It was claimed by the Soviet Ministry of Defence that the KSh suit was better than the ones of the French in every respect; faster, lighter, stronger, harder, cheaper, more ergonomic. Only the final two were vaguely true, the many cut corners and comfortable synthetic fibers put in making the suits simple to produce and easy to wear. Of course, the comfort only lasted so long as the servos didn’t twist the wrong way leading to one’s limbs getting torn off within their armour, a fatal flaw that had caused a recall after the arms and legs that had to be stitched back on entered the double digits. It was thus no surprise to many grunts that - after sufficient trial in the Soviet armed forces - most of the suits were eventually relegated to use by the other members of the Warsaw Pact. Strangely though, just as men like Corporal Rudolf Stirlitz were seeing them deployed to the border forces of the DDR, they were getting recalled back to the USSR for some other purpose, one that was rather hush-hush and didn’t spread by word of mouth from Russian to Poles to Germans on military exercises. Still, while they were here the clankers would have to do. One particularly annoying aspect of the KSh was just how god damn hard it was to scratch yourself in it. He had an itch standing at the post, staring at the West Germans for almost an hour now and there was no remedy to it. He could try rubbing his back on the bloc-post behind him, but chances are that would damage the thing and be taken right from his salary along with a mark on his file. Looking on at the lines of cars going through customs control of the borders, he sighed as a cacophony of car horns blared at the sight of someone attempting an illegal U-turn on the road, prompting him to walk over to the concrete railing by the road. He gave a salute to the soldier on the other side that approached him, the two meeting half way and turning to face the traffic jam. “Morning.” “To you too.” “You saw the game?” “Which one?” “Never mind. What are we going to do about this one?” “Don’t know. There’s too many trucks.” The West German sighed, offering Rudolf a cigarette. As the sleeve on his uniform lowered, a tattoo of a [b][i]4[/i][/b] just below the wrist. Rudolf took the cigarette, but spotting the tattoo raised an eyebrow. It seemed familiar, perhaps from some briefing much time ago. The other man noticed this, and smiled. “Enjoy the smoke. Please, quickly.” he said, lighting the cigarette for Rudolf, before walking off to the road. As the East German took a long pull, he watched his counterpart go to the middle of the road. He was about to call out and ask him what he was doing, but the ball of oxygen consuming flame that the man turned into put a stop to that. [hr][hr] The air in the room was smoky, several of the attendant ministers and other personnel having lit up Cubans as the hours dragged on into the night. As problems domestic and foreign alike piled up, meetings like this were becoming ever more common, ever longer. Ties were loosened, and men switched to first name bases along with singular informal addresses rather than the Russian plural-individual formal address. In one of the corners the Polish representative was sleeping, while behind a door the German was calling his wife to tell her it would be another long day at work. They had been speaking for so long now, and yet the agenda never seemed to shrink. Curtains were closed, and yet the protestors outside were still audible, occasional phrases on the themes of treachery to the revolution being possible to make out. The meticulous, central-planning of the Supreme Soviet was unraveling, it dawning upon the assembled men that everyone on the planet was working against the orderly world they were envisioning. There were too many variables, and the equation was unsatisfiable. “Sirs, I’m out. Its too late.” Comrade-General Gagarin said. “No, wait, stay just a little.” Premiere Pavlenko said, waving a hand. “Please. Just a moment.” The Astronaut turned leader of one of the Soviet branches of armed forces sighed, sitting back down and once more removing the sweat-stained blazer had had been putting back on. “Before we leave, we need to finalize what we’ve discussed so far, and I need your assent, comrades.” The Premiere continued. “Speed up the recall of the suits. In a week we need to start sending new satellites to orbit the moon, I want the announcement ready in a month by the latest. Yuri, when will Baikonur be ready?” Gagarin shrugged. “You know the rails for spacecraft are slower. Maybe… two weeks?” “Good. You’re free to go. Isaac, you’re next.” “Well, Sir, I’m sure we can make something with the sea of Japan in… a week or two? An agent or two of ours in Kyoto were apprehended, but the rest of the country has more than enough. I can give the order today, but a cautious approach….” “We don’t have time for it. Give the order after we’re done here, then send in the cruisers. “Very well, Premiere.” “And the Yugoslavs… well, its time for the Macedonians to decide they’ve had enough oppression. The President will either decide its time to finally join their comrades in labour to the East or… well, Bulgarians will decide they must support their Northern kinsmen with a peacekeeping mission.” The Bulgarian attache spilled his tea moving to appear alert from his half-asleep state, before nodding along. “The Hungarians should prepare to make a no-fly zone. I want anyone trying to intervene shot down, I don’t care if they’re UN or NATO, they go down.” “Understood.” This came from General Harkony, a man appearing ever more in these meetings. “I know you’ve said the Serbs polled seem largely averse to separatism, but try them anyway. It’ll be a lot easier to get RY leadership to shit their pants if their core of support gets cold.’ The Premiere sighed as he looked down to his computer screen, seeing the notification of new intelligence. Several men present followed, murmurs spreading among them. “Isaac… what do we do?” The Minister of Defence looked up from reading the message. “Well, you’ve been skeptical in the past, but hear me out this time. We have GLONASS, but we aren’t using it to a fraction of the potential we could. We have the greatest coverage for satellite navigation, tracking, imaging, and we’re using it so civilian planes don’t get shot down. Any proxy that doesn’t answer to us first and foremost we mess with their navigation and such. We use our anonymous agents to give satellite images, or rather information from them to the government. It won’t be hard to believe they got caught and ours weren’t simply by variance in competence. And not just in South Africa and Rhodesia, Sir. In the Americas, world-wide.” Anatoli gripped his forehead for a minute or two in the silence, before at last replying. “Do it. While you’re at it, send more to the Arctic and Antarctic, secure the artifacts propping up there.” The Minister of Science and Education opened his mouth to object, but seeing glares from everyone else simply sat deeper in his seat. After more silence, Premiere Pavlenko looked to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. “Arrange a meeting with the Americans. Tomorrow.” [hr][hr]