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After

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Vikarion:
0545, somewhere in Siberia, Russia

The Russian missile launch that had fallen off of the missile warning radars of the United States was not, in fact, a dud or a mistaken launch. It was an SS-18, an older but widespread model, and this one carried three warheads.

Sergei Alexandrovich watched the missile warheads track in on, he was sure, an innocent country. Well, he thought, not 'innocent'. Russians had plenty of reasons to hate Americans, but this was...well, stupid. And cruel. When this was all over, where would the Russians get help from, if not the Americans? Africa? Ha!

The reports came in. "A hit! A palpable hit!" cried "Grand Marshall" Alexei Pavlovich cried, then spun, turning to one of the other officers in the bunker. "How soon until they are all ready?" he demanded, red-faced from the two or three good snorts he had already taken.

Sergei loathed lieutenant colonel Alexei Pavlovich with a passion. If asked, he might have said that it was the man's connections to Moscow, and his corrupting greed, so grasping and petty that it had got him exiled, literally, to Siberia. He certainly would have mentioned the man's slimy willingness to pretend friendship with even the lower ranks of the enlisted - which no good officer ought - and worse, his willingness to betray the interests of those men, which no officer, good or not, should permit unless over their own dead body. And he might have mentioned that he didn't care for the way Pavlovich had ended up in command - by simply being in the right place when, a week ago, the base commander had up and died of a heart attack, just like that.

But what had him truly furious was this: despite having no orders, despite the fact that this missile base was supposed to have all of its birds on maintenance, despite the fact that there was absolutely no reason for it, aside from sheer spite, Alexei Pavlovich was reactivating all of the birds, and planned to use them against American cities. After promoting himself to "Grand Marshal", of course, and even shooting one or two men for "desertion".

He stared at his own map. The missile they'd fired, the single one which had been fueled, had not hit its target, at least as such. Its target had been the United States city of Great Falls, in Montana. It looked like all three warheads on the bird - they'd been taking them off, after all - had managed to do groundbursts on a town called "Helena". Groundbursts, designed for military targets. He checked an atlas, and shrugged. There was no one alive in Helena now, that was for certain. He thought.

For one stupid missile, and one stupid little town, the United States might not decide to drop its own large and significantly more accurate cornucopia of weaponry on Mother Russia. But he'd bet his life on the fact of some sort of retaliation. And if the "Grand Marshal" did get his weapons off...

He looked up, waiting on the tech's answer to Alexei Pavlovich. When he heard it, he nodded. Forty-five minutes until one of the other intact birds would be tested and ready to go. That might be enough time.

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