Chapter 1

Lieutenant Aleksandr Simonov, like every other Soviet Soldier in the 20th Guards Motor Rifle Division, was heartily sick and tired of this bloody war.

Months since they had last seen Mother Russia, the initial excitement and joy of the patriotic war had long since devolved into a messy stalemate, with the lines running diagonally through the Texas border. There may be some expansion on the Western and Eastern US fronts, but the Texas line was going nowhere, and the state of Texas itself kept whole divisions tied down just enforcing law and order. Since everyone carried guns, that was proving difficult, and had been ever since the Psychic control devices had gone, with the traitor Yuri.

It was a relief for Aleksandr and his unit to finally go back on combat duties. He and all his soldiers had come to detest the civilians that rose up given any kind of chance. Arresting them proved troublesome and costly in terms of casualties. General – but unofficial – policy now was to shoot anyone breaking the law, quickly and quietly. 

Aleksandr sighed. Some people, it seemed, just didn’t want to be liberated. 

“All units, advance to start line.”

But peacekeeping ops with the civilians were over now, at least for his unit. They’d finally been rotated back into line duty – As the proud Guards Divisions were supposed to be. 

“20th guards in position, over.” 

“Acknowledged Comrade. Hold position, over.” 

Pushing up through the bleak New Mexico landscape, Aleksandr remembered the blazing hell that had been the advance through Texas. So different from his own Ural mountain town upbringing. New Mexico had nothing on Texas, but still wasn’t land he would give a spit for. Unfortunately, they had lost a lot worse – Men, Women, machines.

“Enemy helicopters spotted, probing Westward. Engaging, over” 

“Roger that. 17th Armoured, concentrate on point zero. 12th Guards armoured, point Red Star.” 

“Acknowledged comrades.” 

And they would lose more, in the liberation of North America. Every Soviet Soldier knew it had to be done – These people had been beaten down by their oppressive rulers and fat-cat leaders for too long. Desperate to keep power, the US ruling class had developed weapons of unimaginable power – Atomic Bombs, Nuclear bombs, Weather Control… And the Chronosphere. 

Such insanity had to be stopped.

And to stop it, the Soviets had to rely on superiority of numbers and the bravery of their men, rather than the technology the Allies possessed. 

“33rd, 34th 35th Special Infantry divisions in place, comrades. We are ready. Over.” 

And sometimes, the Soviets used a little technology of their own, to increase their numerical advantage. 

The Special Infantry divisions were clones. Seeded and force-grown under the supervision of traitor Yuri, the Soviet Union had an almost inexhaustible supply of men to feed into the war machine. 

“ATTACK COMRADES! FOR MOTHER RUSSIA!” 

“20th Guards, advance to contact. Over.” 

That last order was from the divisional General. Aleksandr tapped his Flak Track’s driver on the soldier, his other hand holding a headphone tuned to the regimental net to one ear. 

He was pressed back into his seat and the nippy, versatile vehicle, packed with troops joined the spearhead. Just ahead, Rhino MBTs tore twin furrows in the ground, leading the advance. Huge V3 Rockets thundered through the blazing midday sky from the rear echelons. 

Such a well-co-ordinated, precise attack. I wonder how long before it all goes tits-up?

What was a rhetorical question proved, in fact, to be an important one. 

The cloned infantry units had gone in first – They met a solid line of dug in Allied tanks and infantry, half a mile thick with minefields and razor wire, airstrikes and artillery. Much of the airstrikes and artillery were busily disrupting Soviet lines further back too, but under cover of darkness the Soviets had still managed to assemble their attacking force - Like the clones that were busy impaling themselves on the allies massed guns, blown apart by concentrated shellfire, cut into pieces by sweeping machineguns, scythed down by heli-borne 30mm cannon. 

Aleksandr’s arm itched – Just where he’d had his blood sample taken during his medical, upon conscription. 

Maybe somewhere, out there, there is a clone of me too… Maybe lots of clones. 

Silently, he wished his blood-comrades luck. 

Minutes later, his unit had run its course. While the cloned infantry bravely sacrificed themselves, distracting the enemy, an armoured thrust plunged deep into the enemy’s flank like a barbed-wire enema – That was how General Yeltsin, A relation to the infamous Cosmonaut had put it, in his own inimitable style. 

Aleksandr’s Mechanized infantry followed that armoured thrust, and saw first hand, just how successful it had been. 

A line abreast of over 30 tanks sat smoking, burning, blackened. Tracks had been shredded, the vehicles skewing at crazy angles. The surviving Rhinos charged suicidally ahead, still – Aleksandr saw the lead tank commander standing up in his turret, waving the red flag in one hand and an AKSU in the other, screaming at the top of his voice. 

“Bozhemoi! Look at that idiot!” Exclaimed a private, who should have known better than to talk defeatist when the Commissar was listening. 

A blazing white-hot dot snaked from the long-grass near the allied lines. 

Anti-tank missile. TOW. Aleksandr thought, unconsciously. It took a curving arc towards the speeding tank, unstoppable, deadly – 

WHUMP! 

The tank skewed on its axis, but swerved back onto its original course, still very much alive. Even wire-guided missiles could miss. 

Still moving full-tilt, the distant silhouette of the tank commander shrank back down into its turret. A moment later, the vehicle thundered its reply, still moving. Rocking backwards on the 120mm, cannon recoil, the vehicle fired again, and again.

Fountains of dirt rode up from the hi-ex shell, dirt, clumps of mud and long grass, maybe a few Allied Anti-Tank men, because they stopped firing, wherever they were. 

There was to be no reprieve for the suicidally brave tank men though, as they resumed their charge – Backed up by other surviving tanks, the dreaded squat-dragonfly-shapes of Longbow gunships popped up from a low brow, seemingly out of nowhere. 

As if on cue, rocket-trails slammed into the lead tanks with ground-shaking force. As far as Aleksandr could see forward was now so much smoke and debris – Not just from the missiles and tank explosions now, but from the clouds of flak being thrown-up by quick-minded flak-trakkers. 

“OUT! OUT!” Aleksandr barked, kicking the soldier next to him for not acting quickly enough. Marking themselves as a threat, the flak traks couldn’t hope to survive long. The infantrymen ran and dove forward into the long grass, and Aleksandr saw happily the rest of his battalion following suit. 

The thuttering of rotor blades was coming closer, though the ‘copters were blocked from view by the smoke. The growl of cannon-fire could be heard – Lines of shells tore miniature trenches across the sun-baked dirt ground. A man ten feet from Aleksandr was disemboweled by a 30mm. A group of scurrying guards were scythed down. 

It occurred to Aleksandr that the helicopters could see through the smoke, where he couldn’t. Urging his men forwards, physically and verbally, Aleksandr remembered to cock and un-safety his AK-74M. He loaded a grenade into the under-barrel launcher too – Not easy when you’re half-running, half crawling, but he’d learned a few things in his career. 

The smoke above cleared just enough so he could make out a few of the prowling Apaches – One was bleeding smoke heavily from its twin engine pods, running in lazy circles losing height. 

Suddenly the canopy of the nearest machine exploded into flame. The machine dropped to the ground with a crunch, as it lost all power from its engines. Aleksandr cheered with excitement, along with his men. The deadly machines looked so delicate on the ground… He emptied half a clip into it out of spite. 

Taking casualties from flak, the Longbows decided enough was enough, and turned tail, the damaged vehicle ditching just over a mile away. Aleksandr hoped for a few MiGs to make sure the bastards didn’t get back to their rearming point, but the sky was depressingly clear, leaving just the milling, confused infantry, and Regiment’s worth of wrecked tanks. 

If only we’d had our flak up closer to support the tanks… No point in mulling over this crap, got to move.

“What do we do sir?” Asked Aleksandr’s platoon sergeant, He was bleeding from the mouth, and had lost his helmet.

“Gas masks on. Get your grenade men, and fire smoke and tear-gas ahead of us to cover our advance. We’ll carry on – I think we can break through, Comrade.” He told the man, buoyed with the confidence of his training and experience. 

“Yes sir.” 

Moments later, the dismounted infantry were once again an organised fighting force, advancing in formation through the smoke. Aleksandr paused only to acknowledge the presence of a charred, disembodied, gauntleted hand. 

It was fused to a metal pole with a blackened star atop it. Still clinging to it was the tattered remains of the red flag. 

Moments later, adrenaline still pumping through his veins, Aleksandr found himself the point platoon, pushing into the Allied battleline. Two more men had been taken casualties to anti-personnel mines, slowing the advance. 

But when they stumbled across the Allied trench system – literally – Aleksandr knew he was on to a winner. 

The Soviet troops advanced cautiously each direction of the dusty, gas-filled trench, covering each other to try and make up for the vision restrictions their gas-helmets gave them. Aleksandr was proud to have such experienced men – They had fought in battle before, and had left behind their meagre conscript training months ago. 

Rounding a corner, Aleksandr found no resistance. 

Odd. They usually put men in every nook and cranny in these trenches. Must be losing their touch.

He advanced further – Alert now, because voices could be heard. American voices. Neither Aleksandr nor his men understood the English they spoke, but there was no mistaking the panic in their voices. They came from a large alcove, breaking from the main trench. 

He motioned to his Sergeant and a Corporal, outlining his plan. 

Getting to the dust-caked floor, he crawled around the corner – Its less instinctual to shoot a man who’s on the floor than one who puts his head in your face.

Under a camo-net awning, three Americans were loading gear into one of their Hum-vee vehicles – One solder stood guard, while another soldier and one civilian – a black man, with a slung rifle – Tried to manhandle a TOW laucher to the tp of the overgrown jeep. 

“HALT!” Aleksandr barked, sounding odd through his rebreather mask. 

None of the Americans halted. They went for their guns, dropping the TOW with a crash. The soldier and the black man dropped next to it a second later – dead from tight groupings in the upper-torso. The guard-soldier had dived behind the Hum-vee, avoiding Aleksandr’s burst. 

Shrugging mentally, as if to say ‘I gave them a chance’, Aleksandr fired his grenade launcher under the Humvee, between the hug wheel-arches. 

The vehicle rocked, like a fat man after a punch to the belly. The wave of heat and smoke washed over Aleksandr, with the stench of cooked meat. 

Scratch American Number three.

* * * 

The Soviets had scored a victory. Not an important one in the wider scheme of things, but a victory nonetheless. 

After breaking the tank line and getting into the Allied Trenches, hardened Soviet troops had rapidly encircled the position, forcing a quick capitulation. An Allied General had been captured, and the city of Tucson was as good as Soviet

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