Post by Central Ruska on Oct 23, 2015 20:53:30 GMT -5
(OOC - This is a reboot of my earlier coup event, this is a historical RP so the ending has already been planned out. I was unhappy with how the original thread had played out, so I though I'd run it again and go a bit more indepth. I am also opening it up to everyone, however, I will ask that you PM me first so I can give you the run-down of what is going to happen. Other RPers will be involved from a civilian perspective.)
Above Chernyshevka, 21:10 UTC+3, December 15th, 2020
A single Ilyushin Il-96 plane rose into the air above Chernyshevka International Airport, heading west towards The Kingdom of Surdra, over 2800 miles away. Inside the the most powerful man in the nation, The General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Central Ruska, Alexander Malashenko. As the plane climbed into her cruising altitude, Alexander glanced out the window, blankly staring down at the shimmering lights of Chernyshevka. He knew that this wasn’t any old diplomatic meeting, this was the one that was going to save his country.
For the last four months, every effort to save the 22nd Five year plan had failed dramatically, millions of Rubles had been poured into the revitalisation of the industrial heartland of the nation, several key oblasts whose economies had all but faltered and now, the country was facing the harshest winter in over three decades. With the winter now in full swing, food prices began to rise, forcing thousands to rely on government breadlines.
His views were interrupted as the aircraft passed through the clouds, forcing him to look at the bleak reports on the table in front of him. Several financial reports, graphs, and newspapers were scattered across the table, each painting a darker picture of the state of the nation. He reached over to one of the newspapers, ‘Pravda’, the official paper of the Communist Party of Central Ruska. ‘Malashenko heads West - Talks reopen with Surdra!’ even it’s heavily filtered message painted a bleak outlook. Alexander was the first General Secretary to even consider talking with the west in over 80 years, and he knew the implications. Despite the parties best efforts to keep a positive outlook on the situation, the people wouldn’t feel the same, deep down he feared the revolutionary spirit would eventually rise up to claim him.
A sharp knocking dragged him back into reality, he glanced briefly over his shoulder. Vadim Matveev, his diplomatic assistant, stood silently in the threshold of the door, holding a small tablet device. “Sir,” he started, nervously hinting towards the tablet device. “I have the recent reports from Nikolo-Pestrovka, and, err… they're not exactly pretty.” He continued, handing over the device. “We’ve received reports of another incident at a breadline on Tsentral'naya Ulitsa. Forty-nine wounded and two killed when police intervened after a fight broke out, live ammunition was fired to break up the crowds. Tear gas was also used to disperse the crowds. If I may interject sir, this is turning violent.”
"Blyad'." Alexander cursed, pushing the tablet away. "Who ordered the shot?" He questioned, reaching for the newspaper. "Err, we still don't quite know. Reports say it was an officer, however...Sir, it could have been anyone.” Vadim responded. Alexander rubbed his eyes, the lack of sleep was beginning to show. “Sir,” Vadim started again, “You should probably get some sleep, you’ll need it for tomorrow.”
Kremlin Palace of Congresses, 10:30 UTC+3, December 16th, 2020
The morning had been relatively quiet for those in the Chernyshevka Kremlin, with the end of the 23rd Congress of the Communist Party of Central Ruska just a few months beforehand, the Palace of Congresses was nearly empty. For the next five years, the building would be used again and again for smaller state meetings between trade unionists, state committees and other smaller events, however, all of those would be miniscule in comparison with what was about to come. For months, eight men gathered in secret in the back rooms around the Kremlin, orchestrating a massive political and military operation that was soon to come into effect.
Since the re-election of Alexander Malashenko as the The General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Central Ruska, and the sudden and brutal events that took place in the months between had shattered the confidence in the party. Originally the majority vote had reassured the party in the leadership of Malashenko, however, as the winter began to take hold of the country, the party’s opinion began to turn against him, and now, it was coming to a head.
Pavel Yakubovich, Chairman of the Committee for Union Security stood silently in the lobby of the Kremlin Palace of Congresses, watching the snow lightly drift around in the winds outside. He only moved when he had heard footsteps coming up from behind him. Turning around, he saw Sergei Vakhrushev, The minister of Internal Affairs. “Good Morning Pavel, how are things?” Sergei questioned, sipping from his coffee. Pavel smiled, his face showed visible signs of tension and worry, the bitter aroma of coffee made him feel slightly relieved, however, even Sergei could see that the plans were getting to him. “Pavel? You alright?” Sergei questioned again, snapping Pavel back in focus.
“Heh, yes, comrade. I’m fine. Amazing though, forty years in the KSB and I still cannot handle this.” He chuckled. There was a brief pause in conversation, both men avoided eye contact for several seconds before Sergei spoke again. “Well Pavel, I assure you that this will go to plan, we have the support of both the Committee and Portilburo, Malahenko’s time is over. Come on, let’s go, I’m sure they’re waiting for us.”
Both men casually strolled through the empty halls of the Kremlin Palace of Congresses, passing only a handful of people as they walked to one of the smaller meeting rooms on the second floor, usually reserved for the Chairmen of the Council of Ministers. They both stopped at the door, Sergei then knocked twice, before knocking again, both then preceded to enter the room. Inside, six other men stood around a table, covered in maps of Central Ruska and Chernyshevka. All together, the eight men formed the ‘Red Eight’, comprised of senior ranking members of the Communist Party, Military and KSB.
“Good morning gentlemen, how are the plans coming along?” Sergei said, walking over to the table. “Good morning Sergei, the plans are coming along nicely, we’re just adding the finishing touches to them” Gleb Dubrovsky, Minister of Defence and Marshal of the Union responded, marking the map of the Capital in several locations. “As far as I am aware, the armed forces are on our sides and we should expect limited resistance to our, eh, changes.” He continued, scratching his head. “I’ve got our best, and most loyal divisions on standby for operations within the capital, both the 9th Guards Motor Rifle Division and the 84th Motor Rifle Division are in bases to the south, here and here. We’ve also got 19th Guards Rifle Division and 5th Guards Tank Division stationed North of the city. We’ve also got supporting divisions in all the major cities, they’ll be hitting the local governments and party buildings just to knock them out of the picture, but our main focus is on securing the capital, both the Kremlin and her interiour buildings, which shouldn’t be too difficult. Our main problem is probably going to be taking the Politburo. If we don’t act quick enough, the bastards are going to barricade themselves in and that isn’t going to look pretty.” Gleb Finished, downing the last of what was in his mug.
“Well, we better do this right.” Pavel spoke up, moving towards the table, he picked up one of the many markers and began to add to the multitude of drawings. “I’ve already taken the liberty of freeing up the Lubica prison ready to take any of our political… Friends, if you will, for a little time out. I’ve also arranged to have communications cut between us and the west, We can’t have Alexander finding out about our operation, the KSB have also cut communications to his Dacha on the Black Sea and to his Estate in Vitsyebsk. If he gets back into the country, we’ll know about it.”
“Thank you Pavel, always looking out for us.” Sergei smiled, “What about you, Leonid. How’s our media coverage looking?” He asked. Leonid Kurashov, whom was quietly sat in the corner, engrossed in his own notes was caught off, his head bolting up when he heard his name. “Good, good. Ehh,” He started, flipping through several pages of his notes. “Schedule is going blank, We’ve filling it with Last years Christmas ballet, mixed in with the Christmas performances by the Red Choir, Should keep us out of the limelight for some time. But I’m more concerned about freer media. We’ve got a few independent television and radio stations and if they get word of this, god knows the response.” Leonid finished, scribbling again into his note pad.
“Well, we’ll have to cross that bridge when we get to it.” Sergei sighed, studying the maps before him. “How long before we’re ready?”.
“Two days.”
Above Chernyshevka, 21:10 UTC+3, December 15th, 2020
A single Ilyushin Il-96 plane rose into the air above Chernyshevka International Airport, heading west towards The Kingdom of Surdra, over 2800 miles away. Inside the the most powerful man in the nation, The General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Central Ruska, Alexander Malashenko. As the plane climbed into her cruising altitude, Alexander glanced out the window, blankly staring down at the shimmering lights of Chernyshevka. He knew that this wasn’t any old diplomatic meeting, this was the one that was going to save his country.
For the last four months, every effort to save the 22nd Five year plan had failed dramatically, millions of Rubles had been poured into the revitalisation of the industrial heartland of the nation, several key oblasts whose economies had all but faltered and now, the country was facing the harshest winter in over three decades. With the winter now in full swing, food prices began to rise, forcing thousands to rely on government breadlines.
His views were interrupted as the aircraft passed through the clouds, forcing him to look at the bleak reports on the table in front of him. Several financial reports, graphs, and newspapers were scattered across the table, each painting a darker picture of the state of the nation. He reached over to one of the newspapers, ‘Pravda’, the official paper of the Communist Party of Central Ruska. ‘Malashenko heads West - Talks reopen with Surdra!’ even it’s heavily filtered message painted a bleak outlook. Alexander was the first General Secretary to even consider talking with the west in over 80 years, and he knew the implications. Despite the parties best efforts to keep a positive outlook on the situation, the people wouldn’t feel the same, deep down he feared the revolutionary spirit would eventually rise up to claim him.
A sharp knocking dragged him back into reality, he glanced briefly over his shoulder. Vadim Matveev, his diplomatic assistant, stood silently in the threshold of the door, holding a small tablet device. “Sir,” he started, nervously hinting towards the tablet device. “I have the recent reports from Nikolo-Pestrovka, and, err… they're not exactly pretty.” He continued, handing over the device. “We’ve received reports of another incident at a breadline on Tsentral'naya Ulitsa. Forty-nine wounded and two killed when police intervened after a fight broke out, live ammunition was fired to break up the crowds. Tear gas was also used to disperse the crowds. If I may interject sir, this is turning violent.”
"Blyad'." Alexander cursed, pushing the tablet away. "Who ordered the shot?" He questioned, reaching for the newspaper. "Err, we still don't quite know. Reports say it was an officer, however...Sir, it could have been anyone.” Vadim responded. Alexander rubbed his eyes, the lack of sleep was beginning to show. “Sir,” Vadim started again, “You should probably get some sleep, you’ll need it for tomorrow.”
Kremlin Palace of Congresses, 10:30 UTC+3, December 16th, 2020
The morning had been relatively quiet for those in the Chernyshevka Kremlin, with the end of the 23rd Congress of the Communist Party of Central Ruska just a few months beforehand, the Palace of Congresses was nearly empty. For the next five years, the building would be used again and again for smaller state meetings between trade unionists, state committees and other smaller events, however, all of those would be miniscule in comparison with what was about to come. For months, eight men gathered in secret in the back rooms around the Kremlin, orchestrating a massive political and military operation that was soon to come into effect.
Since the re-election of Alexander Malashenko as the The General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Central Ruska, and the sudden and brutal events that took place in the months between had shattered the confidence in the party. Originally the majority vote had reassured the party in the leadership of Malashenko, however, as the winter began to take hold of the country, the party’s opinion began to turn against him, and now, it was coming to a head.
Pavel Yakubovich, Chairman of the Committee for Union Security stood silently in the lobby of the Kremlin Palace of Congresses, watching the snow lightly drift around in the winds outside. He only moved when he had heard footsteps coming up from behind him. Turning around, he saw Sergei Vakhrushev, The minister of Internal Affairs. “Good Morning Pavel, how are things?” Sergei questioned, sipping from his coffee. Pavel smiled, his face showed visible signs of tension and worry, the bitter aroma of coffee made him feel slightly relieved, however, even Sergei could see that the plans were getting to him. “Pavel? You alright?” Sergei questioned again, snapping Pavel back in focus.
“Heh, yes, comrade. I’m fine. Amazing though, forty years in the KSB and I still cannot handle this.” He chuckled. There was a brief pause in conversation, both men avoided eye contact for several seconds before Sergei spoke again. “Well Pavel, I assure you that this will go to plan, we have the support of both the Committee and Portilburo, Malahenko’s time is over. Come on, let’s go, I’m sure they’re waiting for us.”
Both men casually strolled through the empty halls of the Kremlin Palace of Congresses, passing only a handful of people as they walked to one of the smaller meeting rooms on the second floor, usually reserved for the Chairmen of the Council of Ministers. They both stopped at the door, Sergei then knocked twice, before knocking again, both then preceded to enter the room. Inside, six other men stood around a table, covered in maps of Central Ruska and Chernyshevka. All together, the eight men formed the ‘Red Eight’, comprised of senior ranking members of the Communist Party, Military and KSB.
“Good morning gentlemen, how are the plans coming along?” Sergei said, walking over to the table. “Good morning Sergei, the plans are coming along nicely, we’re just adding the finishing touches to them” Gleb Dubrovsky, Minister of Defence and Marshal of the Union responded, marking the map of the Capital in several locations. “As far as I am aware, the armed forces are on our sides and we should expect limited resistance to our, eh, changes.” He continued, scratching his head. “I’ve got our best, and most loyal divisions on standby for operations within the capital, both the 9th Guards Motor Rifle Division and the 84th Motor Rifle Division are in bases to the south, here and here. We’ve also got 19th Guards Rifle Division and 5th Guards Tank Division stationed North of the city. We’ve also got supporting divisions in all the major cities, they’ll be hitting the local governments and party buildings just to knock them out of the picture, but our main focus is on securing the capital, both the Kremlin and her interiour buildings, which shouldn’t be too difficult. Our main problem is probably going to be taking the Politburo. If we don’t act quick enough, the bastards are going to barricade themselves in and that isn’t going to look pretty.” Gleb Finished, downing the last of what was in his mug.
“Well, we better do this right.” Pavel spoke up, moving towards the table, he picked up one of the many markers and began to add to the multitude of drawings. “I’ve already taken the liberty of freeing up the Lubica prison ready to take any of our political… Friends, if you will, for a little time out. I’ve also arranged to have communications cut between us and the west, We can’t have Alexander finding out about our operation, the KSB have also cut communications to his Dacha on the Black Sea and to his Estate in Vitsyebsk. If he gets back into the country, we’ll know about it.”
“Thank you Pavel, always looking out for us.” Sergei smiled, “What about you, Leonid. How’s our media coverage looking?” He asked. Leonid Kurashov, whom was quietly sat in the corner, engrossed in his own notes was caught off, his head bolting up when he heard his name. “Good, good. Ehh,” He started, flipping through several pages of his notes. “Schedule is going blank, We’ve filling it with Last years Christmas ballet, mixed in with the Christmas performances by the Red Choir, Should keep us out of the limelight for some time. But I’m more concerned about freer media. We’ve got a few independent television and radio stations and if they get word of this, god knows the response.” Leonid finished, scribbling again into his note pad.
“Well, we’ll have to cross that bridge when we get to it.” Sergei sighed, studying the maps before him. “How long before we’re ready?”.
“Two days.”
