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Chapter 84: March of Steel and Shadows
The October Revolution—a moment of fire and upheaval that birthed the Soviet Union. Every year, on November 7th, its legacy is celebrated with a grand military parade across Red Square. A tradition that feels like both celebration and declaration.
This year's parade would not just honor history—it would display the unmatched strength of the Soviet Union to the world.
On that cold November morning, the crimson banner of the hammer and sickle waved high above Red Square. Troops stood in perfect ranks, their breath forming clouds as they waited for the signal.
Then, the loudspeakers boomed with the familiar anthem:
"Great Russia, an eternal union,
Independent republics, freely united.
The people's will forged the Soviet state—
Strong and unified for generations to come!
Radiant homeland, fortress of friendship,
The red flag leads from victory to victory!"
More verses followed, reverent and martial. Voices echoed in chorus across Red Square, rising toward the gray Moscow sky. As the song rang out, the parade began.
At the head marched a formation carrying a massive portrait of Lenin. The square fell silent save for the precise, synchronized footsteps of boots striking stone.
Atop Lenin's Mausoleum, Brezhnev and the top leadership stood, solemnly waving to the passing formations.
The mausoleum itself, a granite structure designed for permanence and symbolism, had been rebuilt several times. Its tiered stone pedestal gave way to a wide viewing platform supported by thirty-six columns. From the flat-topped roof, the leaders could watch the rolling tide of troops, tanks, and missiles in review.
To the side of the platform, in the gray-marble flanked stands, Andrei stood—tall and observant. From his modest corner, he looked out between the heads of others, taking in the spectacle.
Majestic. Overwhelming. The sheer scale of Soviet military precision stirred something in his chest. No military parade, not even those in the future he had read about, compared to the discipline and intensity of this moment.
To witness such a parade from here—this was a once-in-a-lifetime honor.
"Ura! Ura!" came the thunderous shouts from marching soldiers. The unified roar surged like a wave over the square. This was unity. This was Soviet power.
As the infantry passed, the armored columns advanced. The rumble of T-72 tanks thundered down the avenue. Their presence alone spoke volumes. Andrei could almost see them rolling across all of Europe, smashing resistance under steel treads.
His pulse quickened. Even hours later, the visuals clung to his mind. The anthem still rang in his ears. That melody could stir generations.
That evening, the Kremlin hosted another celebration—a banquet within the grand Georgiev Hall.
Brezhnev, still physically strong in 1976, presided over the gathering. There was energy in the air, even optimism. The Soviet Union seemed to stand tall and proud.
"Cheers, comrades!" Brezhnev's voice rang out as he lifted his glass. Around him, senior officials and military figures raised theirs in unison. The room buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of glassware.
As was tradition, vodka flowed freely. For one night, there were no ranks—just citizens of the same country, celebrating together.
Andrei kept mostly to himself. As a newly promoted lieutenant colonel, he knew his place in a hall filled with men decades older, many of whom had weathered the storm of war and politics.
He observed quietly.
Most attendees were over sixty. Old men with thick eyebrows and tired expressions, still clutching onto the reins of power.
In one corner stood Chernenko—gray-haired, with trembling hands. Once Andropov's quiet rival, he would outlive him by just over a year and ascend to power—briefly.
Elsewhere, Andrei spotted Ustinov. Gromyko. Tikhonov. Names that would later shape—or stall—the fate of the Union.
"Comrade Andrei, you're here too?" a voice called nearby.
Andrei turned and immediately recognized the man. "Comrade Simonov?"
It was indeed the deputy chief designer from the Sukhoi Design Bureau. Simonov had been invited to the event, taking the place of the recently deceased Pavel Sukhoi—a pioneer of Soviet aviation. His absence hung quietly over the room.
Andrei hadn't expected to be remembered after just one brief meeting at Sokolovka, but Simonov greeted him with genuine enthusiasm.
"You downed the American Blackbird with two missiles. Defended our skies. It's something the entire aviation community is proud of. Pravda already ran the story—it was the perfect headline for the Revolution parade."
Andrei offered a dry smile. "Comrade Simonov, do you believe our missiles alone brought down a plane flying over Mach 3?"
He'd read the Pravda piece. Two missiles, perfect lock, flawless execution—it read more like a novel. Imaginative, at best.
Simonov grinned knowingly. "Ah, editorial embellishment."
Both men knew how Western analysts often gleaned intelligence from open Soviet sources—magazines, newspapers, parade footage. Fiction dressed up as fact was sometimes a shield, sometimes bait.
But with Simonov, Andrei didn't need to pretend. This wasn't a diplomat or a politician—this was an engineer. A man who designed the aircraft others dreamed about. And someone who had a right to know the truth.
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