Milan, the city of a New Italy. Most of the city had changed since the end of the war, new buildings and roads had been built in the city changing the skyline and appearance of the city had changed. However the city still had its traditional buildings like the Duomo di Milano still be a dominating image across the whole of the city. Perhaps the biggest change to the city was the sforzesco Castle which had been made into the Consul's main residence and the small Senate building built as an extension to the castle. However the castle was beginning to look different from what it had been used to for nearly 10 years, the castle was just the temporary residence of the Consul and Senate as the plan was always to move the Capital back to Roma. The Fascist threat was mostly gone by now with the former party members being thrown into prison, executed or were forced to exile themselves out of the country. As the evening sun began to fade down into the ground, a small meeting was taking place inside the drawing room of the castle. "The Union of Balkan Socialists looks as though they are ready to break apart at any moment it seems." Castellano said sitting down at the table which was decorated in maps of the Balkans and Anatolia. "When that happens we need to be at the ready to avoid any unnecessary violence in the region. That is why I am dispatching a small Naval force constituting of three ships, the Cruiser IRS Juilo Ceaser and the two destroyers the IRS Smeraldo and IRS Tifone. This small naval force will be waiting near the city of Athens while still remaining in international waters keeping a safe distance from Balkan authorities. It mission will be to observe and asses the situation on going in the city."

"Consul Castellano, may I ask do we have any current intel about the situation going on in Athens. For example the exact reasons the people have suddenly decided to revolt especially so close after the death of their Premier?" Teodoro Berardi asked, a 3 star General and a veteran of the War. He was pretty key in maintaining order in Italy after the Coup and now he was on the Consul's personal cabinet.

"So far General." Castellano paused as he pulled out some sheets of paper from a folder that was lying under a series of other folders filled with paper. He looked at one in particular using his glass to pear onto the page. "The official report from the Servizio per le Informazioni e la Sicurezza Militare states that currently the official motive for the violence has not been states however it has stated that general upset with the Government of the nation and their lack of support for the people has drove this action. They also state that currently violent action has been taken a commissar by the name Antonis Papadoulias was reportedly thrown out of his residence. The popular phrase 'Death to Pigs, Death to the Grain-Horders, death to the Red Sultan.' was repeated throughout the streets." Castellano placed the piece of paper back down and into the folder where it came from.

"It does sound to me like a revolt against local rule possibly. However it would be too quick to judge if this revolt can grow into something greater.The people of the Balkans have been in a state of constant war for many years now with constantly fighting someone. Perhaps this is the reaction to that." Proconsul Aurelio Federico stated to the group. The group who were sitting round the table consisted of many people, Generals Admirals, Air Marshals, Senators and even influential members of the Italian Government as a whole. "I support the consul's actions of sending a small naval force for scouting out the situation. I think it would be the best in trying to understand the situation. I also propose that we look to improve relations with the nation just north of the UBSR. I suggest that as a move to help contain violence and Communism in the area we look to help the Serbian government in anyway we can." Aurelio said as he placed his pencil on the table signalling to the others to support his motion. The group soon descended down into quite talk between different members of the Cabinet who were discussing the issues. The Consul and Proconsul simply looked down at a large map detailing the lands of the Old Greek Kingdom. Aurelio had a good guess about what could potenial go on, as a former Partisan against the Government during the war he knew what revolutionary fervor like and what it could do. But he also knew that it can only go so far, for he himself chose to give up that cause in the hope of getting a better Italy through more conventional means. "If this situation develops Consul, we are going to need the Senate to vote on it before we can get involved in anything serious. How do you think they will react if it comes to pass especially during an election Year?" The Proconsul questioned turning his head sideways

"Let us forgot about the election for now." Castellano sat himself up and loudly spoke "Do we all agree with the actions that have been proposed?" with that much of the Cabinet give a nod to the consul in agreement. "Let us not forget one thing. Our Republic stands alone like a light, in this current world of mayhem and tyranny we stand here a nation dedicated to freedom and peace. Our Republic is a continuation of the same republic our ancestor made over 2000 years ago. Like them they were alone guarding the light of order, Liberty and Justice. We shall do out duty and never fall back into the place we once were. Per l'Italia!"

"Per l'Italia!" The cabinet shouted.

[Robo-Nixon]

March 13th, 1955. Washington, D.C., United States of America

It was nearly a decade ago the War Department Building had started housing the State Department, moving the former to the Pentagon, but an inveterate Washington-bureaucrat like David K. E. Bruce still referred to it as the War Building. As the State Department was expanding in size at a steady rate, much like the rest of the Federal government, plans for an expansion of the building were being worked on in Congress at the moment. It was a Sunday afternoon, but not this month's leisure-Sunday for Bruce, who had to go to the office following the after-church services lunch in Georgetown. It was a frigid and windy D.C. day, so few pedestrians could be seen as they drove through the city, additionally reasonable as it was Sunday. The Secretary of State's car stopped outside the stylish concrete block, and the chauffeur swiftly opened the door.

"Thank you, Pearson!", the Secretary remarked, adjusting his warm coat after making it out of the vehicle. He made it up the stairs slowly, weighted down by the urgent burdens of the papers in his briefcase. Upon entering the building, he was met by his personal secretary, who announced that "Mr Peres" of Israel's pressing meeting awaited him upstairs in conference room 6. Only a receptionist and two janitors were sighted on the way to the elevator through the lobby, and apart from Bruce's polite greetings to the two of them, the building was quiet.

Bruce was in his late 50s and held an office which made age be felt by any man, sustaining trips to international conferences, formal visits, and summits all year round. Nonetheless, he sported formal suit on this Sunday afternoon and wore an expensive tie from a luxury warehouse in New York, living up to his reputation as a dignified American aristocrat. He was Secretary of State by merit, of course, but the backing of money, both old and new, had undoubtedly been helpful. Walking through the corridor on his way to conference room 6, he found the Israeli Foreign Minister, a man in his early 30s, and a perfect symbol for the country he represented. Israel was young, and in Bruce's mind, it was synthetic and unready for the hostile world around it. The United States had established formal diplomatic relations and given recognition only when it seemed likely that the State could remain in existence after the end of hostilities in the Levantine in 1948.

Relations between the United States and this tiny 'upstart' far away from US interests were founded on the wish of American policymakers to win the swing state of New York, at least from the unelected Bruce's point of view. He had little experience with the Jewish community, but he was not a prejudiced man by the modern post-war standards, so he was more than willing to accommodate this "State of Israel". He had sympathized greatly, like much of the American public, with the Jews that had been persecuted by Hitlerism in the 1930s, and had been impressed by coverages of the economic miracle and rapid growth of the nation the last decade or less.

"Mr. Peres, it is my pleasure to welcome you to the United States of America and it's capital of Washington. I have to excuse the brief delay this meeting had, these last days have been unusually hectic." He extended his hand to the Israeli Foreign Minister first, and then to his accompanying countrymen. He then looked to his personal secretary. "Jack, will you get these fine people some coffee while I and the Foreign Minister speak?" He then showed the Foreign Minister into the conference room, a spacious and relatively colorful room with typical late 19th-century decor, but more notably a large and centered painting of Charles Evans Hughes. The door was closed behind them.

"Now, before we get seated Mr. Peres, can I offer you something to drink?" He pointed toward a wooden bar cart in the corner.

March 15th, 1955. United States Ambassador's Residence, Huế, Kingdom of Indochina

Patrick J. Hurley, Major General, statesman, and diplomat,
currently United States Ambassador to Indochina

Patrick J. Hurley was a liar when he told people he enjoyed his position as Ambassador to Indochina. Compared to his glory days in the United States Army, his time as Secretary of War and time as US Ambassador to wartime China, he was up to little else than immersing himself in a foreign culture, and he was barely doing that as he rarely left the Residence and its vast gardens. He had promised his friend, the late President Robert Taft, that he would take the position in Indochina to rebuild American trade presence in Asia but had not gotten far. Until a new directive arrived from the White House: The Ambassador had been ordered to organize an economic conference for American business and government representatives to promote trade relations between the emerging market of Indochina and the United States, for the growth in prosperity and friendship between the two great nations.

Hurley would take this opportunity with joy, as he had longed for a challenge for far too long. He decided to take the course of action to write a formal letter from the Embassy to the Queen herself, with hopes of the highest representation and support possible with this conference.

To: Her Majesty Queen Phương Anh Thị Nguyễn
From: Ambassador Patrick J. Hurley

The United States and the Kingdom of Indochina, are, despite formal diplomatic relations, not traditional or longstanding allies with international significance. This does not have to be the case.

It has been requested by the office of the President of the United States that further economic ties between our two nations would benefit both greatly. I, therefore, have the honor to propose to Her Majesty that a bilateral conference for trade relations should be hosted in Indochina, for the two to develop closer relations and promote business in the respective countries.

Should Her Majesty be willing to help commit Indochina to a building block to the wealth of our nations, I believe Her people and Her friends in the United States will rejoice.

I leave it to Her Majesty to accept the President's proposal and wait patiently for developments.

Sincerely,
Secretary of State Patrick J. Hurley

March 17th, 1955. Roughly 16 nm North of Panama, aboard the USS Essex

Vince Becker, 20-year old Navy pilot who'd volunteered as soon as he had finished high school, never really got used to the noises on the aircraft carrier. The voice of the powerful engine, the crew numbering thousands in active duty and aircraft or helicopters taking off or landing for naval exercises were present elements at all times. He was in awe of the power posed by this aging carrier, despite it being in dire need of modernization, and he was sure the entire crew felt the same way. The North American FJ-2 fighter he flew was a splendid example of the technological prowess of the United States armed forces, and the military power it possessed, even in peacetime.

The ship had left Naval Station Mayport together with a detachment on the 15th, heading towards Ecuador. The directives from DOD said that the stationing of a modest US naval force would strengthen its position to negotiate in the region, and the United States, always with diplomacy as a first go-to in carrying out foreign policy, looked to threaten Argentina with the promise of possible commitment to the defense of Chile. Whether this tactic would be successful or not was as unknown to Vince Becker as it was to Secretary of Defense Robert Cutler or anyone else in the US government. All Becker knew was the he needed to get ready for warmer weather, being a native Minnesotian of course.

[Conwy-Shire]

Oberkommando der Wehrmacht,
Deutschland

---

March 28th, 1955
Outside the Flemish Pocket,
Near Waregem

---

The winch creaked and groaned in the night air as Erhard's weight swayed in the whistling wind. He stood, feet planted on the outside boards of the watchtower; one hand holding a paintbrush, the other sitting below his harness, wound in rope. Dangling from the harness were two paint cans: dunkelgrün and bräunen printed across the sides. His grumbling, though masked by the clack of boots patrolling the tower, embodied his dissatisfied with the new general directive from the OKH: all defensive positions were to be strengthened, re-inforced and re-camouflaged. The Feuerwehrteam, which had started out as just Erhard and Johann, now boasted five soldiers - though Erhard was not yet confidant enough to remember the names of the other three.

The clacking of boots on floorboards halted. Within the tower, he could see the young Johann had just finished another round of pacing. Erhard's borrowed Sturmgewehr hung from Johann's shoulder-strap who, unused to the weight, found his thoughts straying to the Carbine he had left in the dugout.

"You finally going to stop that racket, kid?" Erhard called out, simultaneously dunking his brush into the green paint can. "Or d'you think you'll find something on your fifty-seventh circuit of the tower?"

"Just following protocol, old man," came the snarky response from inside the darkened tower. "You're the one who's exempted from night duty, yet you still do it."

"It keeps me young," Erhard declaimed, pausing as a commotion erupted from within the dugout. "Uh-oh, sounds like the Soldaten didn't get their beauty sleep."

The commotion started and ended in an instant. Before long, one of the soldiers stumbled out and leaned against the doorpost of the dugout. He was bleary-eyed, and around his mouth were the traces of hastily-eaten hardtack.

"Regards from Heinrici," he called up to the two in the tower, mentioning their General who was residing back at field HQ. "New order to keep the spotlight on and manned between dusk and dawn, not just the floodlights." He propped himself up from the doorpost and was about to retreat from the cold night wind when Erhard called after him.

"Spotlight's not connected to the generator, link 'em up Soldat."

A grumble came from the soldier before he stumbled to the base of the tower, fumbling with the wires and converters. With a triumphant aha, he finally found the right cable and plugged it into the last output on the generator. The spotlight switched on with a whoosh. It was pointed west, towards the Flemish pocket they sought to contain, but currently pointed upwards to the heavens. Johann handled it now, pulling it down to scour the countryside for SS encroachments.

He didn't have to look far.

A single man was making his way towards them. He froze as the spotlight encompassed him. A Kar.98 was slung over his back, his empty hands were raised over his head in a sign of surrender.

"Erhard," Johann's voice quivered. The Unterfeldwebel, whose attention had returned to the layer of paint he was brushing, snapped back to Johann. He could hear the fear in his voice. "Feindlicher Soldat." Erhard didn't have to be told twice, he dropped the brush, hauling himself up the rope and onto the walkway of the tower. Pulling out a pair of binoculars, he pulled up beside Johann, but his eyes were only on the SS man standing in the field before them. The man was armed, his uniform patchy, but it was the shoulder patch he was interested in. A white key on a black field. Erhard dropped the binoculars in an instant, before his hands snatched the Sturmgewehr around Johann's shoulder. He aimed and pulled the trigger in one swift motion.

The *crack* reverberated over the countryside.

"Are you mad," Johann hissed, yanking the gun from Erhard's hands. "That man was surrendering."

"Leibstandarte Kommandos don't surrender," Erhard moved over to the spotlight, shifting the beam away from the collapsed soldier and towards the foothills against the skyline. "They fight and die in packs, like the rabid wolves they are."

In the distance, stunned by the sudden gunshot and spotlight, the rest of the SS-soldier's cell crouched in the knee-high grass. The barrel of the Sturmgewehr whipped towards them, but it was too late. The hissing trails of smoke bombs in the long grass were all that remained to fire at.
The Flemish Breakout had begun.

~~~~~~

Diary of Franz Halder,
Head of the Oberkommando des Heeres,
Curated March-April Entry-summaries

---

March 26: 15/30 Uhr
-- Meeting with Generalfeldmarschal Erich von Manstein: re. development of Guderian's Schwerpunktprinzip, production of Panthers, promotion of Siegfried Westphal to General der Panzertruppe and subsequent command of the reformed 1. through 5. Panzergrenadierdivisione. --

-- End Meeting --

March 29: 03/00 Uhr
-- Joint-meeting of the OKH[eer],OKL[uftwaffe],OKM[arine], and OKW[ehrmacht] regarding the breakout occurring in the Flemish pocket. OKL assures us that SS forces do not have the air support or fuel to reach very far. OKM confirms that the blockade is now useless: not a single ship has tried to run the blockade in a year. I, on behalf of the OKH, have commended Heinrici's strategy in closing the breakout. Casualties have been calculated as minimal - less than 1,000 - though we anticipate there will be no surrender. Motion put to the joint meeting for a centralised fire-control system under OKW control, to co-ordinate artillery and air bombardments for ground targets. Motion passed after lively debate, with anticipation that the breakout SS force will have to be bombarded into submission. --

-- End Meeting --

April 4: 11/15 Uhr
-- Civilian-Liaison meeting with head of the VDV, Konrad Adenauer. VDV expressed concerns with power transition after meeting with OKW. I assured him that military control would be relaxed soon due to new developments in the Bruderkrieg. Concern was then expressed about the OKW's monarchist leanings: VDV prefer a republic, though the public is unconsulted. I re-iterated OKH's neutrality in the matter, but stated unequivocally that a compromise will serve best. Adenauer seemed displeased, but I can't get involved. --

-- End Meeting --

---

[Nea Byzantia]

People's Gazette

ATHENS SEIZED BY ANTI-REVOLUTIONARY, FASCIST TERRORISTS! PEOPLE'S ARMY FIGHTS BACK!


The Terrorist Sigil

March 25th -Since March 11th, Athens has been wracked by anti-Revolutionary, Fascist terrorism, with a mob of deluded fools storming the People's Hall and murdering Commissar Antonis Papadoulias and most of his staff. Since then, the city of Plato and Socrates has descended into utter chaos, as the terrorists have seized the armory and driven what remains of the People's Army from the city. The glorious hammer and sickle no longer flies from the Acropolis, but the rather the hideous skull and bones of their Fascist Death Cult, inscribed with the hideous Fascist phrase: "Orthodoxy or Death". The movement is said to be led by the execrable Father Gregory, and Archmandrite and Priest imprisoned by the Supreme Leader in 1949 for anti-Revolutionary activities and speech, when he praised the execution of Comrade Tito in Yugoclavia as "holy and wholly just".


Supreme Leader Velouhiotis addressing the people, in Constantinople

"It is utterly disgusting and hideous," commented Supreme Leader Velouhiotis, from the People's Palace in Constantinople "That we should see Fascism make such a comeback in our country, less than 10 years after we drove the German occupiers from our lands. These terrorists are sons of Rallis, that great collaborator, and cruel despot! We shall not tolerate this!" The Supreme Leader has also proclaimed that the entirety of Attika and Peloponnese Provinces are to be placed under strict martial law. Anybody caught celebrating the Fascist Feast of the Annunciation is to be executed on the spot.

On the brighter side, for the better part of a week, People's Army forces, led by General Secretary of Internal Affairs, Nikephoros Kotzimakis have been shelling the terrorists from land and sea. Kotzimakis had very interesting comments to say on the terrorist seizure of Athens: "This is not an organic revolt of the people; anymore than the assassination of Comrade Husnu not long ago! Rather, this too is the result of an extensive internal, anti-revolutionary conspiracy with the backing of the Fascist Dusan regime in Serbia! Doubtless, they are plotting against our People's Revolution, because they are afraid. And those simpletons in Athens have bitten the fish-bait laid out for them, by the disloyal conspirators and Serbian pied-pipers. It will be their doom! Unless of course they see reason; come to their senses, and lay aside their arms!"

[Greater Liverpool]

The Italian Republic
Chapter 2: Omnium Rerum Principia Parva Sunt (The beginnings of all things are small)

---

Tenente di Vascello Leonardo Piccoli (Intelligence Officer)
26th March 1955, 1100 hrs
IRS Julio Caeser, Aegean Sea off the Island of Idra

"The city seems like it is on fire right." Junior Lieutenant Iolanda Ajello uttered as she continued to look down her large binoculars in the observation post of the Julio Caeser. She then took them away from her eyes and proceeded to let then dangle in front of her as she went down to write on a piece of paper. "It is completely mad how they are using their own ships to bombard their own city... And just any city but the great city of Athens with all its history." Leonardo Piccoli quickly replied angered by the actions of Balkan Socialist. "Communists... pffft... they have no sense of history or culture and for that, that will be their downfall." Leonardo continued to speak as he pointed his finger towards the direction of a Balkan ship. Iolanda looked up at Leonardo before returning to write down on a piece of paper "If worse comes to happen sir, I am sure that the Roma or Pompey will have something to say to those Balkan B*stards." Leonardo crossed his arms placing his hands below his arm pits as although the winter was slowly dying out at sea its cold breeze still stung those that thought that the Mediterranean spring weather had finally arrived. "Yes the Roma and the Pompey would teach them a lesson if only the Senate would go to war. The UBSR would stand no chance against the might of Italy heirs to Rome." Leonardo quickly thought back to his time at university just after the war when the Republic was established, majoring in Roman History and classical Greece he sought after the glory of both civilization joining the Italian Navy and the Bruti party of the Italian Republic. A loud bang quickly woke him up from his dream, with the sound of a ships main guns going off. "That was another barrage sir. It seems as though the Socialist really did not expect the rebels to be as organised as they are." The sounds of boots of the nearby stairs interrupted Iolanda as she spoke. From the stairs an old man appeared not too old though most likely in his early 60s "Attenzione sul ponte" Leonardo shouted him and Iolanda standing to attention as the old man reveled himself to be Captain Valerio Caiazzo the man in charge of the ship and the small fleet of the IRS Julio Caeser and two escorting destroyers. "At ease Lieutenant I don't expect you to be constantly doing that not least when you are working." Valerio said softly the old man quite content with his plot in life having only ever served on the Julio Caeser. "Anyway how goes your watch, the sound of Balkan guns intrigued me to say the least and with no one else knowing the true meaning of this mission I want to know what is happening."

"Sir..." Leonardo look to Iolanda signalling to her to speak as she had been writing down the reports.

"Yes, so far we estimate a combined attack from both Land and Sea is most likely to retake the city. It does appear that the whole of the city has fallen to rebel control as indiscriminate bombardment has been used against the civilians of the city. However most alarming is that we can confirm by both reports from agents inside the city and official reports that a Orthodox fascist does appear to be leading the rebels in this revolt, but we can not be certain that there are not other groups inside the city. We had recently tried to get into contact with Agent cell "Macedonia" but have unfortunately not been able to in the past few hours." Iolanda quickly listed off lowing the piece of paper down and handing it to the Captain. He gave a brief look with the face not being too happy with the results. "Well things are beginning to heat up in the area. Make sure you keep an eye on them especially with those warships try to turn onto us. I will have to contact Headquarters in Rhodes and you should do the same."

"Aye sir." Leonardo and Iolanda said bring themselves to attention once more. The Captain put the piece paper down onto a table just left of him as he walked back down the stairs towards the brigade of his ship. "First and Foremost we need to get into contact with Macedonia, they must have some up to date info.

---

Agent Konstantinos Michelakos of Cell 'Macedonia'
26th March 1955, 1100 hrs
Athens, Union of Balkan Socialist Republics

Gun shots could be heard all around the small cafe which was now hosting the members of the Italian Intelligence cell 'Macedonia'. Sitting on the ledge of a window was Agent Konstantinos Michelakos a Cretan by birth he was recruited by the Italian Intelligence services after his brother was killed by the Communists for being a staunch Republican. Konstantinos was a young man at 25 years of age he was a young lad when the communist revolution took place and on Crete it was not a big deal but since his brother he grew to hate the Balkan Republics and after being recruited by the Italians he saw to end the Communist rule anyway he could. "Konstantinos any sight of Alexios?" Gavril Andreev a Bulgarian whispered not trying to be heard by anyone.

"Unless Alexios has decided to swap sides and join the Fascists I don't think... wait here he comes." From his window Konstantinos could see Alexios run across Marni Street carrying quite a large bag, also with Alexios was the Italian handler Emiliano Amatore who was the connection for the cell back to Italy, Emiliano was also carrying a large brown duffel bag with him as he ran directly behind Alexios to the cafe. The door swung open as the two men ran in placing the two duffel bags onto the table. "The Radio is gone, got damage by one the shells coming in. Because of this I am activating Protocol Seleucid." Alexios spoke to the members of the cafe trying to catch his breath, in total there was 8 people here. "In these bags are some guns and rations to last a week, I am going to try and see if we can't get anymore of these bags from around the city. But for now we stick our ground here unless told otherwise by me or Emiliano." Alexios moved to open up the duffel bags reveling some Beretta Model 38, Beretta pistols and ammunition for both alongside some food and water. "Alexios what are we do about getting out of here if the radio is gone?" Konstantinos questioned Alexios grabbing him by the arm before Alexios could run away.

"To be honest Konstantinos I don't know. Unless we can get a radio we might be stuck here until this ends and then even then there is no chance of getting out." Konstantinos clamped down on his teeth hard in anger trying not to say anything but unfortunately his anger got the better of him. "Malaka!" Konstantinos shouted hitting the wall with the palm of his hand. "So what we are just to stay here and wait for the Commies to come and kill us and our families."

"You knew what could potential happen when you joined up the same as all of us. Besides me an Emiliano will try to find a way to contact the Italians to organize so form of extraction. But until we hold our ground and wait." With rage in his face and clenched first Konstantinos spoke aggressively "And what happens when the commies start searching through everywhere and find us with a bunch of Italian guns. Or what happens when they find Emiliano and how we were hiding him. huh." The room fell silent "I am coming with you to find a radio. A friend of mine works at the telegraph station, he might be able to help find some sort of radio to use or wireless." Alexios was about to speak but Emiliano quickly grabbed him to signal him to remain quite and let Konstantinos help for right now that was perhaps the only lead they had on find a way out.

---

Ambassador Bianca Romagnoli
26th March 1955, 1130 hrs
Washington D.C, United States of America

For Bianca Romagnoli it was a massive achievement to be the first female Ambassador to the US from Italy. Once a small time Country girl from Giovi-Ponte Alla Chiassa now leading the Italian diplomatic mission to the US. It was a big event for her especially since it was the first major diplomatic mission to US since the end of war but more critically since the Nuclear attack at Sicily. The word of the Proconsul kept going over and over in her head while she was in her car ride to the US congress to meet with American politicians. "Remember, this mission is perhaps the most important we are ever going to have. With America behind we can truly make better this world and more importantly Italy. Do not mention Sicily and if they do blame the Teutons. The Republic has faith in you... do not betray it." Were the words Proconsul Aurelio said just before Bianca bordered her plane. Bianca turned to her aid "When we get to Congress make sure an Italian flag is present in all official pictures. I want people to know and see what a new Italy looks like." the aid got to shifting all the stuff he had brought looking for a small Italian flag that was to placed on a desk.

To: Whom it concerns in the American Congress.
From: Ambassador Bianca Romagnoli

The United States has always been a bastion of Freedom for the world, one the first nations to re-embrace the ideas of my ancestors of the Roman Republic. You truly are the envoy of the world. Although in previous years Italy and America have not had solid relations even fighting each in a war that was just to please the arrogance of the Fascist party that was in power at the time. We the new Italian Republic now know that the US is not our enemy but instead a Worthy friend and ally. This is why as head of the Italian diplomatic mission to America I would like to present an itinerary for future talks:
1. Trade deals between the US and Italian Republic
2. Cooperation of Military and Intelligence services between the two nations
3. Discussion on strategies for containing Communism and Fascism in Europe
4.Talks about Situations going on in the Union of Balkan Socialist Republics and the Former United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland

I hope that this will be enough for our two nations to talk about and if there is anything you wish to talk about please do say I and the Italian Republic would be happy to answer any questions you may have.

Sincerely,
Ambassador Bianca Romagnoli

[Joohan]

Operation Midwife

---

USBR
Bulgaria, over the Rhodope Mountains
April 1st, 04:21
Ju-52 aeroplane

The inside of the aircraft was chilling, to say the least. The thin aluminum walls of the ancient craft left much to be desired in terms of protection against the elements, especially evident given the current circumstances. The wind whipped out and down the aisle with a cutting cold - were it not for the head to toe clothing which the paratroopers wore, frostbite would have been a certainty for all the men on board. The only light inside the cabin was a single red bulb which dimly illuminated enough for everyone to see each other and their gear. Vlado looked down at the weapon in his lap, an stg44 - a rare weapon reserved for the Army's fighting elite. Something which Vlado had noticed during his two years in the service was that the metal of any given weapon seems to turn a darker shade when it's cold out. He ran his gloved hand over the barrel of the rifle, resting it's breach. A small wisp of steam seeped out of his mask as he let out a sigh. The day of war had finally come - he headed to battle at this very moment. As he sat there, in the dark illumination of the cabin, he thought about his mother and all the kindness she had showed him; he thought of his brothers and sisters, and about all the games and fights they would get into; he thought about his neighbors and friends, the people who had helped him grow up into the man he had become; and he thought about his dad, and how surely he had been thinking the same thoughts long ago. The nerves had gone the moment he stepped foot onto the plane an hour ago. In their place had settled a resolution: he was going into combat, and live or die, he was going to carry out his duty. He wasn't scarred any more - he was ready to go through with it.

The red light blinked three times...
" Stand up, hook up! "

There were almost over their drop sight. Every man, eighteen in total, quickly stood up from their seat and attached a hook line from their waste up to a wire hanging above them. Vlado clipped his helmet round his chin, giving it a good shake before moving on with the protocol jump inspection: ensuring that all his gear was securely attached to his person and that nothing which could prove a jump hazard was out of place. The particular jump they were about to undertake was to be an exceedingly dangerous one. Not only was it a nighttime jump, it was a short height drop jump, into alpine terrain, currently experiencing tundra like conditions. One hundred fifty paratroopers ( the entire AIC ) was making the jump simultaneously over the area. People were going to die - it was just accepted inevitability. Even experienced paratroopers died during normal drop conditions. These were not, by any means, normal drop conditions.

The door to the side of the craft opened up, and suddenly the whole cabin was a awash in freezing torrents of wind! Vlado gripped his hook tighter, doing his best to ignore the bone biting cold. They would be dropping on the top of a mountain which overlooked a valley pass from the high end. The AIC's task was to detonate enough explosives along the side of the mountain to cause an avalanche/rock slide large enough to seal off the valley. With the valley sealed off, no reinforcements would be able to reach Blagoevgrad, and the AIC would march their way north to help the 50th brigade encircle the city. The was straight forward - the only difficulty laid in the execution.

The turned green...
" Go, go, go! "

The jump master's voice shouted out from the front of the craft, and men started the hasty walk forward to the door. As Vlado looked forward, he saw the number of dark heads disappear in front of him, until, finally, he himself had reached the door. He a look'd out the door to see the pitch blackness of the outside - not single light to be seen anywhere, almost a void like darkness. Without a second thought, Vlado grabbed his chest straps, and jumped out the door...

---

USBR
Greece, Central Macedonia
April 1st, 06:30
50th Infantry Brigade, 3rd Inf Battalion, Delta Company, 1st " Hoplites " Platoon

Never, in all his life, even among the most blood thirsty of Chetniks, had Sfc. Buha seen men so giddy for battle and bloodshed as the Greeks of the 50th brigade. As of 04:00 that morning, Operation Midwife had been underway. As per what had been explained to Sfc. Buha, three offensives were currently underways: the Western offensive ( pushing to into Albania, intent upon seizing Tirana ), the Southern Offensive ( fronted by the 50th brigade and pushing into Greece, intent upon seizing Thessaloniki and Kavala ), and the Eastern Offensive ( pushing into Bulgaria, intent upon seizing Sofia and Plovdiv ). The 50th had started marching ( gas was limited, and so the vast majority of ground forces would be reserved to marching and cavalry for transport ) from their base at the start of the op and had reached the USBR border about half an hour ago. In that half hour, Sfc. Buha had to all but physically stop his troops from charging ahead and attacking enemy positions too early!

The sun had risen over the horizon about twenty minutes ago, and in the early morning glow, a promising scene revealed itself to Buha as he stood off by the side of the road. A watchtower's nest was riddled with holes and broken glass, with the promising stain of red dripping along one of it's railings. Next to the watchtower was a guardhouse, equally riddled with bullet holes, where in front were laid down on the ground eleven uniformed men with both their hands placed behind their heads. These men had been in charge of watching this particular border crossing. When the crack of dawn hit, and they found approaching down the road several hundred Serbian soldiers, it took only two of their comrades killed before the entire post threw down their arms in surrender.

Buha approached the grounded reds in order to more closely observe his new enemies: their appearances were, unsurprisingly, similar to that of many men in his own platoon. Their bodies were decently fit ( if a bit on the skinny side ), and ( prior to having thrown them down ) they also totted German weapons - likely left over from the days of occupation. Even still, it was strange seeing such familiar faces in a different uniform than the usual tan greens Buha himself wore.

The surrendered reds looked around nervously at the passing soldiers, their eyes weary. Suspicion and fear were common looks for a captured soldier to have, unsure of what enemy treatment truly was like; these looks though were even more distinctively fearful. Surrounding the prisoners were ethnically Serbian soldiers from the 15th Engineer brigade, whose commander was still signing the appropriate release forms in order to take charge of the prisoners. The 50th brigade was not permitted in handling Greek pow's for any longer than what they had to, and for good reason. As the 50th continued passing by down the road, looks filed with absolute venom and disdain were thrown towards the reds on the ground. The command had come from the Department of War itself, and though it's purpose was never stated, it's intent was pretty obvious. The 50th were made up of Greek refugees who hated the communist USBR. Now given the opportunity to seek vengeance against the tyranny which drove them from their home, there's very little doubt that their savagery would likely turn towards surrendered prisoners too, who would no doubt be collaborators in their eyes. Surrendering prisoners would quickly be handed over to ethnic Serbian brigades, a treatment likely being carried out across every offensive front.

Buha adjusted the grip of his Kar98 ( a weapon so plentiful since the occupation, that the Army had yet to commission any native designs to replace the current stockpile ), and looked on down the road, seeing that his platoon was a ways ahead of him. He would need to double time to catch up with them. The brigade, the whole southern offensive, was making quick progress towards Thessaloniki, as far as he could tell. With the red army tied down in Turkey, and political chaos in the party, he doubted that there would be any serious resistance for a while. Hiking up his rucksack, Buha began an easy jog down the middle of the road, intent upon catching up with his platoon. As the sun rose up higher, and the land of Greece lit up brighter, Buha resolved himself to survive yet another war.

[Nea Byzantia]

Thessaloniki, Province of Makedonia, Union of Balkan Socialist Republics, April 4th, 1955

Commissar Iorgos Banoukas stood in front of his mirror as he usually did, buttoning up his suit, his curly brown hair slicked back with olive oil; as usual. But this was no ordinary morning. Out in the square below, resounded the report of gunshots as desperate People's Army troops attempted to stave off the frantic masses. News of the Orthodoxy of Death Movement, coupled with the recent Serbian invasion from the North had thrown gasoline on an already volatile situation. It was over, as far as Banoukas was concerned. If the Serbs didn't get him, the mob would, and he had no desire to suffer the same fate as Papadoulias in Athens; and if the mob didn't get him, the recent purges ordered by the Supreme Leader, in reaction to the failure to halt the Serbs, quell the riots, and find Husnu's real killer.

Banoukas looked out the window, and saw the last remnants of his guards fleeing the square, while the mob pressed forward with their makeshift weapons and stolen armaments; brandishing the black banner of Orthodoxy or Death. Death it is, concluded Banoukas as he reached into the drawer and pulled out a pistol. He made sure it was loaded, cocked it, and placed it against his temple. He pulled the trigger, and the sound of the gunshot reverberated across the office, with his brains and blood splattering the portrait of Supreme Leader Velouhiotis, in the background.

---

People's Gazette

Massive Conspiracy Revealed! Premier Boris Yanukov and Cadre of Military Officers Linked to Husnu Assassination and Serbian Invasion!

April 4th -At last, the great mystery has been revealed, comrades. Investigations by the People's Internal Security Service have revealed that Boris Yanukov, the Premier of the Bulgarian provinces, along with a cadre of senior military officers were responsible for the assassination of Premier Husnu, in Izmir. "This is a terrible shock to the Revolution," lamented Supreme Leader Velouhiotis "Yanukov and is co-conspirators are sons of Judas; no better description exists. They have conspired to assassinate one of the Revolution's greatest leaders, and to collaborate with the Serbian Fascists, who have now invaded our fair land!"

After a brief military trial, Yanukov and his ilk were executed by firing squad. Comrade Mavrocordatopoulos, the Head of the People's Internal Securty Service, and Comrade Nikephoros Kotzimakis, the General Secretary of Internal Party Affairs, were both awarded the Stalin Award for Revolutionary Devotion, Kotzimakis was not able to attend the ceremony, as he is busy commanding the valiant effort by the People's Army to take back Athens from the Fascist Terrorists.

---

People's Palace, Constantinople, Province of East Thrace, Union of Balkan Socialist Republics, April 4th, 1955



"Bastards!" yelled Supreme Leader Velouhiotis as he slammed his fist on the mahogany table so hard, it shook. "God damn those ingrates!!!" All his generals and advisors stood there in silent fear. "The Enemy is invading our territory, and this is the time they choose to throw a hissy fit?!" he paced angrily over to his desk and poured himself a glass of cognac. "I don't know who the real Enemy is anymore...the Serbs, or those IDIOTS in Thessaloniki and Athens! Damn them all!" he took a sip.

"Supreme Leader," asked General Ioannis Sklaras, one of the few not purged, "What should we do?" he asked deferentially

"Well you're a general aren't you - shouldn't you be advising me?" croaked Velouhiotis with venom. "Maybe start by moving troops from the Anatolian Front into Thrace. How many can we spare without losing ground to the Turks?"

"15, maybe 20,000." said another

"Ok." said Velouhiotis, calming down a bit, "And how many do we have in Attika, besieging Athens?"

"About 10." replied another

"Very well." said Velouhiotis, finishing off the first glass and refilling another. "Tell Kotzimakis to finish up quickly in Athens - as quickly as he can, and haul ass to Makedonia."

"And what of Bulgaria, Supreme Leader?" asked General Vladimir Koraznodov

"What of Bulgaria?" asked the Supreme Leader, "They backed that fox, Yanukov! We will help them only when we deem it necessary!" he coughed.

"Supreme Leader," chimed in Mavrocordatopoulos, looking sorrowfully at Koraznodov, "There is another matter as well."

"What now? As if we don't have enough problems!!!"

Mavrocordatopoulos swallowed his nervousness, and continued. "Supreme Leader, there are reports of unrest in Albania."

"Goddamn spineless gypsies! All of them!" shouted Velouhiotis, "For now, leave them. We must secure Greece - oh and Bulgaria." he added hastily, winking at Koraznodov. "We don't have the resources necessary to deal with the Albanians, not yet, anyways. In the meantime, get our forces from Anatolia into Europe, and reach out to the Soviets and our other Comrades throughout the World. Perhaps they too, can help us."

---

To: Regent Dusan of Serbia
From: Father Grigorios Paladamakis, Acting President for the Hellenic Orthodox Republic

We pray to the Lord and Master for your continued health; and thank Him for Serbia's intervention, so as to liberate the Hellenic people from the yoke of Communism. For 10 years, Velouhiotis, that Son of the Devil, has placed a heavy burden on both the Church and the People as a whole. Finally, the time has come to throw off the yoke of the Red Sultan, and restore Hellenic Civilization and her amicable relationship with her Brother, Serbia - relations that have been tainted by the illegitimate, Communist usurpers. Athens, as you know, has taken up arms against the Communist oppressors; and now Thessaloniki as well. We humbly and kindly request, most honourable Regent, your recognition of our Republic. The Dark Night of Communism is at last coming to an end, and we kindly request your aid, to help us build something better. Something more worthy of our ancient ancestors, and our Holy Orthodox Faith.

Sincerely and Respectfully,

[The Imperial Warglorian Empire]

Stockholm, Imperial Federation of Scandinavia
In the massive city, the Imperial Capital of Stockholm was filled with life. Cars drove through the many highways and roads, various civilians walked and rushed to work or other destinations, going about their own business, as Polismyndigheten (Police Authority) Officers patrol down the streets, eyes sharp looking for dissidents. It would've seemed as if no war had occurred at all, though it was technically true the war had never come to Stockholm.

In the centre of Stockholm laid a grand building: the Royal Palace, the official residence of the Royal Family. As Högvakten patrolled around the palace grounds, a single man, wearing a rather plain dark blue military uniform, occupied a grand office made from predominantly from polished wood. This was Gustav VI, Karolus of the Fino-Swedish Empire and (unofficially) of the Imperial Scandinavian Federation (though he much preferred Empire). He had tidy combed brown hair and lean face with a strong jaw. He had a lean body, from his athletic history and past military experience, and despite now having a few extra wrinkles he still had a handsome face that many women would swoon over.

Here he looked over various documents detailing various issues and information regarding the state. And despite his calm exterior, Gustav was positively bored. Sighing, Gustav leaned back in his leather chair, closing his eyes. It had been a long journey since that fateful day in '41, that day when he had walked onto a podium, declared victory over the Communists, and later that year declared the reformation of the Absolute Monarchy, with Gustav himself as Karolus. After only 14 years, Gustav had established a regional superpower in the North, achieving the dreams of his ancestors: of a united Scandinavia. Now the industry was booming, the economy was slowly but surely rising, standards of living were high, and the military was large, well trained and well equipped. He was happy for the newfound prosperity of his people.

But at the same time, he missed the days when he was on the front lines during the Winter War. The adrenaline, the action, fighting the good fight against the Red Menace. Unlike the politicians back at home, he was actually doing something to try and save Scandinavia and Europe! But now? Here he was, a politician, facing little action while the real soldiers fought for Scandinavian sovereignty.

Suddenly, there was a knock on his door. "Min Karolus?" his guard outside asked, "Director Adlercreutz is here to see you, sir." Quickly standing up and smoothing out his uniform to look more presentable, Gustav replied "Enter."

The door opened, and a man walked in. He was in his mid-60s, with a military haircut and wearing glasses and a modified military uniform, his armband and various logos identifying him as a member of the Kejserling Hemlighet Inre Underrättelsetjänst (KHIU). This was Carlos Adlercreutz, Director of the KHIU, the internal security agency of the Imperial Federation. The KHIU was a result of Adlercreutz's brainchild, to establish such an agency as to monitor communications and counter both foreign infiltrators and other dissidents. Adlercreutz himself created and organised the agency himself practically from scratch, and had been its Director since the Agency's creation during the war. He had proved himself very cunning and efficient, despite his rather humble appearance.

The early-elderly Director walked in, his back ramrod straight, as he proceeded to bow before the Emperor, uttering "Min Karolus". "At ease Director," Gustav replied, the Director standing back up straight. "What news do you bring me?" the Director placed on the desk a manila folder, containing several pictures and documents.

"Min Karolus, we've found another potential varulv, and I thought to bring this one to your attention," he replied. Gustav nodded. "Varulv" was the nickname the Scandinavian Government (and more commonly KHIU) had given to former Nazis who had taken refuge in Scandinavia. It was mainly specifically meant for Nazis who had extensive criminal backgrounds or came from organisations or groups that were counted as "criminal," playing off the fact that a Varvulv would appear normal in the day but deep inside be twisted with darkness.

Gustav started looking through the contents of the folder. "So who is he? What identifies him as a Varvulv?" Gustav asked. "He was a member of the SS, and specifically formerly of the Waffen SS Division Wiking, he most likely posed as still being a member, and we believe that's how he was able to enter the country," Adlercreutz said, "Our sources tell us that before Wiking, he was an officer in the RuSHA-"

Ah yes, the SS Race and Settlement Main Office. This was one of the many organisations which the Imperial Federation identified as "criminal," as usually the organisation was involved in crimes in the name of "Aryan Purity," quite standard, though many members were still heavily evaluated to see whether they themselves were adamant National Socialists or Racial Purists or were simply assigned to the post. Though he still didn't see why this one specifically would be brought to his attentio-

"-and we also have reasons to believe that he was somehow involved in one of the German Concentration Camps," Adlercreutz continued, "Specifically the camp called Auschwitz, according to the various refugees,"

Gustav's eyes suddenly turned grim, his hands clenched. There it was. The concentration camps. Ever since the mass breakout of many "Untermensch" (as the Germans called them), mass rumours of this "Holocaust" had spread across the continent. Of how the Germans had organised a massive web of Death Camps made to systematically commit mass genocide on those the Germans named "inferior." Many refuted this (mainly the many peoples of Western Europe), saying that these were simply lies of the Eastern peoples (which many saw as Communists), but the Scandinavians had proof. When the Empire had liberated Norway, the Imperial Army had discovered many of these "Concentration Camps" up in the North. Though these weren't exactly the same as the ones described by the refugees, as many of them held political prisoners and POWs, their reputation was still infamous. Reports of violence by guards, torture, abuse and low living conditions leading to a high mortality rate was rampant across the various prisoners of these camps. Furthermore, there were reports that many Norwegian Jews had been put in these camps before being transferred to camps in Germany, and documents (documents that weren't burned anyways) and interrogation of various camp officers and officials had revealed a small insight into the massive system which some called the "Final Solution". If some of the rumours by the refugees were even remotely true, that meant that brutality Gustav could only imagine had been going on. And he had allied his nation, his people, with those he thought friends against the larger Communist threat. What a fool he was.

Gustav looked back at the pictures. On the left was a relatively lean man wearing an SS-Hauptsturmführer uniform. He had a rather unremarkable face, combed back black hair. Not the perfect image of Aryan Superiority as many Nazis preached. But the smile he wore....it was.....

Gustav internally shivered at it. He could see the cunning and maliciousness contained in his eyes and his smile. On the right was another photo. He was walking down the street with a suitcase in his hand, looking like a regular civilian rushing to work. This time he wore a suit and a fedora, and now had a moustache, but it was unmistakably the same man. "Who is he?" Gustav asked.

"According to the refugees, he was one of the head doctors and researchers at the camp," Adlercreutz said, "His name is Josef Mengele, they called him the Todesengel: or the angel of death"