More Guns, Money, and Bullets: A crazier 20th century

So, I was reading linkwerk's Fountainhead Filibuster TL and was inspired to do something... interesting. While this TL is inspired by linkwerk's work, it is not an homage or direct inspiration but something with a bit of linkwerk "flavor."

More or less, I noticed all of the interesting historical people that truly have some "character" and decided to say "what would happen if you put them out on their own and gave them "More Guns, Money, and Bullets"

This will include narrative prose, and some excerpts from this ATL's history books.

Also, as a note to readers, despite the POD, I will not be exploring too many details of TTL's second world war. As that will not be the focus of the timeline.


So, without further ado, here is the first update.





Moscow, Russia, November 8, 1922






Silence hung in the room as Vladimir Ilyich Lenin stared out at the assembled men, a glaring look in his eyes as both of his hands gripped the podium. Matvei Muranov was not alone in his shock as everyone in the room seemed completely unable to speak.


Over the past fifteen minutes, the great revolutionary leader and the Father of the October Revolution stood up there and railed against the offenses of Joseph Stalin and his followers. Words like “betrayal” and “corruption” being among the milder slurs hurled out at the prominent communist leader.


It was surprising enough that Lenin had managed to make it out to speak before the congress less than three weeks after suffering a stroke which had seemingly left him both mute and bedridden, but to see such hateful energy spew forth from the man and in such a public manner...


As Lenin turned to leave the podium and take his chair, Matvei looked over to see the targets of this very public fusillade. Stalin, ever the pillar of determination simply looked on with grim determination in his eyes, but Zinoviev and Kamenev both looked as though they were about to hang themselves from the rafters if enough rope were handy.


Matvei suppressed a chuckle at that sight, to see the General Secretary's toadies squirm in their seats like that was something that even he could appreciate, despite his own ideological leanings at the moment.


His amusement was short lived however as the sound of some sort of commotion drew his attention back towards the front of the chamber. The Chairman had fallen to the floor and a growing number of men were standing around him, alarmed looks on their faces. Almost immediately, Matvei found himself jumping to his feet along with the rest of the men in the room.


Vladimir Lenin, Premier of the Soviet Union, great leader of the October Revolution, and Hero to the People had just suffered his second and final stroke.








September 12, 1938, Santiago, Chile








Reinhard Heydrich took one last toke from his cigarette before discarding it with a flick. A warm breeze blew in from the west and picked up the discarded butt on its way down, carrying it an extra meter before it hit the ground with a bounce. He liked the weather in Santiago, it reminded him of Madrid this time of year. Too bad it was infested with so many dark skinned savages, and of course the communists too. Of course then that was a problem that plagued pretty much the entire hemisphere, that damned fool Roosevelt was just a little too tolerant of the lesser breeds under his rule.


Perhaps they would do something about all of these problems one day, that was if Reinhard could complete this mission anyway.


Expelling the last bit of smoke from his lungs, he stepped off of the curb to cross the street. Despite the throngs of people hurrying about the sidewalks in this part of town, he never took his attention away from the large building a block away, or more specifically towards the row of cars parked in front of it. To say that he was paying attention to the cars was an understatement, he was practically dissecting them with his eyes, with any luck, someone would remember that a strange looking foreign man was staring at the cars just before things started to happen.


After reaching the other corner, he turned and headed for the news stand about ten meters away, and ten meters closer to the target. Once there, he purchased a copy of El Mercurio “how much?” he asked the proprietor, taking the utmost care to use that accent trick he had managed to perfect in Spain.


The man at the news stand eyed him briefly “five centavos” he replied with a slightly raised eyebrow.


Reinhard nodded “spasiba” he said just before throwing a handful of coins down on the counter, taking care to ensure that one of his rubles fell on top of the other coins.


That last bit of deception completed, he took his paper and walked over to lean against a lamp post and “read” it.


Time passed at a snails pace as he tried to not worry about the mission. It didn't matter how many times he conducted a clandestine operation like this, even with the three assassinations he pulled back in Spain and Czechoslovakia, he still felt nervous every time. Worried that the target was behind schedule, he looked down at his watch to check the time, and almost as if on cue, the doors to the building across the street opened up, and out emerged a group of men, one of whom was the focus of this entire operation.


With a certain amount of haste, the men in question piled into the row of cars before them, the movement punctuated with the sound of several of car doors closing, then the engines started up and they began to pull-


A bright flash and deafening boom interrupted Reinhard's thoughts, and by the time he looked back at the the target, he saw that the row of cars were now gone, replaced by a group of flaming metal hulks, surrounded by dozens of prone bodies.


Where once the bustling sound of a city going about its business surrounded him, now there were nothing but screams and sobs, and a moment or two later, the distant sound sirens. Taking one last look to survey the destruction, he turned to blend in with the horde of people fleeing the scene. Moments later he was riding in the back of a taxi heading toward the outskirts of the city.


*-*-*


Carlos Ibáñez del Campo was not happy to be standing in the dry storage room of this little restaurant, not now, not under these circumstances. Nervously he drummed his fingers on the pant leg of his suit. He didn't like this, and he was very much not wanting to be there right then, not a scant three days after the assassination. Accusations were flying as to who had been responsible, some saying anarchists, others said communists, some said members of Ross' own party had done the deed. Even so, Carlos had his own suspicions. Especially with the arrival of his “benefactor” in the country so recently.


If his “relationship” with Abwehr were revealed, it would be a disaster.


As the door to the room opened, he folded his arms around his chest, no need to show anyone else his current state of mind.


With a kind of nonchalant calmness that made Carlos want to smack him, the German spy walked through the doorway “thank you for coming” he said with a faint accent.


Carlos gave a humorless chuckle “you act as though I was entirely happy about this meeting, do you know what has happened?!” he demanded.


Heydrich only responded with a raised eyebrow “oh, don't give me that arrogant routine, that's what I always hated about you Germans. You know full well that I'm talking about the bombing. Someone has assassinated Gustavo Ross! There is talk of foreign involvement! And you want us to meet a mere three days afterward. If word got out that I was meeting with-” he started barking at the German but was cut off.


“Yes, I'm well aware of the assassination. I mean, after all, my agency carried it out.”


“You what?! What did you think you were doing? If it is revealed that a German agent was responsible, if they find out our connection, it will not only spell the end of our arrangement, but also destroy my political career, all of our efforts will be for naught. What could you possibly be thinking?!”


Seemingly oblivious to the furious man standing before him, the German spy placed his suitcase on the floor next to him and nonchalantly reached into his jacket pocket, producing a cigarette case which he proceeded to open. Taking one of the cylinders out, he placed it between his lips, slapped the case shut and placed it back in his pocket, only to produce a small silver lighter in its place, the embossed swastika on the lighter cast rays of light on the floor as he used it to lift his cigarette.


Taking a long drag from the smoldering cylinder, he pulled it from his lips “I was thinking that Cerda's associations with known communists will be particularly disastrous to his campaign once evidence of communist involvement in the attack surfaces” he said as he expelled the smoke from his lungs.


Carlos looked at Heydrich in silence for a second before speaking again “what are you talking about, what Soviet agent? You just said that you-” he stopped as the connections came together in his mind “what evidence?” he asked suspiciously.


The German took another drag from his cigarette “the group of communist radicals who the police were informed of just this morning and are operating out of a house a mere ten kilometers outside of the city and happen to have ten pounds of TNT in their possession, and the witness accounts of a foreign man with a Russian accent being spotted at the scene of the bombing which can be corroborated by Russian coins that the authorities will almost certainly find at the news stand across the street from where the bombing took place” he explained.


“Foreign man with-”


Heydrich made a gesture like a mock salute “zdrastvooyte comrade” he said in heavily Russian accented Spanish.


His expression widened into what could almost be mistaken for a grin “there are communist revolutionaries everywhere it seems, ready to strike from the shadows at any moment, filling the streets with blood. First in Prague, Warsaw, and Paris, and now in Santiago. Hardly a surprise really. Only a matter of time.”


Giving an understanding nod, Carlos allowed himself to relax a bit, but not entirely “perhaps next time you intend to conduct a political assassination in my country, you will have the courtesy to inform me ahead of time” he said with a wry grin.


“Apologies, I was told to keep utmost secrecy leading up to the assassination, and was not given authorization to inform you until after the operation had been successfully completed. Although it was not explained to me as such, I was given to understand that if we failed or secrecy had been compromised, then it would be easier for you to deny knowledge of it if such a thing was in fact true.”


Another nod “I am thoroughly impressed with your concern, though you will have to forgive my skepticism that the intentions of your superiors were entirely altruistic” Carlos said, his words dripping with sarcasm.


The two men each exchanged knowing glances before continuing “well, let us get to the next piece of business” said Heydrich before taking a final drag from his cigarette and dropping it on the floor.


Carlos nodded in response “yes, let us. I suspect that you have the first payment with you” he replied, eying the suitcase on the floor next to the German.


Heydrich nodded “you are correct” he said before sliding the suitcase across the floor with his foot.


The cases weight was enough to confirm its contents, and he doubted that he really needed to check. After all, it wasn't like the Germans would suddenly decide to double cross him at this point. All that being considered, he still opened the suitcase, revealing three unmarked gold bars contained within.


Taking a deep breath, and being careful not to choke on the cigarette smoke that now filled the room, Carlos closed the case again “we can expect to receive similar deliveries once a month, correct?” he asked.


The German nodded “yes that is correct, three gold bars, all unmarked, delivered on the fifteenth of each month” he concurred.


“Good, then I suppose all that is left is for me to win the election.”






Moscow, Russia, November 8, 1922






Silence hung in the room as Vladimir Ilyich Lenin stared out at the assembled men, a glaring look in his eyes as both of his hands gripped the podium. Matvei Muranov was not alone in his shock as everyone in the room seemed completely unable to speak.


Over the past fifteen minutes, the great revolutionary leader and the Father of the October Revolution stood up there and railed against the offenses of Joseph Stalin and his followers. Words like “betrayal” and “corruption” being among the milder slurs hurled out at the prominent communist leader.


It was surprising enough that Lenin had managed to make it out to speak before the congress less than three weeks after suffering a stroke which had seemingly left him both mute and bedridden, but to see such hateful energy spew forth from the man and in such a public manner...


As Lenin turned to leave the podium and take his chair, Matvei looked over to see the targets of this very public fusillade. Stalin, ever the pillar of determination simply looked on with grim determination in his eyes, but Zinoviev and Kamenev both looked as though they were about to hang themselves from the rafters if enough rope were handy.


Matvei suppressed a chuckle at that sight, to see the General Secretary's toadies squirm in their seats like that was something that even he could appreciate, despite his own ideological leanings at the moment.


His amusement was short lived however as the sound of some sort of commotion drew his attention back towards the front of the chamber. The Chairman had fallen to the floor and a growing number of men were standing around him, alarmed looks on their faces. Almost immediately, Matvei found himself jumping to his feet along with the rest of the men in the room.


Vladimir Lenin, Premier of the Soviet Union, great leader of the October Revolution, and Hero to the People had just suffered his second and final stroke.








September 12, 1938, Santiago, Chile








Reinhard Heydrich took one last toke from his cigarette before discarding it with a flick. A warm breeze blew in from the west and picked up the discarded butt on its way down, carrying it an extra meter before it hit the ground with a bounce. He liked the weather in Santiago, it reminded him of Madrid this time of year. Too bad it was infested with so many dark skinned savages, and of course the communists too. Of course then that was a problem that plagued pretty much the entire hemisphere, that damned fool Roosevelt was just a little too tolerant of the lesser breeds under his rule.


Perhaps they would do something about all of these problems one day, that was if Reinhard could complete this mission anyway.


Expelling the last bit of smoke from his lungs, he stepped off of the curb to cross the street. Despite the throngs of people hurrying about the sidewalks in this part of town, he never took his attention away from the large building a block away, or more specifically towards the row of cars parked in front of it. To say that he was paying attention to the cars was an understatement, he was practically dissecting them with his eyes, with any luck, someone would remember that a strange looking foreign man was staring at the cars just before things started to happen.


After reaching the other corner, he turned and headed for the news stand about ten meters away, and ten meters closer to the target. Once there, he purchased a copy of El Mercurio “how much?” he asked the proprietor, taking the utmost care to use that accent trick he had managed to perfect in Spain.


The man at the news stand eyed him briefly “five centavos” he replied with a slightly raised eyebrow.


Reinhard nodded “spasiba” he said just before throwing a handful of coins down on the counter, taking care to ensure that one of his rubles fell on top of the other coins.


That last bit of deception completed, he took his paper and walked over to lean against a lamp post and “read” it.


Time passed at a snails pace as he tried to not worry about the mission. It didn't matter how many times he conducted a clandestine operation like this, even with the three assassinations he pulled back in Spain and Czechoslovakia, he still felt nervous every time. Worried that the target was behind schedule, he looked down at his watch to check the time, and almost as if on cue, the doors to the building across the street opened up, and out emerged a group of men, one of whom was the focus of this entire operation.


With a certain amount of haste, the men in question piled into the row of cars before them, the movement punctuated with the sound of several of car doors closing, then the engines started up and they began to pull-


A bright flash and deafening boom interrupted Reinhard's thoughts, and by the time he looked back at the the target, he saw that the row of cars were now gone, replaced by a group of flaming metal hulks, surrounded by dozens of prone bodies.


Where once the bustling sound of a city going about its business surrounded him, now there were nothing but screams and sobs, and a moment or two later, the distant sound sirens. Taking one last look to survey the destruction, he turned to blend in with the horde of people fleeing the scene. Moments later he was riding in the back of a taxi heading toward the outskirts of the city.


*-*-*


Carlos Ibáñez del Campo was not happy to be standing in the dry storage room of this little restaurant, not now, not under these circumstances. Nervously he drummed his fingers on the pant leg of his suit. He didn't like this, and he was very much not wanting to be there right then, not a scant three days after the assassination. Accusations were flying as to who had been responsible, some saying anarchists, others said communists, some said members of Ross' own party had done the deed. Even so, Carlos had his own suspicions. Especially with the arrival of his “benefactor” in the country so recently.


If his “relationship” with Abwehr were revealed, it would be a disaster.


As the door to the room opened, he folded his arms around his chest, no need to show anyone else his current state of mind.


With a kind of nonchalant calmness that made Carlos want to smack him, the German spy walked through the doorway “thank you for coming” he said with a faint accent.


Carlos gave a humorless chuckle “you act as though I was entirely happy about this meeting, do you know what has happened?!” he demanded.


Heydrich only responded with a raised eyebrow “oh, don't give me that arrogant routine, that's what I always hated about you Germans. You know full well that I'm talking about the bombing. Someone has assassinated Gustavo Ross! There is talk of foreign involvement! And you want us to meet a mere three days afterward. If word got out that I was meeting with-” he started barking at the German but was cut off.


“Yes, I'm well aware of the assassination. I mean, after all, my agency carried it out.”


“You what?! What did you think you were doing? If it is revealed that a German agent was responsible, if they find out our connection, it will not only spell the end of our arrangement, but also destroy my political career, all of our efforts will be for naught. What could you possibly be thinking?!”


Seemingly oblivious to the furious man standing before him, the German spy placed his suitcase on the floor next to him and nonchalantly reached into his jacket pocket, producing a cigarette case which he proceeded to open. Taking one of the cylinders out, he placed it between his lips, slapped the case shut and placed it back in his pocket, only to produce a small silver lighter in its place, the embossed swastika on the lighter cast rays of light on the floor as he used it to lift his cigarette.


Taking a long drag from the smoldering cylinder, he pulled it from his lips “I was thinking that Cerda's associations with known communists will be particularly disastrous to his campaign once evidence of communist involvement in the attack surfaces” he said as he expelled the smoke from his lungs.


Carlos looked at Heydrich in silence for a second before speaking again “what are you talking about, what Soviet agent? You just said that you-” he stopped as the connections came together in his mind “what evidence?” he asked suspiciously.


The German took another drag from his cigarette “the group of communist radicals who the police were informed of just this morning and are operating out of a house a mere ten kilometers outside of the city and happen to have ten pounds of TNT in their possession, and the witness accounts of a foreign man with a Russian accent being spotted at the scene of the bombing which can be corroborated by Russian coins that the authorities will almost certainly find at the news stand across the street from where the bombing took place” he explained.


“Foreign man with-”


Heydrich made a gesture like a mock salute “zdrastvooyte comrade” he said in heavily Russian accented Spanish.


His expression widened into what could almost be mistaken for a grin “there are communist revolutionaries everywhere it seems, ready to strike from the shadows at any moment, filling the streets with blood. First in Prague, Warsaw, and Paris, and now in Santiago. Hardly a surprise really. Only a matter of time.”


Giving an understanding nod, Carlos allowed himself to relax a bit, but not entirely “perhaps next time you intend to conduct a political assassination in my country, you will have the courtesy to inform me ahead of time” he said with a wry grin.


“Apologies, I was told to keep utmost secrecy leading up to the assassination, and was not given authorization to inform you until after the operation had been successfully completed. Although it was not explained to me as such, I was given to understand that if we failed or secrecy had been compromised, then it would be easier for you to deny knowledge of it if such a thing was in fact true.”


Another nod “I am thoroughly impressed with your concern, though you will have to forgive my skepticism that the intentions of your superiors were entirely altruistic” Carlos said, his words dripping with sarcasm.


The two men each exchanged knowing glances before continuing “well, let us get to the next piece of business” said Heydrich before taking a final drag from his cigarette and dropping it on the floor.


Carlos nodded in response “yes, let us. I suspect that you have the first payment with you” he replied, eying the suitcase on the floor next to the German.


Heydrich nodded “you are correct” he said before sliding the suitcase across the floor with his foot.


The cases weight was enough to confirm its contents, and he doubted that he really needed to check. After all, it wasn't like the Germans would suddenly decide to double cross him at this point. All that being considered, he still opened the suitcase, revealing three unmarked gold bars contained within.


Taking a deep breath, and being careful not to choke on the cigarette smoke that now filled the room, Carlos closed the case again “we can expect to receive similar deliveries once a month, correct?” he asked.


The German nodded “yes that is correct, three gold bars, all unmarked, delivered on the fifteenth of each month” he concurred.


“Good, then I suppose all that is left is for me to win the election.”
 
April 8, 1956, Euclidian City, The Great Triangulum(formerly the Philippines)








Another boot impacted into his stomach eliciting a grunt. A few teeth felt loose, and he was certain that he had at least one broken rib, though it wasn't the worst beating he had ever had, the Japanese military and the stump on his left hand where his pinky used to be could attest to that.


Something beyond the hood covering his face shuffled, and Ramon braced for the next blow, but it never came, in stead he heard the sound of the door to this 'interrogation room' open and a couple pairs of feet enter the room. A pair of hands roughly grabbed him by the shoulders and hoisted him up to a kneeling position, then the hood was yanked off of his head.


“Mr. Magsaysay, how good of you to join us.”


The source of the voice was standing before him, and though Ramon's vision was still a bit blurry, he didn't need to see to know who it was. He'd recognize that voice from any of the countless broadcasts that this madman and his “church” had bombarded the Philippines with ever since installing themselves in Manilla. Though his menacing tone was a far cry from the phony warmth of those broadcasts, droning on and on about 'positive energies' and 'tranquil geometries.'


Personally, Ramon preferred this to the broadcasts, it was far more entertaining “well, I've been a bit busy lately, what with the war going on and all” he finally replied, doing his best to sound dismissive.


The would-be messiah took a step forward “ah yes, all this destructive fighting. You have no idea how many negative geometries it is creating. The fact that you gooks continue to fight me and each other only shows why you need to be forced to accept the positive energies into your spirit cores, even at the point of a gun” he said, shaking his head.


A faint chuckle started to escape Ramon's mouth, it quickly turned into a full bellied laugh. His vision clear by now, he saw the rage building in the expressions of both Hubbard and the man standing behind him.


Ramon's laughing was cut short by a kick to the gut delivered by his 'interrogator' causing him to fall back onto the floor, by the time he managed to look up, Hubbard was standing over him. It took Ramon only a second to start laughing again, this time it was more of a chuckle “you- you actually believe that bullshit don't you?!” he blurted out “it must be some kind of joke, the idea that people like you even have the intelligence to operate firearms at all without killing yourselves, it's just too mu-” he was cut off by a fist slamming into his jaw.


Rough hands hoisted him back to his knees again “you make me do this to you, you know that?” Hubbard said, a slight touch of regret in his voice that almost seemed genuine. The madman sighed “that's enough of this nonsense” he said, exasperated “we need to get to the real business I came here to deal with” he explained.


“And just what business would that be?”


“Why, having that rabble in the jungles realize that all of their efforts are for naught, so that we can end this destructive conflict once and for all.”


Another chuckle escaped “and you expect me to help you with this?” Ramon asked, skeptically.


Hubbard grinned down at him, his anger seeming to give way to condescension “why, yes of course, you are going to convince the mundanes that you command to finally lay down their arms and let the positive energies flow into them” he said, almost like a teacher giving a lesson to a misunderstanding schoolboy.


Raising an eyebrow in a mock expression of curiousness, Ramon looked up at his captor “oh I am?” he asked sarcastically.


The red haired man nodded “oh yes, you see the treatment you have been getting so far has been restrained to say the least. My associate Mr. Rockwell-” he tilted his head to indicate the mustachioed man behind him “-is not as progressive-minded as I am. He would rather that we just exterminated the entire populace of these islands or at least expel you all. I however believe in far more gentle measures” he explained.


“So you'll let him kill me if I don't cooperate?”


“Oh no, death would be a mercy for you. No, Mr. Rockwell is far more creative than that. I think that even your treatment at the hands of the Japanese was tame compared to what his associates will do to you. We even have a couple of doctors on hand to ensure that you don't die before your usefulness runs out.”


A nod from Hubbard to his underling, and another blow landed on Ramon's jaw, again throwing him to the floor, this time a couple of his teeth were knocked loose.


Without delay, he was hoisted back to his knees once again “now, I'm going to give you one more chance to cooperate before I hand you over to Mr. Rockwell” he said expectantly.


Nodding ever so subtly “alright” he whispered quietly.


“What is it? You wish to cooperate?”


Again, Ramon nodded “I need to tell you something” he whispered almost too quietly for even him to hear.


Hubbard knelt down to get closer to his prisoner “what is it?” he asked.


With a jerk of his head, Ramon spit at his captor, a spray of blood and teeth splattered onto the cult leader's safari suit, ascot, and face “I see, this is how you wish to proceed, well that is fine” Hubbard said as he retrieved a hankercheaf from his shirt pocket and rose to his feet. Calmly wiping the blood off of his face and clothes, he turned to head for the door “very well then, Mr. Rockwell you have my leave to deal with the prisoner as you see fit, just don't allow him to die until you are certain that he cannot be 'persuaded' to cooperate” he said, rapping his fist on the door.


As the door swung open Hubbard turned to look at Ramon one more time “you'll soon wish that you had been more amenable” he said before turning to leave the room.
 
August 22, 1947, Berlin, Germany








The lights flickered from the nearby impact of an artillery barrage as Junior-Sergeant Nikolai Malikov sprinted down the hall. Reaching the doorway at the end, he slammed into the door jamb and paused for just a second before peering through the partially open blast door to see that it was clear. Taking a deep breath, he let go of his Kalashnikov rifle with his left hand and gestured for the two soldiers behind him to advance up the corridor.


Breathing heavily, he took only a half second to look back at the men down the corridor as they ran toward him. Suddenly he saw a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye and immediately looked back through the doorway to see a man in a Waffen-SS uniform frantically walk up to a filing cabinet against the far wall and open it up.


Praying to whatever deity existed in the world, Nikolai hoped against hope that the German wouldn't notice that he was being watched, and for a second was certain that he would escape undetected, but it was not to be. Just as the German turned to leave the filing cabinets, now with two arms wrapped around a large stack of documents, he froze and suddenly their gazes met.


He wasn't very old, maybe eighteen or nineteen, certainly no older than Nikolai. Time seemed to stand still as each man looked at the other, a mixture of panic and confusion filling each of them as their minds raced to figure out what would come next. The German came to a decision first. Dropping the documents, his hands went to the Luger holstered at his right hip, Nikolai decided not to let him survive to bring that weapon to bear.


He raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger. The weapon barked and kicked him in the shoulder, hurling five rounds across the room. Three of them found their target, causing three fountains of red to blossom from the German's chest.


By the time the boy had hit the floor, the other two men behind Nikolai had managed to catch up and burst through the hatchway, weapons at the ready. When Nikolai entered the room, he saw chaos. Papers and folders strewn about the floor in haphazard fashion, some piled high in large stacks, others scattered about with reckless abandon. In the corner was the young German, apparently the only occupant of the room, an expanding puddle of crimson beneath his body, soaking the documents scattered on the floor around him. In the middle of the room was a wastebasket, a fire raged inside it.


While he frantically tried to stamp out the flames in the wastebasket, one folder in particular caught his attention. Emblazoned right on the front of it was the word 'Wolfhöhle' in red ink.


He wondered what that meant, though something told him that it was very important.








September 1, 1947, Moscow, USSR








Vyacheslav Molotov examined the photocopy in his hands, it was of a rather detailed schematic.


“As far as we can tell, the Germans were 90% completed in construction on it in July. We're not sure how many personnel they managed to evacuate to it, but it appears to be at least two hundred.”


Genrikh Yagoda sat back slightly as he finished his explanation, Vyacheslav took a deep breath as he laid the photocopy down and picked up another document out of the file folder “it's in Chile?” he asked.


The NKVD director nodded “that is correct, our agents have confirmed that it is located approximately one hundred fifty kilometers southeast of Santiago, up in the mountains” he explained.


Furrowing his brow, Molotov scratched his chin before laying down the document in his hands, he looked up “do we know if the Americans are aware of it?” he asked.


Yagoda shook his head “I've got no intelligence to indicate that they have realized that there is any German presence in Chile, much less any facilities. In addition, it is almost entirely underground and the entrance is very well concealed, it's doubtful that anyone would spot it from the air” he explained.


The Secretary General furrowed his brow further “and what of the KGB?” he asked.


Nikita Khrushchev cleared his throat “I concur with the comrade director's assessment, the Americans show no indications that they are aware of the facility, frankly I'm surprised that the Germans managed to keep it from us this long” he said.


Molotov raised an eyebrow at that last remark. The fact that the KGB director was drawing attention to such a glaring intelligence failure was a bold move, although it was quite plain to see that the failure belonged to the NKVD as well as every other intelligence agency in the Soviet Union. Perhaps under Trotsky's reign, such a comment would have resulted in a bullet to the brain, however Molotov long since learned to keep his own paranoia in check. A lesson he'd learned the hard way in the fall of 1942 when the Germans invaded, and only a couple months after purging the Red Army of thousands of suspected Trotsky loyalists.


Pulling himself out of his own thoughts, the General Secretary leaned forward “let us take a look at what assets we have available in Chile, I think it may be time for things to become much more interesting over there.”
 
Almost three hundred views and not a single response? Hmm, curious. Anyway, on with the next update.






March 4, 1952, The Knickerbocker Hotel, Los Angeles, California








“Are you sure this is the best location?”


The slight Russian woman thumped her fist on the table “of course I am” she said, annoyed.


The man across the table from her shook his head “I don't know Ayn, it's an awful big mess over there, the British have been having a hard time finding anyone interested prospecting there. There is a reason for that” he said.


She made a dismissive gesture with her hand “oh poppycock, the rest of the oil industry needs to grow a damn spine, the potential gains to be had there are immense, and the location ensures that we can even control all of the refining and exporting operations all by ourselves” she thumped the table again “it's the perfect location” thump “and with the mess spilling over in Baghdad, and the damn reds making trouble in Iran, we'll be the best place to go for oil, and I'll be damned if we get outpriced by those damned fools in Saudi Arabia!” she punctuated that with yet another thump.


She looked over at the man in the corner “oil man or no Bob, why did you bring a man with such little guts in on this, I thought you said he was committed” she jabbed a finger in his direction.


Robert Welch stood up from his chair and started to walk over to the bar “he is committed, aren't you Fred?” he poured himself a generous glass of bourbon “but I think that he is rightfully concerned about the inherent risks. You yourself mentioned the trouble in the neighboring countries. It wouldn't take much for it to spill over the border” he explained.


Fred folded his arms “look, I'm as keen to get this project off of the ground as anyone else here, but I didn't get to where I am by taking excessive risk, perhaps if we decided to move in to that place in Africa, Kata- Katarang- whatever you call it” he protested.


A sharp guffaw escaped the slight Russian woman “I thought that I was the one who learned English as a second language, there is nothing but risk in Katanga, all of the ethnic divides over there, the damned communists running around, European imperialists, I have even heard that that moron Hubbard and his idiot followers have been contemplating moving in there, and mind you that we'd have none of the guarantees that the British government is offering, besides I've already started making contact with the kinds of people who can ensure that we'll have the best protection money can buy.”


Before anyone could respond to her, there was a knock at the door “that must be room service, Walt dear, would you be so kind as to open the let him in?” she said toward the man lounging at the couch with a brandy snifter in one hand.


Placing the snifter on the end table next to the couch “certainly darling” he said as he rose and headed over toward the door.


Shortly, the door had opened and in walked the bellhop, pushing a cart laden with food “and how much?” asked Walt as he reached into his jacket to retrieve his wallet.


The bellhop did not answer as he lifted the cover off of one of the dishes. It took a moment for Ayn to realize that something was seriously amiss with the situation, and by then he was already pointing a revolver at her “death to the capitalist scum!” the man shouted just before pulling the trigger.


The assassin managed to get off three shots in quick succession before the three other men in the room tackled him to the floor and wrenched his weapon out of his hands. It was too late however, as all three of his shots hit their mark, right into the chest of the woman sitting behind the table.










March 5, 1952, Cedars-Sinai Hospital, Los Angeles, California








Walt Disney sat slumped in the chair in the waiting room, a despondent look on his face “death always seems to come for the best of us soonest” said a voice behind him.


He didn't bother turning to look at the source of the voice “the absolute best” he said to no one in particular.


Two men circled around until they were standing in front of Walt “I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am Walt” said a different voice.


Nodding, Walt let out a faint sigh “I ever tell you how we met?” he asked, again to no one in particular.


“What was that?”


“Nothing important right now.”


One of the men crouched down in front of Walt, coming to eye level with him “listen Walt, Fred and I, we've been discussing things, and well. We have decided that we're not going to let this stop us, we want to create Ayn's dream” said Bob.


Looking up for the first time at the two men, Walt had a look of confusion on his face “what?” he asked.


Fred looked down at Walt “I know I was skeptical before, but Ayn was right, we cannot allow ourselves to be timid, and this attack, this, this murder was just the act of one of countless parasites trying to keep their betters down. It's not just that I want to do this, but I have to, for the good of myself and every other creator out there in the world. You can have a place there if you want it” his eyes were filled with a passion that Walt had not seen before.


He looked up at Fred, then at Bob, and then down at his feet for a second “yes, let's do it. For Ayn” he said with conviction before shooting a determined glance back up at Fred “we'll do it and tell all those parasites to go to hell!”
 
Ah - you have got to give us a more in-depth info on what your ATL is all about. I can't make heads or tails with this one. Need more info on this one.
 
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