iceknight90
Generally facetious
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The team should be thankful Mikhail doesn't subscribe to the Uday Hussein brand of sports team management.
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My brothers Keeper, an SI as the twin brother of Stalin (Reworked)
- Thread starter Alenco98
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Silver or Lead
New
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
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Excerpt from the Wikipedia page on The Mangione Affair
The Mangione Affair is the name given to the events in the United States surrounding the murder of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson by Luigi Mangione in downtown Manhattan, followed by Mangione's subsequent flight and defection to the Soviet Embassy in Washington, D.C., where he sought and was granted asylum by Soviet Premier Vissarion Stalin.
-----
"No doubt the US is ahead of us in household and consumer goods, but the fact Bidets aren't mainstream in the your country shows you guys have a lot to learn from us in regards to sanitation. A Bidet is the sign of a civilized nation."
Mikheil Jugashvili speaking to Vice President Richard Nixon during the kitchen debate in 1959
-----
December 14, 1923
The Grand Hotel
Stockholm, Sweden
I stood by the window of the top-floor room, looking out over Stockholm. Not that this was the only room, of course, I'd rented out the entire floor for all the scum I was about to meet, along with the largest conference room the hotel had to offer. Officially, I didn't exist. Mikheil Jugashvili was back in Moscow, helping Dzerzhinsky run the Cheka. Here, I was Viktor Reznov, a Russian exile, a cossack, and a man about to sit down with the scum of American society.
The door opened. Patruchev entered first this time, Boris just behind him, and Rothstein trailing after both of them.
"It's been a while," I said, walking toward him, my tone considerably friendlier than the circumstances warranted. "Did you manage to get them all?"
Rothstein let out a sigh, not just any sigh, but the sigh of a man exhausted down to the bone. Mentally, physically, spiritually, all of it at once. "You don't want to know how many favors I called in to get this many people in one room. Trust me."
"Oh, I quite understand. You've been traveling a lot, from what my men tell me. Los Angeles two weeks ago, San Francisco before that, New Orleans, St. Louis, Miami, Chicago, Boston." I nodded approvingly. "You've been a busy man."
Rothstein just stared at me.
"Like I said." I continued, unbothered. "I'm not some small time criminal you're used to dealing with. I have the Soviet state standing behind me, and believe me, they're very invested in how this goes. My life and my reputation are on the line here just as much as yours, my friend, maybe more than your own."
"I prefer the word associate."
"How unfortunate." I shrugged. "I'd hoped we might at least build something resembling friendship, but so be it. Anyway, the others?"
"They'll be arriving shortly."
"Good. Wait for them in the conference room, I'll come down last. Keep them entertained, liquor, food, I even cleared out half of Stockholm's finest brothels for the occasion, though that's for later in the evening."
"You talk like you're the one running this."
"Well." I spread my good arm out. "I did rent out the entire hotel. Paid for the false papers, the travel, the food, the rooms, the women, every last detail here is running on my money and my organization. So tell me, am I not in charge?"
He gave me a look then, the kind that said you're far too clever for your own good. It reminded me of Joe, oddly enough. Rothstein didn't say much after that, leaving me alone with Boris and Patruchev.
"Are the guards in position?" I glanced at Patruchev.
"Yes, Comrade Jugashvili. They're in the conference room, orders given."
"Good. Patruchev, go join them, you'll be handling crowd control tonight." I turned to Boris. "You stay with me. My personal security's your job."
"Yes, sir."
I took a small chair, set it by the window, and sat watching the city below, I saw tiny figures moving under the evening lamps. No doubt their lives were richer than mine in every way that mattered. Friends. Lovers. A place to come home to that actually felt like home. Ever since Cuba, it had felt like something in me had gone missing. beyond even the loss of whatever autonomy I'd had thanks to my little diary. It was as if reality itself had leaned in close and whispered, Look at the life you had. You'll never have it again.
I didn't feel sad about it, strangely. Didn't even cry. It sat in me more like a scar, one that had frozen over long ago and stopped hurting the way fresh wounds do. And it wasn't all doom and gloom really. I had Elsa. My kids. The one on the way. Joe, whatever his flaws, was still my brother. Nadezhda. Even my old cop buddies, the ones I'd scooped up and put on payroll. I leaned back, running through lines from Narcos, Escobar, Gallardo, trying to recall the best bits for my pitch tonight. I ran through them again and again, until the door opened behind me.
Rothstein.
I stood and turned to face him. "They're here I take it."
"They're waiting on you."
"Good." I crossed the room. "Let's not keep them waiting any longer, then."
We left my suite and walked down to the conference room where they'd all gathered. Rothstein and I paused outside the door together. I looked up at it for a second, took a breath, and pushed it open.
Every eye in the room landed on me instantly. I didn't bother looking at any of them, I just walked straight to the seat at the head of the table, where a bottle of Coca-Cola and a glass sat waiting. I poured myself a drink, took a sip, and set the glass down.
"My apologies for the wait, gentlemen. I simply wanted everyone assembled before we got started, this is likely to take a while. But don't worry yourselves. Room, board, food, women, all arranged for the duration of your stay. Men too, if that's your preference, just let my people know discreetly." I rapped my knuckles twice against the table.
Several of my men filed in, carrying a stack of envelopes, and laid one in front of each guest.
"Open them, please. Take your time looking through the contents. Save your insults, threats, and questions for after."
One of them narrowed his eyes at me. "And who the hell are you to tell me that?"
I laughed. "Open it. You'll find out exactly who I am."
I smiled, just a little, I'd always had a soft spot for the brash, defiant ones. Watching them fold under pressure was half the fun. I watched him and the others tear into their envelopes, and there it was, that same look Rothstein had worn earlier. Terror. Confusion. Disgust, thick as tar.
"What the fuck is this?" the same man demanded, the one who'd dared talk back.
"That," I said, pointing at the folder in his hands, "is a little record of my work. I'm sorry, I don't believe I caught your name-" I leaned forward to check the small placard in front of him. "Ah. Mr. Masseria. As you can see, that's a modest sample of what I'm capable of." I looked around at the rest of them, letting my eyes settle on each face in turn. "The same goes for the rest of you fine gentlemen. I'll admit, I don't fully understand how American crime operates. But I do know one law that holds true everywhere in this world: strength, fear, and a demonstrated willingness toward violence are the only things men like us actually respect. So consider this a demonstration. Men, women, children, infants, even the family dog, no one will get spared when my associates and I come calling. Now." I settled back into my chair. "Now that we all understand exactly who I am, shall we begin?"
"As most of you already know, I've been working with Mr. Rothstein to ship alcohol into New York from the Soviet Union. Between July 1921 and March 1923, the Soviet state alone pulled in approximately sixty million dollars from that trade. Sixty million. And we've kept it running since—another nine months through this December adds roughly eighteen million more. Seventy-eight million total. That's New York alone." I let the number sit in the air for a moment. "And as Mr. Rothstein tells it, the market's flooded—which has left men like Mr. Masseria's Sicilian outfit understandably unhappy. So here's my proposal: I cut you all in. Not just New York, Chicago, Boston, St. Louis, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Philadelphia, every major city on the map. The USSR has an ocean of liquor, gentlemen, and there's more than enough to go around."
I stood and let my eyes sweep the table. "But this doesn't come for free." I paused, savoring it. "I've done my homework, market research from your point of view. I know the Jews, the Irish, the Chinese, the Italians in this room can barely stand the sight of each other. I won't pretend the Soviet Union is some utopia, trust me, we manage about as much mutual tolerance back home as you all do here. But I have no interest in watching my customers shoot each other in the street and drag the Bureau of Investigation down on all our heads. So here's my offer, gentlemen, plain and simple: we form an organization. One that pools resources, trains soldiers, trades intelligence, and buys silence where silence needs buying. Mr. Rothstein handles day-to-day operations stateside. All you owe him is his expenses."
I began pacing slowly around my chair. "In return, you get several things. Mr. Rothstein arbitrates every territorial dispute between your organizations before it turns into a bloodbath on the sidewalk. Alcohol prices get fixed at an artificially high, standardized rate nationwide, every speakeasy sells at the same number. If some upstart competitor tries to undercut you, we drop prices in their neighborhood and lean on them until they fall in line, one way or another. Bribes, bail, blackmail, and any liaison work with American law enforcement or government, Rothstein handles all of it. And if anyone, anywhere, is foolish enough to touch us?" I let the pause hang. "Our federation handles that too. Think of this organization as the League of nations, but for American organized crime, except with more teeth."
Masseria looked at me for a long moment, then finally spoke. "You make an interesting offer, Mr. Jugashvili." Then his expression hardened into a glare. "But tell me, who exactly do you think you are? I'll give you credit for your manners. You paid for our passage, our hotel rooms, our food. But you really think that buys us? You really think I'll work under that fucking kike?" He jabbed a finger toward Rothstein. "And you think I'll take orders out of Moscow, on top of it?"
"We don't answer to outsiders," he continued, leaning forward. "Not Jews, not Irish, not Russians, not you. We Sicilians didn't build this family so we could hand it over to some foreign commissar and his kike errand boy. In Sicily, blood is blood. Family is family. We don't open our doors to strangers, and we sure as hell don't open our books to them either. We were willing to hear you out, perhaps cooperate in some limited manner, but this?" He spat the words like they tasted foul in his mouth. "You can dress it up however you like Mr. Jugashvili, but at the end of the day you're still an outsider asking men to bow to a man they've never met, for a country they'll never see."
"That's a relief, honestly." I smiled. "I was warned you Italians, Sicilians especially were stubborn. I'm glad to see the reputation's earned. Frankly, managing men as pigheaded as you and yours would've been more trouble than it's worth." I let that sit for a second before my tone shifted, colder now. "But I will warn you Mr. Masseria, once and only once. If you or your men so much as touch one of our speakeasies, one of our men, we take ten of yours in return. Kill one of ours, we kill ten of yours. And if you're foolish enough to go to war with us, we won't stop at your men. We'll start with Maria, your wife. Funny coincidence, actually, my first wife was named Maria too. Of course after her corpse is in the Hudson we will work our way down the list. Claire. Bernard. Vitina. James. Joseph. You should have paid attention to that folder before making empty threats, I am not above touching civilians."
I watched his knuckles whiten as his hands clenched on the table, murder written plainly across his face. "You're bluffing."
I laughed. "Check the folder again, pretty sure I sprinkled some women and children in there too. I'm telling you this once Masseria. I am not some criminal off the street. You are dealing with a state. And right now, I am handing you and your wops the chance to make an enormous amount of money." I lowered myself back into my chair. "You people love your terms, omertà, made men, loyalty, brotherhood. Fancy words all of it, all to cope with whatever nonsense you all get up to. But I know for a fact that every single man in this room would sell out his own brother for the right price, or to keep himself out of a jail cell. You're not the only one I did my homework on after all. Your subordinates were remarkably cooperative once the number got high enough." I laughed. "After all, now I know your wife loves to attend 9 am mass with your family and only a few guards. In my opinion, society and me to a lesser extent doesn't need your excuses, It only needs you to know your place and cooperate."
I smiled, finally, my chance to deliver the line I'd been sitting on all night.
"So let me remind everyone in this room exactly who they're dealing with. My name is Mikheil Vissarionovich Jugashvili. My eyes are everywhere. That means not one of you moves a single finger in this country without my knowing about it eventually. And if I wanted to, I could have any man in this room who refuses me thrown behind bars before the week is out." I snapped my fingers.
The doors swung open. Several of my men filed in, carrying suitcases, which they set down on the table and opened one by one. Inside: paperwork, stacks of it.
"This," I said, gesturing at the files, "is tax documentation. Filings, records, receipts, on every single business represented in this room. Now, I couldn't touch you all for murder, extortion, anything like that, not easily, anyway. But tax evasion? That, gentlemen, I can absolutely make stick. You're all sitting on fortunes and paying pennies on the dollar to the government for the privilege. I could mail every last page of this straight to Mr. William J. Burns at the Bureau of Investigation tomorrow morning and watch every man at this table go down for evasion. And while you're all rotting in courtrooms and cells alongside your top lieutenants, I could sweep in behind you, dismantle what's left of your organizations, and leave your families with absolutely nothing." I yawned, stretching back in my chair. "But I'm a reasonable man. A merciful man. A businessman, first and foremost." I reached down, drew a pistol from my side, and set it gently on the table between us. "So the choice is simple, gentlemen."
"Silver, or lead." I looked around. "Feel free to decide whether you're in or out. And if you're out, just remember, touching the organization means war."
The Mangione Affair is the name given to the events in the United States surrounding the murder of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson by Luigi Mangione in downtown Manhattan, followed by Mangione's subsequent flight and defection to the Soviet Embassy in Washington, D.C., where he sought and was granted asylum by Soviet Premier Vissarion Stalin.
-----
"No doubt the US is ahead of us in household and consumer goods, but the fact Bidets aren't mainstream in the your country shows you guys have a lot to learn from us in regards to sanitation. A Bidet is the sign of a civilized nation."
Mikheil Jugashvili speaking to Vice President Richard Nixon during the kitchen debate in 1959
-----
December 14, 1923
The Grand Hotel
Stockholm, Sweden
I stood by the window of the top-floor room, looking out over Stockholm. Not that this was the only room, of course, I'd rented out the entire floor for all the scum I was about to meet, along with the largest conference room the hotel had to offer. Officially, I didn't exist. Mikheil Jugashvili was back in Moscow, helping Dzerzhinsky run the Cheka. Here, I was Viktor Reznov, a Russian exile, a cossack, and a man about to sit down with the scum of American society.
The door opened. Patruchev entered first this time, Boris just behind him, and Rothstein trailing after both of them.
"It's been a while," I said, walking toward him, my tone considerably friendlier than the circumstances warranted. "Did you manage to get them all?"
Rothstein let out a sigh, not just any sigh, but the sigh of a man exhausted down to the bone. Mentally, physically, spiritually, all of it at once. "You don't want to know how many favors I called in to get this many people in one room. Trust me."
"Oh, I quite understand. You've been traveling a lot, from what my men tell me. Los Angeles two weeks ago, San Francisco before that, New Orleans, St. Louis, Miami, Chicago, Boston." I nodded approvingly. "You've been a busy man."
Rothstein just stared at me.
"Like I said." I continued, unbothered. "I'm not some small time criminal you're used to dealing with. I have the Soviet state standing behind me, and believe me, they're very invested in how this goes. My life and my reputation are on the line here just as much as yours, my friend, maybe more than your own."
"I prefer the word associate."
"How unfortunate." I shrugged. "I'd hoped we might at least build something resembling friendship, but so be it. Anyway, the others?"
"They'll be arriving shortly."
"Good. Wait for them in the conference room, I'll come down last. Keep them entertained, liquor, food, I even cleared out half of Stockholm's finest brothels for the occasion, though that's for later in the evening."
"You talk like you're the one running this."
"Well." I spread my good arm out. "I did rent out the entire hotel. Paid for the false papers, the travel, the food, the rooms, the women, every last detail here is running on my money and my organization. So tell me, am I not in charge?"
He gave me a look then, the kind that said you're far too clever for your own good. It reminded me of Joe, oddly enough. Rothstein didn't say much after that, leaving me alone with Boris and Patruchev.
"Are the guards in position?" I glanced at Patruchev.
"Yes, Comrade Jugashvili. They're in the conference room, orders given."
"Good. Patruchev, go join them, you'll be handling crowd control tonight." I turned to Boris. "You stay with me. My personal security's your job."
"Yes, sir."
I took a small chair, set it by the window, and sat watching the city below, I saw tiny figures moving under the evening lamps. No doubt their lives were richer than mine in every way that mattered. Friends. Lovers. A place to come home to that actually felt like home. Ever since Cuba, it had felt like something in me had gone missing. beyond even the loss of whatever autonomy I'd had thanks to my little diary. It was as if reality itself had leaned in close and whispered, Look at the life you had. You'll never have it again.
I didn't feel sad about it, strangely. Didn't even cry. It sat in me more like a scar, one that had frozen over long ago and stopped hurting the way fresh wounds do. And it wasn't all doom and gloom really. I had Elsa. My kids. The one on the way. Joe, whatever his flaws, was still my brother. Nadezhda. Even my old cop buddies, the ones I'd scooped up and put on payroll. I leaned back, running through lines from Narcos, Escobar, Gallardo, trying to recall the best bits for my pitch tonight. I ran through them again and again, until the door opened behind me.
Rothstein.
I stood and turned to face him. "They're here I take it."
"They're waiting on you."
"Good." I crossed the room. "Let's not keep them waiting any longer, then."
We left my suite and walked down to the conference room where they'd all gathered. Rothstein and I paused outside the door together. I looked up at it for a second, took a breath, and pushed it open.
Every eye in the room landed on me instantly. I didn't bother looking at any of them, I just walked straight to the seat at the head of the table, where a bottle of Coca-Cola and a glass sat waiting. I poured myself a drink, took a sip, and set the glass down.
"My apologies for the wait, gentlemen. I simply wanted everyone assembled before we got started, this is likely to take a while. But don't worry yourselves. Room, board, food, women, all arranged for the duration of your stay. Men too, if that's your preference, just let my people know discreetly." I rapped my knuckles twice against the table.
Several of my men filed in, carrying a stack of envelopes, and laid one in front of each guest.
"Open them, please. Take your time looking through the contents. Save your insults, threats, and questions for after."
One of them narrowed his eyes at me. "And who the hell are you to tell me that?"
I laughed. "Open it. You'll find out exactly who I am."
I smiled, just a little, I'd always had a soft spot for the brash, defiant ones. Watching them fold under pressure was half the fun. I watched him and the others tear into their envelopes, and there it was, that same look Rothstein had worn earlier. Terror. Confusion. Disgust, thick as tar.
"What the fuck is this?" the same man demanded, the one who'd dared talk back.
"That," I said, pointing at the folder in his hands, "is a little record of my work. I'm sorry, I don't believe I caught your name-" I leaned forward to check the small placard in front of him. "Ah. Mr. Masseria. As you can see, that's a modest sample of what I'm capable of." I looked around at the rest of them, letting my eyes settle on each face in turn. "The same goes for the rest of you fine gentlemen. I'll admit, I don't fully understand how American crime operates. But I do know one law that holds true everywhere in this world: strength, fear, and a demonstrated willingness toward violence are the only things men like us actually respect. So consider this a demonstration. Men, women, children, infants, even the family dog, no one will get spared when my associates and I come calling. Now." I settled back into my chair. "Now that we all understand exactly who I am, shall we begin?"
"As most of you already know, I've been working with Mr. Rothstein to ship alcohol into New York from the Soviet Union. Between July 1921 and March 1923, the Soviet state alone pulled in approximately sixty million dollars from that trade. Sixty million. And we've kept it running since—another nine months through this December adds roughly eighteen million more. Seventy-eight million total. That's New York alone." I let the number sit in the air for a moment. "And as Mr. Rothstein tells it, the market's flooded—which has left men like Mr. Masseria's Sicilian outfit understandably unhappy. So here's my proposal: I cut you all in. Not just New York, Chicago, Boston, St. Louis, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Philadelphia, every major city on the map. The USSR has an ocean of liquor, gentlemen, and there's more than enough to go around."
I stood and let my eyes sweep the table. "But this doesn't come for free." I paused, savoring it. "I've done my homework, market research from your point of view. I know the Jews, the Irish, the Chinese, the Italians in this room can barely stand the sight of each other. I won't pretend the Soviet Union is some utopia, trust me, we manage about as much mutual tolerance back home as you all do here. But I have no interest in watching my customers shoot each other in the street and drag the Bureau of Investigation down on all our heads. So here's my offer, gentlemen, plain and simple: we form an organization. One that pools resources, trains soldiers, trades intelligence, and buys silence where silence needs buying. Mr. Rothstein handles day-to-day operations stateside. All you owe him is his expenses."
I began pacing slowly around my chair. "In return, you get several things. Mr. Rothstein arbitrates every territorial dispute between your organizations before it turns into a bloodbath on the sidewalk. Alcohol prices get fixed at an artificially high, standardized rate nationwide, every speakeasy sells at the same number. If some upstart competitor tries to undercut you, we drop prices in their neighborhood and lean on them until they fall in line, one way or another. Bribes, bail, blackmail, and any liaison work with American law enforcement or government, Rothstein handles all of it. And if anyone, anywhere, is foolish enough to touch us?" I let the pause hang. "Our federation handles that too. Think of this organization as the League of nations, but for American organized crime, except with more teeth."
Masseria looked at me for a long moment, then finally spoke. "You make an interesting offer, Mr. Jugashvili." Then his expression hardened into a glare. "But tell me, who exactly do you think you are? I'll give you credit for your manners. You paid for our passage, our hotel rooms, our food. But you really think that buys us? You really think I'll work under that fucking kike?" He jabbed a finger toward Rothstein. "And you think I'll take orders out of Moscow, on top of it?"
"We don't answer to outsiders," he continued, leaning forward. "Not Jews, not Irish, not Russians, not you. We Sicilians didn't build this family so we could hand it over to some foreign commissar and his kike errand boy. In Sicily, blood is blood. Family is family. We don't open our doors to strangers, and we sure as hell don't open our books to them either. We were willing to hear you out, perhaps cooperate in some limited manner, but this?" He spat the words like they tasted foul in his mouth. "You can dress it up however you like Mr. Jugashvili, but at the end of the day you're still an outsider asking men to bow to a man they've never met, for a country they'll never see."
"That's a relief, honestly." I smiled. "I was warned you Italians, Sicilians especially were stubborn. I'm glad to see the reputation's earned. Frankly, managing men as pigheaded as you and yours would've been more trouble than it's worth." I let that sit for a second before my tone shifted, colder now. "But I will warn you Mr. Masseria, once and only once. If you or your men so much as touch one of our speakeasies, one of our men, we take ten of yours in return. Kill one of ours, we kill ten of yours. And if you're foolish enough to go to war with us, we won't stop at your men. We'll start with Maria, your wife. Funny coincidence, actually, my first wife was named Maria too. Of course after her corpse is in the Hudson we will work our way down the list. Claire. Bernard. Vitina. James. Joseph. You should have paid attention to that folder before making empty threats, I am not above touching civilians."
I watched his knuckles whiten as his hands clenched on the table, murder written plainly across his face. "You're bluffing."
I laughed. "Check the folder again, pretty sure I sprinkled some women and children in there too. I'm telling you this once Masseria. I am not some criminal off the street. You are dealing with a state. And right now, I am handing you and your wops the chance to make an enormous amount of money." I lowered myself back into my chair. "You people love your terms, omertà, made men, loyalty, brotherhood. Fancy words all of it, all to cope with whatever nonsense you all get up to. But I know for a fact that every single man in this room would sell out his own brother for the right price, or to keep himself out of a jail cell. You're not the only one I did my homework on after all. Your subordinates were remarkably cooperative once the number got high enough." I laughed. "After all, now I know your wife loves to attend 9 am mass with your family and only a few guards. In my opinion, society and me to a lesser extent doesn't need your excuses, It only needs you to know your place and cooperate."
I smiled, finally, my chance to deliver the line I'd been sitting on all night.
"So let me remind everyone in this room exactly who they're dealing with. My name is Mikheil Vissarionovich Jugashvili. My eyes are everywhere. That means not one of you moves a single finger in this country without my knowing about it eventually. And if I wanted to, I could have any man in this room who refuses me thrown behind bars before the week is out." I snapped my fingers.
The doors swung open. Several of my men filed in, carrying suitcases, which they set down on the table and opened one by one. Inside: paperwork, stacks of it.
"This," I said, gesturing at the files, "is tax documentation. Filings, records, receipts, on every single business represented in this room. Now, I couldn't touch you all for murder, extortion, anything like that, not easily, anyway. But tax evasion? That, gentlemen, I can absolutely make stick. You're all sitting on fortunes and paying pennies on the dollar to the government for the privilege. I could mail every last page of this straight to Mr. William J. Burns at the Bureau of Investigation tomorrow morning and watch every man at this table go down for evasion. And while you're all rotting in courtrooms and cells alongside your top lieutenants, I could sweep in behind you, dismantle what's left of your organizations, and leave your families with absolutely nothing." I yawned, stretching back in my chair. "But I'm a reasonable man. A merciful man. A businessman, first and foremost." I reached down, drew a pistol from my side, and set it gently on the table between us. "So the choice is simple, gentlemen."
"Silver, or lead." I looked around. "Feel free to decide whether you're in or out. And if you're out, just remember, touching the organization means war."
iceknight90
Generally facetious
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God the future of Mafia and organised crime movies is gonna be wild in this timeline.
He-Who-Is-I
Nefarious
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it doesn't hit the same as plata or plomo
BuilderOne
Getting sticky.
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Imagine the reactions and the meme on the Internet. "The Soviet are out of line... but they are right!"
Fun fact: in Viet Nam, we have various jokes of the same caliber.
Well, we can always drop it in Russian.
Also, the part about tax evasion just sounds... funny. Like, really. The mafia boss downfall is not because of some DEA or BoI operations, but due to the IRS.
Generic Edgy Zoomer
Your first time is always over so quickly, isn't it?
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IRL it's how they got Al Capone, they figured it would be easier than anything else to prove and decided it was good enough. They only got 5 convictions out of 22 charges, but it was enough to sentence him to 11 years, and by the time he got out he was so fucked up from neurosyphilis it didn't matter.
Siryapsalot
"Chill I'm not an Unc just turned legal"
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"The Mangione Affair is the name given to the events in the United States surrounding the murder of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson by Luigi Mangione in downtown Manhattan, followed by Mangione's subsequent flight and defection to the Soviet Embassy in Washington, D.C., where he sought and was granted asylum by Soviet Premier Vissarion Stalin."
Mbappé I can believe the dictator will fuck the butterflies before they touch him but who the HELL!!!!!!!!!!! is being the TVA here?
Mbappé I can believe the dictator will fuck the butterflies before they touch him but who the HELL!!!!!!!!!!! is being the TVA here?
iceknight90
Generally facetious
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View: https://youtu.be/sMk-HPBF6Mw?si=ZJsBb0qDmv81Rk-n
The IRS coming after Prohibition Era gangsters for tax evasion.
Qwerty1234
I trust you know where the happy button is?
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If the Author did a pov chapter from the perspective of a Netflix crew interviewing a Witness from this conference 60 years in the future. Like the Intro scenes from Band of Brothers. The old man now, a young Lt of a crime family then, Saying how initially he wasn't scared, even after reviewing the envelope, the news clippings, the photos.... he didn't quite believe it. But after the ww2, and the film footage that came out of it... He has trouble believing sometimes that he ever survived being in the same room as the Butcher of Berlin.
BuilderOne
Getting sticky.
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I have an idea... how about having Kato bumping into Amelia Earhart sometime? Imagine: a Duo of female pilots achieving the impossible. This would both promote the friendship between the US and the Soviet, actually spread out the good Soviet influence.
And actually build up both to be Aces during the WW2.
Mikhali: I did NOT plan for this!
Side story 20: Procurer
New
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
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April 7, 1987
New York City
New York State, US
Yuri Alekseev Baranov stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue and East 79th Street, smoking a cigarette and looking out over Central Park. He checked his watch. Two o'clock. The irritation was starting to build. His cousin Anatoly had been due an hour ago.
"Five more minutes," he muttered to himself, feeling the scowl settle into his forehead, he could tell by the way pedestrians were giving him a slightly wider berth as they passed. Anatoly was always late; he'd made peace with that fact a long time ago. But an hour was too far even for him. He swore that this would be the last business trip he ever took with the man.
He shrugged and glanced down the street toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art. If Anatoly was determined to waste his afternoon, he figured he might as well waste it somewhere worthwhile. He started walking, past 80th Street, then 81st, until he reached the museum entrance. He skipped the main doors and slipped in through the group services entrance instead, a trick a waitress at a little restaurant in Brighton Beach had taught him on his last trip. He passed through security and approached the counter.
"Welcome to the Metropolitan," the woman behind the counter said.
"One ticket, please. Keep the change." He said it in his best English, careful not to let anything slip that might mark him as Soviet. It wasn't as if Soviet citizens were barred from visiting the States, but given how strained relations had been for the last 15 years, he preferred not to invite the hassle. He handed over a five-dollar bill. The suggested donation was $4.50 for adults, but he wasn't in the mood to wait around for change, and truthfully, he was in decent spirits despite Anatoly's tardiness, the trip itself had gone well.
She handed him his ticket. "Enjoy your visit."
"Thank you." He made his way inside, heading straight for the medieval armor collection. He'd first seen it six years ago, on his third trip to the States and after stumbling into the museum on his last day before returning. Even today, something about it still held his attention every time he came back. He wandered slowly through the hall, admiring the suits of armor while mentally tallying up the records, jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers he and Anatoly had bought. He smiled to himself, doing the math on what it would all fetch back home. They'd be living like kings for a few months, at least until the money began to run out and they had to make the trip all over again.
After roughly an hour of wandering, he made his way to the little eatery beside the exhibition gallery. He bought himself a cheeseburger, a side of fries, and a soda, then found a quiet corner table. He ate slowly, savoring each bite, letting the flavor sit. Nothing back home compared, not even the various little burger joints scattered around Jugashvilgrad. There was something about American burgers he couldn't quite put his finger on, but whatever it was, it beat anything they had back home.
He was still working through his burger when a family approached his table.
"Excuse me," the husband said. "Sorry to impose, but would you mind if we sat here? The other tables are full."
Yuri looked them over, a family of five. Husband, wife, two teenage girls who looked to be in their late teens, and a younger boy, maybe around his nephew Ivan's age. He glanced around the restaurant; every other table was indeed fully occupied. He shrugged. "Go ahead," he said, still working to keep the Russian accent out of his mouth.
"Thank you so much," the wife said as they settled in around him. "What's your name, by the way?"
He winced internally, already bracing for how this would go. He'd give his name, they'd ask where he was from, he'd admit he was Soviet, and then things would drift toward politics and get awkward fast. It wasn't that he disliked Americans. He just wished that they'd learn to mind their own business a little more.
"Yuri," he said, and reached for another fry.
"Ohh," the older of the two teenage girls piped up, "are you Russian? We just covered the USSR in my civics class."
"Michelle." Her mother's tone carried a gentle warning. "It's rude to just ask that out of nowhere."
"Yes," Yuri said, nodding, figuring denial would only look more suspicious at this point. "I'm Russian. A Soviet citizen, to be precise. And for your information, Russia is only one of twelve republics." He caught the flicker of discomfort cross their faces as the words landed.
"We've never actually met a Russian person before," the husband said. "Well, aside from seeing your Premier on TV." He extended a hand. "Hank. Hank Richards. Pleasure."
Yuri shook it. "Yuri Alekseev Baranov."
"This is my wife, Sonia," Hank continued, gesturing around the table. "My oldest, Michelle, then Sharon, and our youngest, Steven."
"A pleasure," Yuri said, letting his accent slip through a little more freely now that the cat was out of the bag.
"So what brings you to the States?" Sonia asked. "You're not a spy are you?"
There it is, he thought. Every single conversation with an American eventually circled back to that same joke. "If I were a spy I'd be sightseeing near a military base, not a museum." That got a small round of chuckles. "But for the record, I'm a postavshchik. A procurer."
"A procurer?" Hank asked.
"That's right." Yuri nodded. "To be specific, back home, American goods are popular. Jeans, sneakers, records, books, films, television, various brands and fashions. It's not illegal to own them, but the Soviet state doesn't allow American companies to operate there. So that's where I come in. I buy the goods here, bring them back, and resell them at a markup. The state gets a cut, the citizens get their appetites satiated, and I write down and report who bought what and report it to the KGB, everyone wins."
"Report it?" Sharon said.
"Yes." Yuri said. "All purchases of foreign goods need to be reported to the KGB, they keep track of everything."
"So you are a spy." Hank said.
"No," He shook his head slightly, "You could say I'm more of an informer."
"So you rat on other people?" Steven said.
"Steven." Sonia said, "That's rude."
"Something like that." He continued, chuckling at that. "Its why me and everyone else who comes here for business is allowed to remain in business. The government gets it cut, the security services gets its information. And once we give them that they let us continue like nothing happened. I even have my procurer license. Officially I am a state sanctioned logistics specialist."
"That's a rather grim way of putting it." Hank said.
"From your point of view it is yes." He nodded.
"How long are you planning on sticking around?" Sonia asked between bites of her own burger.
"About two weeks now," Yuri said, picking up another fry. "I fly out in two days. I was supposed to be waiting on my cousin Tolya, he still had some purchases to make, but he is running late as usual, so I wandered off without him. I'll track him down eventually. Tomorrow I figure I'll just take in the sights, walk around a bit."
"Sounds like you come to New York a lot," Sonia said.
"I do," he admitted. "Every four to six months or so. It pays well enough. I bought my wife a car a few months back, and we picked up a small dacha just outside Jugashvilgrad where I'm from. In theory, I could live like a king off this. But there's the anti-parasitism laws to worry about, so I can't exactly sit around doing nothing all day. When I'm home I sweep streets part-time, and I'm in the army reserves as well so I'm called to drill once a month"
"Anti-parasitism?" Sharon asked, confused.
"Ah, right, you don't have that here." He felt a flicker of awkwardness settle in. "Essentially, the government requires every able-bodied adult to work. If you don't, you're sent to a labor camp. So I sweep the streets a few hours a day every day when I'm home. After that, I go relax, catch a film, maybe drive around a bit." He shrugged. "It is what it is."
The parents and both daughters gave him a look somewhere between horror and pity. Only Steven seemed unfazed.
"A labor camp?" Steven asked.
"That's right." Yuri nodded. "A camp. Prisons don't exist in the USSR, the government just sends you off to do corrective labor instead."
"Jesus," Hank said. "That sounds miserable. How do you live with that hanging over you?"
"What do you mean? I've never actually been sent to one."
"I mean the threat of it. Just knowing it's there."
"And?" He genuinely didn't follow. "Commit a crime here, you go to jail. Back home, we just put people to work instead."
"You Soviets are strange people."
"From your point of view we are." Yuri shrugged. "If I recall, it was Stalin's brother, comrade Jugashvili who said something like this in an interview a long time ago. Let me think..." He paused, searching his memory. "Ah yes, it went like this: we may look the same, but we think about the world and see it in an entirely different way than you do."
Hank sat with that for a moment, turning it over in his head. "You know," he said. "Maybe he had a point."
New York City
New York State, US
Yuri Alekseev Baranov stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue and East 79th Street, smoking a cigarette and looking out over Central Park. He checked his watch. Two o'clock. The irritation was starting to build. His cousin Anatoly had been due an hour ago.
"Five more minutes," he muttered to himself, feeling the scowl settle into his forehead, he could tell by the way pedestrians were giving him a slightly wider berth as they passed. Anatoly was always late; he'd made peace with that fact a long time ago. But an hour was too far even for him. He swore that this would be the last business trip he ever took with the man.
He shrugged and glanced down the street toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art. If Anatoly was determined to waste his afternoon, he figured he might as well waste it somewhere worthwhile. He started walking, past 80th Street, then 81st, until he reached the museum entrance. He skipped the main doors and slipped in through the group services entrance instead, a trick a waitress at a little restaurant in Brighton Beach had taught him on his last trip. He passed through security and approached the counter.
"Welcome to the Metropolitan," the woman behind the counter said.
"One ticket, please. Keep the change." He said it in his best English, careful not to let anything slip that might mark him as Soviet. It wasn't as if Soviet citizens were barred from visiting the States, but given how strained relations had been for the last 15 years, he preferred not to invite the hassle. He handed over a five-dollar bill. The suggested donation was $4.50 for adults, but he wasn't in the mood to wait around for change, and truthfully, he was in decent spirits despite Anatoly's tardiness, the trip itself had gone well.
She handed him his ticket. "Enjoy your visit."
"Thank you." He made his way inside, heading straight for the medieval armor collection. He'd first seen it six years ago, on his third trip to the States and after stumbling into the museum on his last day before returning. Even today, something about it still held his attention every time he came back. He wandered slowly through the hall, admiring the suits of armor while mentally tallying up the records, jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers he and Anatoly had bought. He smiled to himself, doing the math on what it would all fetch back home. They'd be living like kings for a few months, at least until the money began to run out and they had to make the trip all over again.
After roughly an hour of wandering, he made his way to the little eatery beside the exhibition gallery. He bought himself a cheeseburger, a side of fries, and a soda, then found a quiet corner table. He ate slowly, savoring each bite, letting the flavor sit. Nothing back home compared, not even the various little burger joints scattered around Jugashvilgrad. There was something about American burgers he couldn't quite put his finger on, but whatever it was, it beat anything they had back home.
He was still working through his burger when a family approached his table.
"Excuse me," the husband said. "Sorry to impose, but would you mind if we sat here? The other tables are full."
Yuri looked them over, a family of five. Husband, wife, two teenage girls who looked to be in their late teens, and a younger boy, maybe around his nephew Ivan's age. He glanced around the restaurant; every other table was indeed fully occupied. He shrugged. "Go ahead," he said, still working to keep the Russian accent out of his mouth.
"Thank you so much," the wife said as they settled in around him. "What's your name, by the way?"
He winced internally, already bracing for how this would go. He'd give his name, they'd ask where he was from, he'd admit he was Soviet, and then things would drift toward politics and get awkward fast. It wasn't that he disliked Americans. He just wished that they'd learn to mind their own business a little more.
"Yuri," he said, and reached for another fry.
"Ohh," the older of the two teenage girls piped up, "are you Russian? We just covered the USSR in my civics class."
"Michelle." Her mother's tone carried a gentle warning. "It's rude to just ask that out of nowhere."
"Yes," Yuri said, nodding, figuring denial would only look more suspicious at this point. "I'm Russian. A Soviet citizen, to be precise. And for your information, Russia is only one of twelve republics." He caught the flicker of discomfort cross their faces as the words landed.
"We've never actually met a Russian person before," the husband said. "Well, aside from seeing your Premier on TV." He extended a hand. "Hank. Hank Richards. Pleasure."
Yuri shook it. "Yuri Alekseev Baranov."
"This is my wife, Sonia," Hank continued, gesturing around the table. "My oldest, Michelle, then Sharon, and our youngest, Steven."
"A pleasure," Yuri said, letting his accent slip through a little more freely now that the cat was out of the bag.
"So what brings you to the States?" Sonia asked. "You're not a spy are you?"
There it is, he thought. Every single conversation with an American eventually circled back to that same joke. "If I were a spy I'd be sightseeing near a military base, not a museum." That got a small round of chuckles. "But for the record, I'm a postavshchik. A procurer."
"A procurer?" Hank asked.
"That's right." Yuri nodded. "To be specific, back home, American goods are popular. Jeans, sneakers, records, books, films, television, various brands and fashions. It's not illegal to own them, but the Soviet state doesn't allow American companies to operate there. So that's where I come in. I buy the goods here, bring them back, and resell them at a markup. The state gets a cut, the citizens get their appetites satiated, and I write down and report who bought what and report it to the KGB, everyone wins."
"Report it?" Sharon said.
"Yes." Yuri said. "All purchases of foreign goods need to be reported to the KGB, they keep track of everything."
"So you are a spy." Hank said.
"No," He shook his head slightly, "You could say I'm more of an informer."
"So you rat on other people?" Steven said.
"Steven." Sonia said, "That's rude."
"Something like that." He continued, chuckling at that. "Its why me and everyone else who comes here for business is allowed to remain in business. The government gets it cut, the security services gets its information. And once we give them that they let us continue like nothing happened. I even have my procurer license. Officially I am a state sanctioned logistics specialist."
"That's a rather grim way of putting it." Hank said.
"From your point of view it is yes." He nodded.
"How long are you planning on sticking around?" Sonia asked between bites of her own burger.
"About two weeks now," Yuri said, picking up another fry. "I fly out in two days. I was supposed to be waiting on my cousin Tolya, he still had some purchases to make, but he is running late as usual, so I wandered off without him. I'll track him down eventually. Tomorrow I figure I'll just take in the sights, walk around a bit."
"Sounds like you come to New York a lot," Sonia said.
"I do," he admitted. "Every four to six months or so. It pays well enough. I bought my wife a car a few months back, and we picked up a small dacha just outside Jugashvilgrad where I'm from. In theory, I could live like a king off this. But there's the anti-parasitism laws to worry about, so I can't exactly sit around doing nothing all day. When I'm home I sweep streets part-time, and I'm in the army reserves as well so I'm called to drill once a month"
"Anti-parasitism?" Sharon asked, confused.
"Ah, right, you don't have that here." He felt a flicker of awkwardness settle in. "Essentially, the government requires every able-bodied adult to work. If you don't, you're sent to a labor camp. So I sweep the streets a few hours a day every day when I'm home. After that, I go relax, catch a film, maybe drive around a bit." He shrugged. "It is what it is."
The parents and both daughters gave him a look somewhere between horror and pity. Only Steven seemed unfazed.
"A labor camp?" Steven asked.
"That's right." Yuri nodded. "A camp. Prisons don't exist in the USSR, the government just sends you off to do corrective labor instead."
"Jesus," Hank said. "That sounds miserable. How do you live with that hanging over you?"
"What do you mean? I've never actually been sent to one."
"I mean the threat of it. Just knowing it's there."
"And?" He genuinely didn't follow. "Commit a crime here, you go to jail. Back home, we just put people to work instead."
"You Soviets are strange people."
"From your point of view we are." Yuri shrugged. "If I recall, it was Stalin's brother, comrade Jugashvili who said something like this in an interview a long time ago. Let me think..." He paused, searching his memory. "Ah yes, it went like this: we may look the same, but we think about the world and see it in an entirely different way than you do."
Hank sat with that for a moment, turning it over in his head. "You know," he said. "Maybe he had a point."
iceknight90
Generally facetious
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(smokes cigarette laconically)
Such is life in Soviet Union.
Such is life in Soviet Union.
OverseerEX
(Verified 11th Degree Degenerate)
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In the Soviet Union, you don't work. Work works you.
Side story 21: War at the end of the world
New
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
- Joined
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An ITN report released April 7, 1980
Footage shows a convoy of mixed Angolan Army, Cuban, and Internationalist Volunteer personnel driving down a road. Hind gunships fly overhead as escorts. As the convoy passes, construction workers, a mix of Angolans and Soviets, are seen pouring asphalt on the road.
Mike Nicholson (ITN): Behind me lies the EN 100, better known as the Estrada Nacional número 100. It is a national route spanning approximately 1,800 kilometers along Angola's coastal region, stretching from Massabi, on the border of what was once the French Congo, south to the Namibian border. Right now, this road is the lifeline of the Angolan war effort, ferrying Angolan troops, Cuban troops, and Internationalist Volunteers from the CSTO bloc to the front.
The front itself lies across a strip of land fifty to a hundred miles wide between the Angolan and Namibian borders. The war has two main players. The first is the US- and South African-backed Democratic People's Republic of Angola, led by a coalition of UNITA, under Jonas Savimbi, and its junior partner, the FNLA, and based in the town of Jamba in the extreme southeast of the country. On the other side stands the rival government, the Soviet- and Cuban-backed People's Soviet Republic of Angola, led by Agostinho Neto and the MPLA and based in Luanda, the capital of what was once Portuguese Angola.
The camera pans to a sign reading "Bem Vindos a Moçâmedes" ("Welcome to Moçâmedes"), with the outline of a city visible behind it. More vehicles and Hinds pass in the background.
Mike Nicholson: The city of Moçâmedes, right behind me, is the capital of Namibe Province, which lies directly on the Namibian border. It functions as both a logistical hub and a fortress, garrisoned by Cuban, Internationalist Volunteer, and Angolan Army forces. Today, as this footage is filmed, is April 1st, right at the tail end of the rainy season. As the rains recede and the roads and rivers dry, Angolan forces and their allies are gearing up for another round of what is now referred to as the fighting season, which runs through the traditional dry season from May to September.
The footage transitions to the city of Moçâmedes proper, near a beach.
Mike Nicholson: Despite its proximity to the front line, and despite the occasional shelling and even air raids, life on the surface goes on in Moçâmedes. In the background, you can see civilians, along with volunteers and Cuban troops, lounging on the beach. When we approached to ask for an interview, they were wary at first and reluctant to talk to us, even with our minder and escorts standing beside us. Only after a few minutes of persuasion did one of them agree: a young man by the name of Yevgeny Prigozhin.
Mike Nicholson: Tell us, how old are you?
Prigozhin (through translator): I'm 19 years old.
Mike Nicholson: What made you decide to join the Internationalist Brigades?
Prigozhin: I was convicted of theft last year. I was told I could either serve two years in a labor camp or serve one year in the corps and be let go as if nothing had happened.
Mike Nicholson: Is this a common way for the Brigades to recruit?
Prigozhin: It is. Many of my comrades here have been convicted of something. Petty crimes, usually: theft, robbery, fraud, assault, trespassing, stalking, vandalism, bribery. The judge said I should be lucky I only went as far as I did, he said more serious crimes are usually just sent straight to the camps.
Voice-over by Mike Nicholson: In the USSR there are no jails, all offenses are either punished via fines, or via hard labor in the countries many labor camps.
Mike Nicholson: How long have you been in the country?
Prigozhin: I landed in October, so around seven months. They say service is a year, but in reality it's fifteen months. You spend three months in training here in Angola, and then you're sent off once the three months are up.
Mike Nicholson: Have you seen combat?
Prigozhin: Not much. It's been the rainy season so far, and they normally assign us newbies to man checkpoints and guard outposts and infrastructure. I spent the first few months of my service in the north, near Zaire. We fought occasional skirmishes, mostly against militias and Zairian soldiers. It's the same here: we fight UNITA troops and the occasional South African or American. Though it will probably heat up soon.
Mike Nicholson: Have you lost any men in your squad? Have you been wounded?
Prigozhin: I've lost a few people in my squad. You never know when a bullet will find you.
Mike Nicholson: Looking back on it, would you have chosen differently?
Prigozhin looks at our minder as the question is translated. The minder nods. Prigozhin grabs a drink and begins drinking, then sighs. When he speaks, his tone is different.
Prigozhin: The past is the past. There is nothing you can do about it. Would I like to be home? Yes. But if I chose a camp I would be freezing half to death every day, doing backbreaking work under the eyes of a guard who would beat me for stepping even slightly out of line. I am grateful the judge gave me this opportunity, and once my year is done I plan on turning my life around. I plan on going to college, and maybe joining the Party. My record will be expunged after all so there is a chance. All I have to do is survive. Though if I mess up again once I'm back home I'll just be sent straight to the camps.
Mike Nicholson: Do you have anyone back home?
Prigozhin: My mom, my stepdad, my friends, and my girl, Lyubov. (He smiles and blows a kiss.) I love you.
Mike Nicholson: How much do you normally make a month?
Prigozhin: Three hundred rubles a month, including training. When we finish our service, we get a bonus of 2,000 rubles, double if we're married. Of course, you can always earn extra if you can get creative.
Mike Nicholson: Creative?
Prigozhin smiles and opens his backpack, revealing watches, necklaces, and rings.
Prigozhin: The South Africans and Americans are fond of wearing watches and rings. I took this wedding ring from an American we captured. We treated him well, though we did rob him. (He laughs.)
Mike Nicholson: Does your command allow it?
Prigozhin: They don't mind, as long as they get a cut. You call it looting. We call it redistribution.
He glances into the distance and says something to the translator.
Translator: He says lunch is here, and he wants to end the interview. The fee, please.
We pull out thirty dollars in cash and hand it to the translator, who pockets ten and passes the rest to Prigozhin.
The footage transitions to a location next to a jail on the outskirts of Moçâmedes.
Mike Nicholson: Cases like Prigozhin's are far from rare. Unwilling to enter an unpopular war that would fracture and destabilize its society, as Vietnam did to the United States, the Soviet Union has, in short, outsourced its proxy wars through the Internationalist Brigades to what it views as the dregs of its society. This has not gone unanswered. The US, under Reagan and his rollback policy, has responded by essentially permitting the use of mercenaries, or Private Military Contractors as the US calls them. One of the main companies in this effort is SIONICS, founded by Mitchell WerBell III, a former OSS officer and the son of a Tsarist cavalry officer.
We managed to secure an interview with a captured SIONICS operative. He and a hundred others are currently held in the local jail here. They face processing and will then be sent back to Luanda, where they will be exchanged for captured Angolan, Cuban, and Volunteer personnel under UN and Red Cross supervision.
The footage transitions to the interior of the jail. Nicholson stands outside a cell.
Mike Nicholson: Your name and age please.
Harris: Michael Harris. Thirty-one years old.
Mike Nicholson: What was your service before coming here?
Harris: MACV. I volunteered for the Army at eighteen and became a sniper. Eventually, I found my way into MACV because a friend of mine was in the unit and recommended me. I served until 1973 when the unit was dissolved, and then I went back stateside.
Mike Nicholson: What made you come here?
Harris: After I left the service I worked construction at my uncle's company. I was a site foreman and it was a decent living. But I was bored, I missed it you know. Civilian life was too predictable, too monotonous. That, and the money they offered was good.
Mike Nicholson: How did you find out about SIONICS?
Harris: Through that same buddy from MACV. We got together for some beers about two years ago, and he showed up in a brand-new Firebird. When I went to his place later he had a massive house too. I asked him what he'd been up to and he told me about SIONICS. He'd fought all over since leaving MACV: Zaire, Oman, Iran, Cambodia, Nicaragua. Hell, he's even been to Antarctica. He told me about the money he'd made and the benefits, and he gave me their address. Next thing I knew, I'd quit my job, drove out to LA, and signed a contract. I was on a plane to Angola before the month was out.
Mike Nicholson: Have the Angolans treated you well?
Harris: They roughed me up a bit when I was captured, but nothing beyond that. That was about a week ago, and then they marched me here. I'll be sent to Luanda soon and they'll probably exchange me. Then I'll be back to fighting before long.
Mike Nicholson: Aren't you afraid of losing your life here?
Harris: Buddy, I've seen Vietnam. Angola is child's play compared to that. Sure, combat is dangerous, but it was dangerous in Vietnam, too. And compared to the Vietcong, the FAPLA are gentlemen. I remember hearing what they did to their prisoners back then during my MACV days. Then again, that was before the US and the USSR reached their agreement on the Volunteers and our contractors. So this? *He looks around the cell. This is just a small vacation for me. *He smiles.
Mike Nicholson: What's your plan once you're out?
Harris: Probably a real vacation rather than a cell. Maybe Jamaica. I hear it's nice this time of year. Then I'll jump back into the trenches.
The footage transitions to the exterior of the jail.
Mike Nicholson: One might ask why Angola is so important? One only has to look at a map of Africa:
The footage transition to the graphic of a map
Somalia, Guinea-Bissau, Equatorial Guinea, the People's Republic of the Congo, North Congo under Lumumba, and Mozambique. All of these regimes are formal members of the Soviet-led Common Security Treaty Organization, the CSTO. Under Soviet leadership, the USSR has extended its reach into Africa, establishing a chain of naval, air, and military bases that allows it to project power across the continent.
If UNITA were to fail, the fear in Washington and Pretoria is that the Soviet Union would support the Namibian liberation movement and expand its backing of the South African Communist Party and its armed wing the South African Red army as well as the ANC and its own armed wing the Umkhonto we Sizwe. That, in turn, could bring about the collapse of South Africa and send all of Southern Africa into the Soviet bloc. It is out of these fears that American support for apartheid South Africa, and by extension for UNITA, seems likely to continue for the foreseeable future.
*Note, I was sick these last few days so I couldn't get a real chapter in, enjoy the side story
Footage shows a convoy of mixed Angolan Army, Cuban, and Internationalist Volunteer personnel driving down a road. Hind gunships fly overhead as escorts. As the convoy passes, construction workers, a mix of Angolans and Soviets, are seen pouring asphalt on the road.
Mike Nicholson (ITN): Behind me lies the EN 100, better known as the Estrada Nacional número 100. It is a national route spanning approximately 1,800 kilometers along Angola's coastal region, stretching from Massabi, on the border of what was once the French Congo, south to the Namibian border. Right now, this road is the lifeline of the Angolan war effort, ferrying Angolan troops, Cuban troops, and Internationalist Volunteers from the CSTO bloc to the front.
The front itself lies across a strip of land fifty to a hundred miles wide between the Angolan and Namibian borders. The war has two main players. The first is the US- and South African-backed Democratic People's Republic of Angola, led by a coalition of UNITA, under Jonas Savimbi, and its junior partner, the FNLA, and based in the town of Jamba in the extreme southeast of the country. On the other side stands the rival government, the Soviet- and Cuban-backed People's Soviet Republic of Angola, led by Agostinho Neto and the MPLA and based in Luanda, the capital of what was once Portuguese Angola.
The camera pans to a sign reading "Bem Vindos a Moçâmedes" ("Welcome to Moçâmedes"), with the outline of a city visible behind it. More vehicles and Hinds pass in the background.
Mike Nicholson: The city of Moçâmedes, right behind me, is the capital of Namibe Province, which lies directly on the Namibian border. It functions as both a logistical hub and a fortress, garrisoned by Cuban, Internationalist Volunteer, and Angolan Army forces. Today, as this footage is filmed, is April 1st, right at the tail end of the rainy season. As the rains recede and the roads and rivers dry, Angolan forces and their allies are gearing up for another round of what is now referred to as the fighting season, which runs through the traditional dry season from May to September.
The footage transitions to the city of Moçâmedes proper, near a beach.
Mike Nicholson: Despite its proximity to the front line, and despite the occasional shelling and even air raids, life on the surface goes on in Moçâmedes. In the background, you can see civilians, along with volunteers and Cuban troops, lounging on the beach. When we approached to ask for an interview, they were wary at first and reluctant to talk to us, even with our minder and escorts standing beside us. Only after a few minutes of persuasion did one of them agree: a young man by the name of Yevgeny Prigozhin.
Mike Nicholson: Tell us, how old are you?
Prigozhin (through translator): I'm 19 years old.
Mike Nicholson: What made you decide to join the Internationalist Brigades?
Prigozhin: I was convicted of theft last year. I was told I could either serve two years in a labor camp or serve one year in the corps and be let go as if nothing had happened.
Mike Nicholson: Is this a common way for the Brigades to recruit?
Prigozhin: It is. Many of my comrades here have been convicted of something. Petty crimes, usually: theft, robbery, fraud, assault, trespassing, stalking, vandalism, bribery. The judge said I should be lucky I only went as far as I did, he said more serious crimes are usually just sent straight to the camps.
Voice-over by Mike Nicholson: In the USSR there are no jails, all offenses are either punished via fines, or via hard labor in the countries many labor camps.
Mike Nicholson: How long have you been in the country?
Prigozhin: I landed in October, so around seven months. They say service is a year, but in reality it's fifteen months. You spend three months in training here in Angola, and then you're sent off once the three months are up.
Mike Nicholson: Have you seen combat?
Prigozhin: Not much. It's been the rainy season so far, and they normally assign us newbies to man checkpoints and guard outposts and infrastructure. I spent the first few months of my service in the north, near Zaire. We fought occasional skirmishes, mostly against militias and Zairian soldiers. It's the same here: we fight UNITA troops and the occasional South African or American. Though it will probably heat up soon.
Mike Nicholson: Have you lost any men in your squad? Have you been wounded?
Prigozhin: I've lost a few people in my squad. You never know when a bullet will find you.
Mike Nicholson: Looking back on it, would you have chosen differently?
Prigozhin looks at our minder as the question is translated. The minder nods. Prigozhin grabs a drink and begins drinking, then sighs. When he speaks, his tone is different.
Prigozhin: The past is the past. There is nothing you can do about it. Would I like to be home? Yes. But if I chose a camp I would be freezing half to death every day, doing backbreaking work under the eyes of a guard who would beat me for stepping even slightly out of line. I am grateful the judge gave me this opportunity, and once my year is done I plan on turning my life around. I plan on going to college, and maybe joining the Party. My record will be expunged after all so there is a chance. All I have to do is survive. Though if I mess up again once I'm back home I'll just be sent straight to the camps.
Mike Nicholson: Do you have anyone back home?
Prigozhin: My mom, my stepdad, my friends, and my girl, Lyubov. (He smiles and blows a kiss.) I love you.
Mike Nicholson: How much do you normally make a month?
Prigozhin: Three hundred rubles a month, including training. When we finish our service, we get a bonus of 2,000 rubles, double if we're married. Of course, you can always earn extra if you can get creative.
Mike Nicholson: Creative?
Prigozhin smiles and opens his backpack, revealing watches, necklaces, and rings.
Prigozhin: The South Africans and Americans are fond of wearing watches and rings. I took this wedding ring from an American we captured. We treated him well, though we did rob him. (He laughs.)
Mike Nicholson: Does your command allow it?
Prigozhin: They don't mind, as long as they get a cut. You call it looting. We call it redistribution.
He glances into the distance and says something to the translator.
Translator: He says lunch is here, and he wants to end the interview. The fee, please.
We pull out thirty dollars in cash and hand it to the translator, who pockets ten and passes the rest to Prigozhin.
The footage transitions to a location next to a jail on the outskirts of Moçâmedes.
Mike Nicholson: Cases like Prigozhin's are far from rare. Unwilling to enter an unpopular war that would fracture and destabilize its society, as Vietnam did to the United States, the Soviet Union has, in short, outsourced its proxy wars through the Internationalist Brigades to what it views as the dregs of its society. This has not gone unanswered. The US, under Reagan and his rollback policy, has responded by essentially permitting the use of mercenaries, or Private Military Contractors as the US calls them. One of the main companies in this effort is SIONICS, founded by Mitchell WerBell III, a former OSS officer and the son of a Tsarist cavalry officer.
We managed to secure an interview with a captured SIONICS operative. He and a hundred others are currently held in the local jail here. They face processing and will then be sent back to Luanda, where they will be exchanged for captured Angolan, Cuban, and Volunteer personnel under UN and Red Cross supervision.
The footage transitions to the interior of the jail. Nicholson stands outside a cell.
Mike Nicholson: Your name and age please.
Harris: Michael Harris. Thirty-one years old.
Mike Nicholson: What was your service before coming here?
Harris: MACV. I volunteered for the Army at eighteen and became a sniper. Eventually, I found my way into MACV because a friend of mine was in the unit and recommended me. I served until 1973 when the unit was dissolved, and then I went back stateside.
Mike Nicholson: What made you come here?
Harris: After I left the service I worked construction at my uncle's company. I was a site foreman and it was a decent living. But I was bored, I missed it you know. Civilian life was too predictable, too monotonous. That, and the money they offered was good.
Mike Nicholson: How did you find out about SIONICS?
Harris: Through that same buddy from MACV. We got together for some beers about two years ago, and he showed up in a brand-new Firebird. When I went to his place later he had a massive house too. I asked him what he'd been up to and he told me about SIONICS. He'd fought all over since leaving MACV: Zaire, Oman, Iran, Cambodia, Nicaragua. Hell, he's even been to Antarctica. He told me about the money he'd made and the benefits, and he gave me their address. Next thing I knew, I'd quit my job, drove out to LA, and signed a contract. I was on a plane to Angola before the month was out.
Mike Nicholson: Have the Angolans treated you well?
Harris: They roughed me up a bit when I was captured, but nothing beyond that. That was about a week ago, and then they marched me here. I'll be sent to Luanda soon and they'll probably exchange me. Then I'll be back to fighting before long.
Mike Nicholson: Aren't you afraid of losing your life here?
Harris: Buddy, I've seen Vietnam. Angola is child's play compared to that. Sure, combat is dangerous, but it was dangerous in Vietnam, too. And compared to the Vietcong, the FAPLA are gentlemen. I remember hearing what they did to their prisoners back then during my MACV days. Then again, that was before the US and the USSR reached their agreement on the Volunteers and our contractors. So this? *He looks around the cell. This is just a small vacation for me. *He smiles.
Mike Nicholson: What's your plan once you're out?
Harris: Probably a real vacation rather than a cell. Maybe Jamaica. I hear it's nice this time of year. Then I'll jump back into the trenches.
The footage transitions to the exterior of the jail.
Mike Nicholson: One might ask why Angola is so important? One only has to look at a map of Africa:
The footage transition to the graphic of a map
Somalia, Guinea-Bissau, Equatorial Guinea, the People's Republic of the Congo, North Congo under Lumumba, and Mozambique. All of these regimes are formal members of the Soviet-led Common Security Treaty Organization, the CSTO. Under Soviet leadership, the USSR has extended its reach into Africa, establishing a chain of naval, air, and military bases that allows it to project power across the continent.
If UNITA were to fail, the fear in Washington and Pretoria is that the Soviet Union would support the Namibian liberation movement and expand its backing of the South African Communist Party and its armed wing the South African Red army as well as the ANC and its own armed wing the Umkhonto we Sizwe. That, in turn, could bring about the collapse of South Africa and send all of Southern Africa into the Soviet bloc. It is out of these fears that American support for apartheid South Africa, and by extension for UNITA, seems likely to continue for the foreseeable future.
*Note, I was sick these last few days so I couldn't get a real chapter in, enjoy the side story
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iceknight90
Generally facetious
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What an interesting chapter.
Perhaps young Yevgeny will get out of this war, go home, and become a hot dog vendor and later a restauranteur.
Perhaps young Yevgeny will get out of this war, go home, and become a hot dog vendor and later a restauranteur.
ReluctantCrusader
Mula sa Masa, Tungo sa Masa
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I wonder what they mean by North Congo? The Republic of the Congo is I think it the People's Republic of Congo so North Congo is in the DRC with its counterpart being Zaire. I think this occurred during the Congo Crisis with perhaps Lumumba evading arrest from Mobutu's men and led a rival government propped up by the Soviets while the latter recaptured Katanga. This Zaire would be even more unstable because the Soviets can support the Congolese National Liberation Front in Katanga which is a bigger proportion of their territory ITTL.
BuilderOne
Getting sticky.
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Not to mention, mercs have pretty much few legal protections, if any.
I'd imagine that the Soviet Internationalist Brigades would be in a "funny" position, like French Legionaire or British Gurkha. The soldiers, arguably, are merc... but they are mercy directly incorporated and treated as normal soldiers.