"Are you sure about this?"
Andrei stared at the report, unsure what to make of it.
On one hand, he understood it perfectly. On the other, he couldn't shake the suspicion that this was merely a more sophisticated form of ass-kissing.
His schedule was already suffocating. The Baltic states were in chaos, revolts had only just been crushed, the economy remained unstable, and an international conference loomed ahead. On top of that, foreign policy was an unmitigated disaster that still needed to be untangled.
And yet, despite everything, Andrei diverted his route and stopped in Kyiv before boarding his next flight.
This was a personal visit. He wanted to see the curious case of Ukraine .
"Your Excellency, I assure you everything is under control. You have my word."
The speaker was a gentle-looking old man in priestly robes, his voice soft and reassuring.
"Yes, Your Excellency," another elderly man added with a warm smile. "What you witnessed today is proof that the Ukrainian people adore you. After all… you are one of us."
Murmurs of agreement spread through the room.
Andrei regarded them quietly.
The two men were Filaret, Metropolitan of Kyiv and head of the Orthodox Church in Ukraine, and Leonid Kravchuk—the man who, in another timeline, would have become Ukraine's first president.
They had once been expected to lead the separatists.
Andrei hadn't given much thought to their sudden enlightenment.
Careerists like these always knew which way the wind was blowing. They thrived in muddy waters. It had taken him exactly one phone call to persuade them to sell out their own country.
"Comrade Putin," Andrei asked without looking up, "what do you make of this report?"
"There's no issue with its authenticity," Putin replied calmly. "KGB and GRU have submitted independent files reaching the same conclusion."
He opened another folder and slid it across the table.
Andrei smiled bitterly. After the coup, now rebranded as the Patriotic Revolution almost every allied republic had erupted in protests, rallies, and political unrest.
Ukraine was the exception. Despite Chernobyl still being fresh in collective memory, the Ukrainian SSR experienced the least resistance in the entire Union.
The nationalist protests and separatist agitation that once dominated Kyiv seemed to vanish overnight. There had been only one significant anti-coup demonstration and it had been crushed with shocking brutality.
The tank commander responsible was a genuine psychopath.
He forbade his troops from firing. Instead, civilians were tied together with ropes, and he personally drove his tank over them. The images made headlines worldwide.
And yet despite that Andrei received an unexpectedly warm welcome upon arriving in Kyiv.
Even Moscow and Leningrad hadn't greeted him like this.
According to internal KGB assessments, Ukraine now had the highest proportion of coup supporters in the entire Soviet Union.
At first, Andrei assumed the bureaucracy was lying to please him.
Much of the support was manufactured, of course: officials were bought, alliances were forged with the Orthodox Church whose influence in rural Ukraine was immense.
But there was something else.
Andrei's father had been Ukrainian. Which meant, conveniently enough, so was Andrei.
The commissars had leaned into that fact with enthusiasm. Posters, speeches, carefully worded broadcasts his background was everywhere. People were reminded of Khrushchev.
Andrei laughed out, he got another lucky break..
....
After the meeting adjourned, Andrei motioned for Archbishop Filaret to stay behind.
"Father Filaret. Don't you wish to be Patriarch of Moscow? The head of the Orthodox Church?"
The old man recoiled as if struck. "Your Excellency… that is not… I could never presume…"
"Shut it," Andrei cut him off, his tone flat and final. "I am the only person who can put you on that throne. So, the question is simple: are you with me, or are you with me?"
In history, this man Mykhailo Denysenko, known as Archbishop Filaret had founded his own Ukrainian Orthodox Church after failing to become Patriarch. A careerist, Andrei intended to use that ambition to curb the power of the church.
The Soviet state had long followed an unofficial policy of atheism, suppressing religion with varying intensity as it suited political needs. Yet the Church retained a deep influence, especially among the rural populace. Andrei's alliance with it had been crucial for securing their compliance. But the price had been high ceding control over swathes of education and local governance.
It still wasn't enough for Patriarch Alexy II. Not only did he demand the return of all church lands, but he'd also begun publicly condemning the creeping deification of Andrei.
That could not stand. The church needed to be cut down to size. Andrei would tolerate no challenge to his power.
"But I cannot," Filaret whispered. "The synod, the bishops… they stand with the Patriarch. They oppose you. Why not simply disavow these… these claims madmen?
"It seems some people will never understand the burdens of leadership," Andrei said, almost sighing. He reached into his coat and withdrew a small, silver locket. He clicked it open and held it out.
Inside was a photograph of two young children, their faces bright with innocence.
"Look at them. So beautiful. So vulnerable. I wonder who their father is." He paused. "It would be a tragedy if anything were to… happen to them. Wouldn't you agree?"
Archbishop Filaret's face drained of all color.
"Think on it, Father. I have a flight to catch."
He doesn't have to say anything, he has a flight to catch.
__________________________________
While Andrei boarded the plane for Munich, something disturbing was unfolding in the Baltics.
Though Andrei had declared victory, Soviet authority remained fragile, barely extending beyond city limits. The initial shock-and-awe invasion had succeeded brilliantly, catching insurgents off-guard and securing urban centers. But in the countryside, the advance bogged down. The Red Army lacked popular support a problem compounded by its own conduct.
A young soldier rushed into the command post, clutching a carefully wrapped packet. He seemed to be carrying something of great importance.
The commander carefully received the package and after opening it gently put the portrait on the altar.
Then he knelt down immediately and start to pray. The other soilders also followed suit.
Yes the person one the portrait is none other than our comrade Andrei.
Had Andrei seen it, he would have cringed hard enough to vomit. But here, in this occupied command post in Riga, the soldiers prayed to it with fervent devotion.
The commander, named Stepan Bandera was the freak tank commander who brutally put down the Kiev protest.
Because of his "heroic" act, he was promoted to a division commander and now serving as a garrison commander in Riga.
"You have done well boy, his excellency's portrait is high demand but very short in supply. How do you mange to get one ? "
"H-he… It wasn't easy, sir. I had to… dedicate my body pillow to the logistics officer to get it."
"Damn those rear-echelen mosquitoes!" Bandera spat. "Too cowardly to catch their own, but eager to taste the honey. I'll write to Moscow personally. I won't let my honest men suffer. In the meantime find another pillow in the city."
"I don't think there are any new ones left, sir. The Belarusians entered before us and took the best. Then our local allies found the hidden stock. We had to send some to the commissars and party officials… All that's left in the city are used ones. We should send men to the countryside. "
Bandera sighed. "It seems nothing can be done for now. You may take one from my personal collection." He turned to his lieutenant. "Tell the men to prepare to move out. We must reach the villages before those priests snatch the best ones."
"Sir, I recommend we take the local partisans with us. They're good at identifying dissenters."
"Approved. And remember any house displaying His Excellency's portrait is to be treated with respect. We are not conquerors. We are liberators, here to restore civilization and punish those who have sinned against the Lord!"
"YES, SIR!" the soldiers shouted in unison.
Soviet Union had a popular culture inherited from Tsarist Russia where leader's portrait were be used as symbol of state power and loyalty. In communist era pretty much evey household or building had a Lenin or Stalin picture and cities littered with communist symbol and statues.
So as comrade Andrei took power, he too received a renaissance style portrait of himself , replacing the previous leader's.
During the Baltic independence movements, these symbols had been torn down, defaced, burned. Portrait-burning became an act of defiance.
Now, that same fact served Soviet pacification efforts. Any building without a Communist symbol, especially Andrei's portrait was subject to search, interrogation, or worse.
Victor had supplied pro-Soviet partisans with Andrei's portraits to distinguish them from the insurgents. Soon, people caught on. Possessing a portrait became a matter of survival and a high-value commodity on the black market.
Officials also joined in, taking bribes fattening their wallets.
Even the CIA got in on the act, supplying portraits to separatists to stage false-flag attacks further blurring the lines.
_____________
As the unit commanded by Stepan Bandera marched through the desolate city streets, Political Commissar Pavel Grudinin gazed at the boarded-up windows and scorched walls with a heavy heart. "This isn't the city I grew up in," he murmured, almost to himself. "How did it go so wrong?"
"These half-Germans deserve what they got, Comrade Grudinin. Don't waste your sympathy on them."
"Mind your language, Commander! They are Soviet citizens!"
"They are sinners and heretics!" Bandera shot back, his eyes gleaming with a fervor.
"Enough with that talk. We are a socialist nation, not a theocracy!"
"Heh. Why not both?" Bandera shrugged. "Where is your loyalty, Commissar? Do you serve the nation?"
"I serve the people and the Party."
"I serve only the General Secretary," Bandera stated. "He pulled men like me from the abyss. A year ago, my wife, no, that Russian bitch ran off with some capitalist swine. I naturally try to make her see reason but some damned official told me she had her 'own choice.' They threw me in jail. I was a weak man then. I drowned myself in vodka."
Then His Excellency descended. He showed me and my brothers the righteous path. He gave us dignity. He gave us purpose. And he gave us permission to make the sinners fear. During the Revolution, I judged them personally. I sent them to hell. And I found that whore… I crushed her and that adulterer under my tank."
A dark, satisfied grin spread across his face. "Her expression was priceless. The Western papers call me the 'Tsar's Hound.' Can you believe it? After that, I took her sister. I always thought she was the better one. Now I am famous. For me, life is good. So why wouldn't I be loyal to the General Secretary? You tell me, Commissar."
Pavel Grudinin could only stare, a cold knot of disgust and pity tightening in his stomach. He found no words.
"Hah! Commissar, no wonder you're new here," Bandera chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. "When you get your body pillow, you'll understand."
Right then a soilder rushed up to them. "Urgent news, sir! First Secretary Miaev has shot General Tulkun Kasimov!"