[center][u]Tsaritsyn, Office of the Provisional Governor[/u][/center]

With a heavy sigh Vasily leaned back in the old chair, its wooden frame creaking under the strain, and cast a weary look on his son before speaking, “What of it?”  

Grigori was far too accustom to his fathers flippant demeanour for his composure to break, but Vasily took more pleasure than he’d admit seeing his boy go to such effort to avoid scolding him.  Where he got the stone face that captured the respect of all the soldiers he’d come to command Vasily would never know, certainly not from him or Sasha.  With a pause only [i]just[/i] long enough to make his displeasure clear Grigori replied, “What of it?  Father this isn’t like their campaign against the communists, the assault on Crimea is a blatant show of aggression.  Their ‘Hetman’ has no intention of keeping to her supposed national borders.”

“I never assumed she did,”  Vasily straightened up and scratched the bushy moustache that acted as a centrepiece for his broad face, “but just because she means to occupy Crimea doesn’t mean she has an eye on Rostov my son.  Sevastopol is a prize, Rostov is a ruin.  What our people have done in the years since its liberation is what gives me the strength to keep this little corner of Russia safe, at least until the day comes when I no longer have to.  Nevertheless Grigori, we’ve managed to repair less than a third of the cities factories and refineries.  There is no fleet at anchor here, nor great treasure for the taking.”

Vasily laid his hands on the old desk before him and stood with some effort, “All that Rostov has to offer is a people prepared to defend her.  The Hetman has no designs on the east my son, and we would be wise to avoid provoking her into creating them.”

Grigori looked his father in the eye and spoke seriously, “And if you’re wrong?”

“Then,”  Vasily locked eyes with Grigori solemnly, “we fight as we always have.  Until that day comes I will not look to hasten it by amassing an army on my neighbours border, especially one we may come to rely on.  If the Hetman takes Crimea she will control the Kerch Strait.  We cannot be cut off from the black sea, what little we can bring to market means more to our people than we can possibly comprehend.”

Grigori nodded, but somehow Vasily knew the boy was unconvinced.  It pained Vasily to see it, but it didn’t surprise him.  His boy was twenty seven, and he’d been fighting for the better part of a decade, of course Grigori thought to plan for war rather than peace.  It was, after all, what the boy had become so capable at.  With a sigh Vasily stepped around the desk and embraced his son, the surprise on the boys face as rewarding as the simple feeling of human contact, “You must trust me Grigori, have I not managed to keep us afloat so far?  Go back to your men, ensure they’re ready if the day comes, but join your old man in the hope that we may hold onto the fragile peace we’ve managed to grasp in the midst of this broken world.”

With a muttered, “Of course, father.”  Grigori made his exit in the simple green uniform that’d come to symbolize the defenders of the south.  Vasily watched him go, his gaze lingering past the departure of his only son and seemingly looking for something in door that shut behind him.  He sincerely hoped peace would find his son before death did.  

With the fullness of his fifty seven years weighing down on him Vasily slumped into the simple wooden chair he’d brought to the office when he’d taken up residence in it.  It was, he reflected, unlikely he’d live to see either outcome.  The doctors assured him he was fine, but years at war had taken their toll.  He felt like a walking ruin.  If not for all those who’d come to rely on him, all family in their own way, he’d have surrendered the post of Provisional Governor years ago.  Hetmen, Tsars, Dictators, Presidents, what horrible illness had they contacted that drove them to [i]want[/i] such a position, let alone pursue it so singularly and callously?  

Some questions, Vasily presumed, didn’t have answers.

[center][u]Outskirts of Rostov[/u][/center]

The airports outlying buildings had been, miraculously, spared from destruction in the two year siege Rostov proper had suffered.  There had been damage to the main complex, the runway itself only having been repaired in the last year, but the old warehouses around the site must have never proved interesting enough to warrant their annihilation.  Which was a hell of a good thing, as would later be discovered.  

Nikolai grinned broadly at the sundry of aircraft in the southern hanger as he entered it, raising his voice to catch the attention of a mechanic working on an old transport plane, “How does she look Pavel?”

Pavel, a thickly built man who seemed at home covered in engine oil yelled back irritably, “Like she did last time Nikolai, shit.  If she was my wife I’d have drowned myself in the Don.”

“A shame she isn’t Pavel,” Nikolai chuckled, “We’d all thank her for it.”

Pavel grumbled testily but smiled nonetheless.  Without another word Nikolai walked around the other side of the plane and started working on the other engine, swearing when he tried to move the prop only to find it seized.  Without bothering to check if he was listening Nikolai rambled to Pavel, “How many of the damn things have we gotten flying again?  Four?  Five?  I swear if the Governor bothered to look at the stuff crammed into these hangers he’d give us a whole crew.  Selling the damn things to the farmers for whatever they can cough up is barely enough to feed the two of us, let alone get more of these old birds flying.”

Pavel grunted and Nikolai went on, “I mean, really.  I hear the Tsar’s have whole air wings, and we have what?  Seven or eight fighters and as many crop dusters as there are idiots like us working on them.  Who cares about the damn wheat, what if that witch in Moscow decides to bomb us Pavel!  Then the Governor will be down here shouting ‘Save me Nikolai!  Save us all!’  and we’d have all the damn money and men we needed to get these things flying.”

Without acknowledging his partners tirade Pavel asked, “You have the 15mm wrench over there?”

Nikolai kicked the tool under the airplane before continuing, “I bet we could cut a big fucking hole in the bottom of one of these old things and use it to bomb those fucking Caucus assholes into the dirt too.   Put an end to those idiots in a day.  Then we’d have all the gratitude we deserve you know?  Money and  girls and land.  We’d be proper nobility Pavel!  We’d-”

Nikolai swore loudly as the prop actually spun when he yanked it, directly into his forehead.  He staggered back, rubbed the sore bump, and cursed, “One of these days we’ll get what we deserve, you hear!  You fucking hear!”

From the other side of the plane Pavel heaved a sigh.