Gratin's Point of View
After the third day of rioting a cobbled-together force of National Guard and interior troops had mostly been able to restore order in the capitol, at least in the important districts.
The censors have been lax, Valentin Gratin ruminated. His orders were clear, but somehow the information security measures taken since the Special Military Operation began to experience reverses had failed.
Counting on the fact that the conscripts at the front were mostly the unwanted of society, men from small, impoverished towns far from Moscow and Saint Petersburg, as well Siberian minorities, Gratin made the difficult decision to use nuclear weapons to cover their retreat. The losses, while regrettable, were necessary.
They would've been completely overrun otherwise! The people don't know what it means to rule!
Ungrateful as ever, the Russian mind lacked the perspective to see why his hand was forced.
The Anglo-Saxons were more cunning than the worst fears of the most paranoid men he knew from his KGB days. After overthrowing his puppet Henrik Orszag, they replaced the man with an absurdly photogenic woman, complete with a handler from American Naval Intelligence, her "husband". From there, the CIA used Hungary as a catspaw to launder their new wonder weapons into Ukraine. The withdrawal of the small eastern European countries from NATO was but a convenient fiction! This whole sordid affair had the fingerprints of Washington all over it.
Once, Valentin Gratin's dream was the revival of Russia as a great power, a country whose voice was heeded in global matters, respected, feared. Now, he would be lucky if the Russian Federation could maintain its sovereignty for another month.
"What are the Chinese saying, Ivan Mikhailovich?" he asked his foreign minister on the other end of the long table where he conducted official business.
"They are cold, Valentin Vladimirovich," Ivan Leonev told him. "We have asked them to act as an intermediary with the Hungarians, even send feelers for a peace deal, but so far, nothing."
At least Ivan wouldn't lie to him, which was better than some.
"And Belarus?" Gratin pressed.
"They will not allow RECA troops to transit through their country, nor will they allow us to use their airspace, little good as it would do us.
Typical. Gratin grunted in displeasure. The White Russians were always happy to play both sides. "And I suppose we have nothing which can get past their direct energy weapons?"
"That question would be better put to a general, Valentin Vladimirovich," the foreign minister said diplomatically.
"It doesn't matter," Gratin said in resignation. "I know we don't. Our only other option is high altitude detonations, but that will be an absolute last resort. We can only hope that their attack bogs down, as have so many invasions of the Motherland in the past."
An aid rushed into the room and a guard stopped him before he could get close. "Mr. President, I have urgent news!"
Gratin raised a hand carelessly. "Let him through, gentlemen." He braced himself for bad news.
"Kaliningrad is overrun. Pskov and Bryansk have both surrendered without a fight. There is one enemy column headed for Saint Petersburg and another for Moscow! They could be here in days!"
Now that was troubling. Feeling calmer that he anticipated, Gratin wrote out an order. All forces still engaged in the Special Military Operation would withdraw and regroup at Rostov-on-Don, and from there an emergency movement north to protect Moscow.
"Summon the Minister of Defense and the General Staff," he instructed. "Ah, and the Minister of Internal Affairs. I want a plan for the defense of Moscow. We will need soldiers, police, civilian militias, anyone who can hold a weapon will do."
It was Valentin Gratin's turn to make history.
Tragedy or triumph? he wondered.
***
"The internet is still down!" complained a hysterical officer, a Colonel Chernenko or Cherdenko. Gratin didn't bother learning his name by heart.
"Electricity too!" said General Vlasov. "Our scouts report skirmishes in the outer suburbs of Moscow. They're here, no mistake about it, and the city is completely dark."
Ukrainian, or perhaps American cyber attacks had completely crippled them. The Kremlin still had a generator and secure phone lines, but President Gratin had been, at times, reduced to communicating with his generals using hand-written notes and runners, like these were still the days of Napoleon!
"Have courage, men! You're Russians, aren't you?" Gratin said to the increasingly panicked crowd of officers in the Kremlin. "This is not the first time Moscow has had to resist an invader. You're grandfathers who fought the fascists would be ashamed of you."
Suitably chastened, the men quieted down and focused on their work, or at least pretended to.
The American killer robots were not invincible. Anti-material rifles could render them inoperable, and they needed to be refueled regularly. That was the key.
"I want light forces, partisans, to infiltrate enemy lines and focus on harassing the human logistics troops accompanying the robots," Gratin ordered General Vlasov. "They are strong but few. Our people can slip through the cracks and cut off their supplies."
Vlasov nodded and walked away. Gratin hoped he would show up at work tomorrow. His predecessor had not. It was a desperate ploy, but the Air Force was now refusing to launch sorties after a disastrous attempt at engaging the enemy column from standoff range. If Moscow was to hold, then men of flesh and blood would have to hold it.
A runner from the wing where the kept the secure telephone lines entered. Gratin swallowed heavily.
Every time this happens it is bad news.
"What disaster has befallen us now?" he asked cynically.
The man, really more of a boy, froze at his words.
"Well?" Gratin demanded.
"General Kryukov and all the troops from the SMO will be here in two days," he said softly.
Well, that's something, Gratin thought, feeling a little lighter.
"Hear that?" he asked his generals. "We just need to hold out for two more days, then relief will arrive!"
He saw smiles on the faces of the General Staff, some of them genuine.
"Is that all?" Gratin asked the runner.
"Er, well..."
"Speak up, boy!" he commanded.
"Saint Petersburg has fallen, and the RECA northern army is moving in our direction."
Well, it was too much to hope for all the news to be good.
***
"You need to flee the city, Valentin Vladimirovich," his foreign minister urged him. "Moscow will be encircled soon."
"General Kryukov will be here soon to break the siege," Gratin said confidently.
His generals, traitors, most of them, had not bothered to come in today. Only the most loyal still remained in the Kremlin.
"Mr. President," Colonel Cher-something addressed him. "The only reason the RECA forces have not yet stormed our present location is that they've been focused on humanitarian relief for the people of Moscow. Our soldiers desert to their lines in droves! It's over."
No, it couldn't be...
"What about General Kryukov?" Gratin asked.
"He's not coming, Valentin Vladimirovich," the foreign minister said. "Perhaps his force never existed at all. The Ukrainians were in hot pursuit during the whole withdrawal to Rostov, and we haven't heard much from the south for days."
Gratin scratched at the phantom noose that had been gradually tightening around his neck. He looked into the faces of the men around him, and the President of the Russian Federation did not like what he saw!
Pity, they pity me!
Many of them were counting on the mercy of the Americans, fools that they were. It was not the nature of the Anglo-Saxon to be merciful. Once the American boot was on your neck it would remain there forever. No, Valentin Gratin would not accept this! If Russia was to fall then he would not be around to see it.
"Valentin..." the foreign minister put a hand on his arm.
"I don't know what else to do, Ivan," he said honestly. Gratin felt like he was playing himself in a movie. It was real and yet unreal. He was counting on final victory in the Special Military Operation this year! Where had it all gone wrong?
Extreme thoughts and fantasies ran through his mind rapidly. Should he run? Run where? Perhaps he should die fighting.
Life? Death? Gratin wanted to laugh at himself. Has a realist like me become philosophical at the end?
While he was ruminating on all this, a man, the very last of the runners from the telephone room, approached.
I really ought to have killed them all, he thought.
"What bad news do you have for me today?" Gratin asked.
"China is joining the war," the runner said directly. "Vladivostok is gone. All Siberia will be gone soon enough."
Gratin put a hand on the young man's shoulder. That settles it then.
"We will launch a full nuclear strike," Gratin ordered. "America, Europe, China, we'll annihilate them all," he said coldly, his eyes dead, his fate accepted.
"Valentin..." the Foreign Minister held up his hands, like he was trying to talk down a madman.
I'm not mad!
"I've made up my mind; the decision is final," Gratin said with authority.
What remained of his General Staff hastened to obey. They didn't know anything but obedience, after all. Transmitting the necessary codes was but a formality.
An hour later Valentin Gratin sat at his desk in the Kremlin, half a bottle of vodka already gone.
"I've ended the world," he said to nobody in particular. "The missiles have all found their targets by now."
It was a strangely liberating thought. Why, he wondered, hadn't they launched a retaliatory strike? Why was he still here?
A loud noise jolted him out of his reverie and the whole building rumbled. Gratin froze, waiting to be vaporized, but a minute later he was still there.
What the devil are they doing?
More booms, more rumbles, the Kremlin shook and the roof collapsed a bit, sending dust everywhere. It got in his eyes.
Waving a hand in front of his face ineffectually, Gratin had a sudden realization.
They didn't bother to strike Moscow because they would hit their own army.
It was obvious in retrospect.
That was a comfort of a kind. The Russian people, such as they were, would be spared, at least these few millions who happened to be in Moscow.
A wild thought occurred to him. Did the Russian Federation exist anymore? Did it even matter? Washington and Beijing were both gone, New York, Shanghai, Brussels...cursed Budapest. If Moscow was the last one standing then there might be hope after all. These RECA forces had no leader now, no support system.
Yes, that was a hopeful thought. Moscow would endure and those damned robots would eventually break down. The people would remain.
"Valentin Vladimirovich," greeted the foreign minister, walking into his office.
"Ivan Mikhailovich," he greeted back. "How is our post-apocalyptic world treating you?"
"Post-apocalyptic?" Ivan seemed genuinely confused. "Valentin, our ICBMs were intercepted in orbit, all of them. Not only that, our submarines all sank under mysterious circumstances. Not a single strike was successful."
No. That couldn't be. That was impossible! "Did they tell you that, Ivan? Why believe them?"
His foreign minister sighed. "The internet is back on in Moscow, Valentin. I just signed the instrument of our surrender. The war is over. We've lost!"
"You don't have the authority to do that!" Gratin said in rage. "I'm the President!"
That phantom noose around his neck started feeling tight again. Gratin looked around his office like a caged animal.
Should I jump out the window? he considered. There was a pistol in his desk but the drawer was locked. Sometimes he was too paranoid for his own good.
The window it is, he decided.
Gratin stood up and considered how best to approach this. He'd need a running start, of course. Should he open it first? It surely had reinforced glass; he'd have to.
"I can't let you do that, Valentin," Ivan said sadly, pulling a pistol out of his coat. "Queen Reka wants you alive."