Ladies, Gentlemen and creatures of all kinds. This started as a thought experiment about the region I live in, Eastern Europe, how to make it better. And it grew from there. The ultimate goal of this project was to make a world that is a lot richer and advanced then our own by 2015, with a POD that benefits Eastern Europe in particular in the 90s. I have seen a lot of dystopian timelines, they are a staple of ours really, and I think what this forum and AH in general needs is a bit more optimism. That said, while this world will end up richer, that doesn't mean it will be all that better everywhere.
This will all be presented through prose, English isn't my first language so I apologize for any mistakes. The initial few chapters are edited by El Yanqui. I honestly feel like an asshole making him edit more so the rest will probably be on my own.
So r8 h8 and apr8
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Fixing a broken vase
Breaking things, he reflected, is always easier than fixing things. President Bill Clinton enjoyed his custom chair -- the black leather, the lumbar support, the height relative to his desk in the Oval Office -- although he had considered changing away from black, since the chair got so hot in the DC summer heat. He rubbed his hands on the handles and smiled with that boyish smile that had charmed America. So much brinkmanship, so many backdoor deals. And today was the last one.
The national media -- nay, the international media -- had been hyping the meeting for weeks now. It dominated news coverage around the world, as the "two pretty boys" of Russia and America met in the White House. Unlike past visitors, like Brezhnev or Khruschev, this new Russian president was greeted like a superstar by the American people. People lined the streets and waved Russian flags as the motorcade of the President drove past them. There were photo-opportunities and a lot of waving as the two Presidents met in-front of the White Housen. But all of that was posturing -- it was inside the White House that decisions, and history, would be made.
Boris Nemtsov walked in, his smile unyielding. He wore a white shirt, with a checkered tie and a perfectly tailored suit. Clinton regretted his more casual dress, seeing as the press noticed all of these little details, but it was a bit too late to change into something more sartorially appropriate. The two men shook their hands firmly, as Secret Service and FSB agents filled both sides of the room. Boris sat opposite President Clinton and his black chair, and as Clinton gestured to his men to leave, so did Nemtsov. As they disappeared, both men visibly relaxed.
"How are you Boris?" Clinton began amiably, going for first-name informality right off the bat. They had refused the help of translators, as Nemtsov had surprised everyone with his impeccable English.
"Perfect, Bill. Getting here was a wild ride though." He grinned and relaxed on the chair.
Nemtsov's rise was unlikely, but a welcomed relief for the Russian people and an even more welcomed relief to those outside the country. He was not elected to lead originally; ironically, he came to power at the behest of a military junta. His opponents never missed the opportunity to remind the world of this fact, although Nemtsov's landslide victory in last month's election greatly undermined that narrative. Now, his power was backed not only by bullets, but by ballots as well. Finally, after almost 3 and a half years of Russia dragging itself through an ugly attempt at democracy, Boris Nemtsov was here to seal the deal to secure Russia's future.
"Can I offer you a drink?" Clinton said as he stood up and walked to a small, beautifully crafted liquor cabinet. Nemtsov shook his head "No Mr. President, but I thank you. My predecessor's... august example has led me away from the bottle. I'm sure you can understand."
Bill continued unimpeded, pouring himself a glass of 20 year old Kentucky bourbon. "I certainly do." he said as he walked back, remembering the crisis in Russia that launched Nemtsov's national career. With the death of Yeltsin from alcohol poisoning, Alexander Rutskoy attempted to constitutionally appoint himself as the President. The protests in response were massive, and were more importantly headed by liberal firebrands -- with Nemtsov at their head. Soon enough, the Russian military tired of disorder and disunity, and lent their support to Nemtsov and his liberals. Clinton sat back with the cup in his hand, looked at Nemtsov, and got down to business. "I won't lie to you Boris, this bill took a great deal of backdoor deals. Many favors were called in, concessions were made to Gingrich, and deals were made. But I think tomorrow's vote is a lock to pass."
The Russian President unclenched, his stomach loosening and his shoulders relaxing, as if Atlas himself had shrugged. It had been a long and winding road for the two leaders, but they had finally reached the finish line.
"They are already calling in the Clinton Plan. Can you imagine this? I hope this is how your people remember me," Clinton continued.
"Russia will never forget what you did for her, Mr President." Nemtsov was carefully controlling himself, but inside he was exploding with happiness. What the American media had dubbed the Second Marshal Plan was going to happen.
-----
Bekhan took a very deep breath, the Kalashnikov was pressed to his chest. He was one of the Dudayevstvy, the people fighting in support of Dzhokhar Dudayev and his Chechen Republic of Ichkeria. And in his sight he held a person, a fighter of the Provisional Council of the Chechen Republic who opposed Dudayev. They called them Avturkhanovstvy in short, even though the Council was made up of diverse groups from various Taips nominally united under Umar Avturkhanov. But a second later that wouldn't matter. The complex political deadlock and conflict that has lead to the absolute collapse of the new Chechen Republic into pure warlordism took a back seat. For Bekhan, this moment was between him, hidden deep in the bush, with water dripping on his head from the leaves arranged above his head and that person, who was on patrol, walking slowly and listening carefully for any sounds that may show the position of his enemy. The only reason Bekhan hadn't shot the person yet was because he was certain there were others around. The rain was intensifying, he bit his lip as the dripping on his head intensified. His finger squeezed the trigger slowly, until he could feel the spring that was connected to the trigger tense up to the extreme.
*click* the sound came from his side. He froze and so did the person he was aiming at. Before he could react, he heard a single shot ring out from the distance. He reflexively squeezed the trigger, and pumped the man before him full of lead, before his bullet-ridden corpse collapsed. Bekhan stood there, frozen, expecting to feel the pain any second. But the pain didn't come. He patted himself for holes or wounds, none were present. So he looked to the side slowly, seeing a body collapsed next to him, with a giant hole in its head.
"So that's where the second Avturkhanovstvy was hiding." he smiled and stood up slowly, waving at the distance where the allied sniper was based. If it wasn't for that man, he would be dead. Then he ran, he knew the fire would attract other people. Friendly or not, they were in the lands of a rival Tukkhum, and the moment the enemy found the body, they would want revenge. And that's what Dudayev's loyal Tukkhums were hoping for. You see, Dudayev's enemies together were too strong. But if they could get them to fight each other, life would be a lot easier for Dudayev. While Bekhan was secretly a Dudayevstvy, he also belonged to a Tukkhum that, while claiming to be neutral, had been supporting the opposition for a while now. He had pulled off several raids on this territory, leaving clues and signs that it was his Taip that was doing this. And it seemed to be working -- recently a skirmish had erupted between two Taips belonging to the two different Tukkhums. With the Russians refusing to intervene on the side of the opposition, Dudayev's men were hoping to crush the enemy In a great feat of tragedy, the glory-mad men like Bekhan never realized what they were unleashing. These raids would start the collapse of the social order in Chechnya -- the state of nature, as it were, would last for many years.
And the mountains would be stained, in their time, with ever-more Chechen blood.
---
Vladislav took a deep pull from his cigarette, the cold air mixing with the white of the smoke. Even as his hands grew cold, he smiled as he looked over to Mark Sanchez, the American investor overlooking their project. Sanchez, for his part, was freezing even beneath his many layers of clothes, shivering.
"You never learned to survive the Moscovite winter, didn't you Mark?" Vladislav said as he took another pull. He enjoyed smoking, it was one of life's gifts for Vladislav. Mark's eyebrows however told a different story, as they dropped down on his tanned face, his eyes bore into the cigarette that was hanging on the sides of Vladislav's lips.
"You know those things will kill you right?" Mark said through shivering teeth. The Californian entrepreneur was not used to such extremely low temperatures, as he spent most of his time in the southern states and in the Nevada desert, where he owned partial stakes in a series of local casinos. Now, he was one of the thousands of Americans who flooded into Russia, seeking the riches of the east opened up by the Clinton Plan. They invested, they constructed, they employed and they threw millions of dollars at the economy. In the process, both sides grew fabulously rich... or at least that is what Vladislav was hoping would happen.
"All men die someday -- from the sun, from the air, from sex or from drugs. Might as well live with what we enjoy, yes?" Vlad smiled, the cigarette still hanging from the corner of his mouth. The reforms had brought Vlad a long way. He had been born to two undescript workers, nobodies in the faceless Soviet system. Thanks to Nemtsov, a man like Vlad could be a somebody instead.
He had initially used a contact in East Germany to sell cars; he had imported old Mercedes and BMW cars to sell on the Russian market -- the miracle of capitalism at work! The West German cars were all the rage, especially now that people could actually afford them. Soon enough Mercedes and BMW opened their own official dealership, but there were always people who would prefer to buy cheaper, used cars. Vlad made a small fortune and he quickly invested it in the booming properties market. That is how he had met Mark -- the two of them wanted to build a casino in Russia, and Vlad had access to the valuable real estate. A working relationship had developed, and Vlad agreed to sell Sanchez a share of the land in exchange for a lump sum of cash and a share in the profits of the casino.
Mark remained bemused. "I don't understand the massive smoking habit you all seem to have. Every Russian I meet is smoking." As he spoke, he rubbed his hands viciously, in a wasted attempt to bring warmth to his dead fingers. Vlad could only laugh as he took another pull from the cigarette and threw the butt out of the unfinished window the pair was looking through. The rays of the sun were just beginning to shine, elongating the shadows of the vast construction cranes littering the Moscow skyline. This was a picture repeated all over Russia and the image of the Russian and American flags waving together was now commonplace.
"Americans brought a lot of good things here, Mark, but you also brought these..." he said as he pointed outside of the window where the butt had just been thrown. "... all in the spirit of making money, of course. Isn't that what immediately bound our two nations. Money?"
Sanchez couldn't help but smile at that statement. "You all had cigarettes before that, you bastard." The Russians, he thought, were fast learners. They had instantly exploded on the global economic scene with American assistance and their massive heavy infrastructure, vast land and resources. Industrious and clever men rose through the ranks as the privatization swept through the country. One of Nemtsov's most controversial policies was using developmental funds, sent by the United States in the Clinton Plan, to upkeep the lifestyle of the bureaucracy of the state. This carrot-and-stick approach cost him a great deal of public credibility -- to keep the apparatchiks in their dachas! -- but also helped to stop corruption and insider trading during the vulnerable periods of the privatization. That policy, of course, was backed with the sacking of much of the inefficient and unneeded bureaucracy, and a series of political moves that were designed to stop corruption before it got out of control. Even though Nemtsov's government almost fell in the elections, it held firm against populists, communist nostalgists and right-wing alike, securing a close win for the Liberals in the second democratic elections.
Vlad grinned and continued to stare at the horizon. "Isn't it weird?" he shook his head. "10 years ago I could have sworn the Cold War would never end and that America and Russia could never ever cooperate. Now... look at Moscow. Look at our President being accepedt in America as a superstar, look at your President's arrival causing a massive celebration. And there is this talk... of joining NATO."
Sanchez stopped trying to warm his hands for a second and looked at Vlad. "There is?"
"Yes. Many of the Liberals want it."
"But... why?"
At that Vlad smiled meekly.
"China."
Sanchez made a weird noise with his mouth. "You sure about this trip?"
"Yeah man. We were invited to Iraq by Ayman Sabawi, the dude is Saddam's half-nephew, he heard about our business together and wants to talk about weapons sales."
"Look, I know my business is already on the edge of legality, but I don't think importing weapons to Iraq is a good idea."
"Trust me, Sanchez, I have the contacts to make it work. Plus, Iraq might have bad relations with the US, but not with Russia."
Mark tried in-vain to warm his hands for a bit before looking back at Vlad. "Lets the get the fuck off the roof, man."
As Vlad lingered for a few more seconds, staring at the sun rising above the giant city, he smiled and turned back "...yeah, the workers will be here in an hour anyways."
---
Zlatan ran as fast as his legs could carry him. His boots were long gone, what was left of the sole was splintered beyond recognition, the leather tattered with strops hanging from it. It was a miracle these things were even on his feet to start with. He was alone now, Arkan was dead, lying in a ditch somewhere. A Russian convoy had caught them a few months back. The Russians were not like NATO -- they took no prisoners, and once they knew you were militia, they shot you on sight. Arkan had been too proud, he couldn't keep quiet or hide who he was. One bout of yelling in the face of a Russian colonel, and a Makarov silenced proud Arkan. As the young Serb ran, his mind was racing. He remembered the minute details of the confrontation. The Russian's face going red, his hand clasping the pistol, Arkan's goading that he wouldn't dare pull the trigger. He even remembered the coarse texture of the Makarov's handle, the Russian eagle on his uniform. The ultramarine beret of the VDV, kept pristine even in the mud and the rain. Zlatan could swear he even saw a faint smile.
And then the shooting started. He had seen Arkan's head pop open from the back, as he collapsed in the hands of the two Russians holding him. The Colonel put the pistol back in his holster and made a signal with his hand, before climbing back on the BTR. Zlatan managed to slip out of their hands just then, a few minutes before he heard the Russians shoot his comrades behind him. He swore, as a branch latched onto his already tattered boots and he slipped and almost fell. He got up immediately and kept running. He had been running for over 24 hours and he was well aware that the Russians were on his ass. The only thing the militants could agree on was the threat of the Russians -- that if thy caught you breaking the law, they killed you.
The NATO task-force seemed more careful, more rationl. It was a public secret among the militants, be them Bosnak, Serb or Croatian that if the Russians caught you doing something they deemed unlawful, they shot you. How can these men claim to be here in the interest of peace as they murdered their way into the countryside. What were they expecting?! They had hunted Arkan's tigers, the Teslicka Brigade and mudzhahedin in Bosnia, some Croatians in Herzegovina and elsewhere. They were now occupying most of Bosnia, Krajina and Kosovo. And while they had stopped the war, the NATO led coalition also decided what happened to the region.
The Serbs could barely bear to lose their lands, and now Serbs were to be evicted from their rightful homes and land. The occupiers, the invaders, called it population transfers. Zlatan saw it as the return of the German occupation, the second round of crimes against Serbia. Krajina was his home, and he wanted to fight for it. He could not see, in the heat of battle and rage, that groups all over Bosnia saw the conflict in much the same way -- and had much the same resentments. Croatians were returned to Croatian-majority lands, Serbians to Serbian lands, and Bosnians -- and even Serbia's Muslims -- to Bosnia itself.
And Zlatan never realized that the Russians treated militias so harshly, because they and their NATO allies cannot stand to lose a lengthy insurgency against various angry local groups. Of course, there were other ways to treat militias and fighters, but Russians knew no other way to treat what they saw as enemies. Zlatan stopped for a moment, his mind still racing. He looked around, hearing only faint sounds of the leaves moving. He stood perfectly still, his ears trying to pick out sounds of movement. He was pretty sure he was close to a road somewhere and from there he could probably slip into one of the villages. The Russians never shot anyone close or in the villages, too much exposure. After all, their NATO allies were hiding everything from the global media. They can't afford to have a lot of eye witnesses.
NATO... Zlatan thought to himself... I need to find a NATO outpost, his mind came up with the idea. If he could give himself up to NATO, they can probably send him to some sort of trial or whatever, and with a good enough lawyer he can get out of it. Or agree to testify. At this point he didn't care about anyone in the Tigrovi, he just wanted to live. A drip of sweat rolled down his cheek, as he could feel the sore feet and the pain in his throat, he could hear the blood rush through his ears. And then he heard it, the faint bark of a dog, and fear gripped him. He heard the voices and he ran. But he knew it was too late, as he heard the bark get closer and closer. Then the shot came, and darkness engulfed him.
The world would not realize, behind the triumphant declarations of peace, how costly intervention was in Yugoslavia. In the long term, these events would distance Serbia from the European community and the increasingly interconnected Europe, eventually pushing it into becoming the first European client of China.
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