This is a contribution to the “1985: Under an Iron Sky” background by Thomas Gaul, old Grognard and reader of my “The Next War – Operation Attila” AAR.
Time: June 01, 1985
Place: Deep in the secret bowels of the Krelim, KGB section
Comrade KGB Colonel Vianello signed with the contentment of a well stuff pig. The meal, wine (vodka also, of course), and cigars of the late night repast were the justifiable reward for all the hard work he and his team had put into the war plans for the coming destruction of the Capitalist-Neo-Fascist NATO powers. As such, his team and especially himself had earned this splendid feast. Yes, the workers might have to worry about a poor harvest but, after all, some of the masses were more equal than the other masses and as such should not have to worry about such mundane matters as the price of bread. When victory came, as it must, there would be plenty for all. Just plenty more for him.
All was in readiness. The plans, down to the most minute detail of mis-information given to the corrupt Western media had been prepared. Logistical, propaganda, rail movement plans, strike sights, airdrop zones, training, reserve call-ups, and all the thousand and one details that constituted the greatest military operation in history were all completed. Victory to the Glorious Socialist State was assured!
And, to himself only, Comrade KGB Colonel Vianello allowed himself his secret smile, the one he let no one, not the party elders, not his children, his wife or even his many mistresses see. For, though anything other than complete victory was inconceivable, it was the nature of the KGB to conceive even the inconceivable.
The “plan”, which, of course, would become “his” plan when it overran Europe, with the inevitable errors easily able to be fobbed off on incompetent underlings (some of whom might have to be shot as “wreckers” if it was an especially bad error) was never complete without the secret “out” clause he built into all his plans.
Not for nothing had he been nicknamed “The Survivor”* by his KGB colleagues. Just as his father had survived the Stalinist purges, his grandfather the Cheka before the Revolution, and some distant ancestor Napoleon’s invasion, so he too knew how to ensure his continued existence. Even if the inconceivable happened and somehow, no doubt through the failings of others, the “plan” failed and the Capitalist swine rolled into Moscow, he had a plan. With a grin he believed his British mistress might call “the Chesire Cat grin”, invisible to all, he patted the paper hidden inside his boot. Such an “insurance policy” was worth its weight in decadent capitalist gold.
- *Those associates who had instead referred to him as “The Weasel” had long since been identified and sent to the Gulag or developed a severe and fatal case of lead poisoning.