- Astrakhan-Archangelsk Line, Demarcation Line Between The Soviet Union and The Greater German Reich -

Vasily Zaitsev's greatest fears have been realized, after long years of brutal fighting against the Fascist menace and its puppets. Seven years of struggle, seven years of heartbreaking retreats. It had yielded nothing but absolute defeat. He found himself in a white winter parka, with a worn Mosin-Nagant rifle in his hands. Responding to reports from the NKVD of German incursions wasn't out of paranoia, the ceasefire was little but a farce from the Fuhrer's forces to justify the inability to launch any further offensives. He absolutely had ample conquests to brag about for years to come, yet Zaitsev knew all too well that he wasn't going to be satisfied until all of Germany's 'enemies' saw their last day.

Zaitsev brushed off his train of thought as he saw through his scope approaching German soldiers clad in white winter gear. The first in line was the first to receive a bullet, a crack of his sniper rifle and the first German soldier promptly went down. He cycled his bolt as quickly as he could. However, by the time he did, the remaining soldiers had mostly moved into cover. Zaitsev cursed to himself as he sighed heavily.

Another shot rang out, and Zaitsev took pleasure in seeing his sniper partner gun down another one of the German soldiers. If there was one thing he wanted most in the world, it was to stop the German menace at the Astrakhan-Archangelsk Line finally, get as many of them as humanely possible, and drive the fascists out of Russia for good.

Years of devastating war had taken its toll on the Red Army, supplies were long since beginning to dwindle as much as morale was. The mysterious disappearance of great Comrade Stalin meant that his subordinate, Beria had taken over as General Secretary in his absence, already causing a noticable rift in Soviet leadership.

For now, the small German patrol decided to retreat, the Nazi Empire looked to be halting its expansion towards the Urals, content with their hard-earned gains and shifting to the defence. Vasily wasn't sure how long that would last, or if he'd even live to see the end of this war. Yet he was sure that in due time, the Soviets would one day regroup. One day they would once more come together again out of petty squabbles and unite against this existential threat.

But that was looking far from possible. Mass rumours of infighting in Soviet rear units were becoming more and more prevalent as news of the armistice spread, though these claims were vehemently denied by General Secretary Beria.

While he wanted to wholeheartedly believe in the unwavering traits of Soviet unity. Vasily's unit had received next to little ammunition, reinforcements, and resupply. Coupled with the persistent minor German advances, Vasily couldn't deny that the Soviet Union was in a lot of trouble. Beria's government in Perm allegedly dealt with factionalism concerning his increasing centralization of power, more so than in the Stalinist era. This was evident in the General Staff, many have been making fewer public appearances.

General Andrey Vlasov had been sent to Kazakhstan to deal with uprisings against wavering Soviet rule, but he had yet to return from his campaign

Ivan Konev has yet to reply to the Beria government from his mission dealing with insurrectionists in Kazan.

Marshall Georgy Zhukov has made it clear his distrust of the General Secretary, and many prominent figures have followed in his words.

If there was one thing to be excited about in the Soviet Union, it had yet to be seen. There was only doubt. Doubt, and dread for the future and what it would bring.

Zaitsev, confident that there would be no German advancement anytime soon, rested his hooded head against a rock. He picked up his nearby bottle of vodka, yet to his disdain the bottle was empty. And whatever was left had long frozen, it was nothing more than a useless piece of glass now. Zaitsev tossed it away, there wasn't even any fuel available to turn it into a Molotov cocktail. Though he could reconcile with the fact that he still had some bullets left. Things could not possibly get any worse than this.

- Vladivostok, Soviet Far East -

The typical day in the Soviet Union's biggest city in the Far East was usually a cold one.

Private Niko Marashkov's garrison was the only one in the region, a garrison of about a hundred that was regulated to the further reaches of the Soviet Union. He remembered hearing about the massive German invasion a few years ago, though the threat of Japanese incursions from Manchuria still remained. Even after the non-aggression pact between the Soviets and the Japanese, his unit remained in the base camp in order to ensure stability in the area.

Reports of defeats and minor victories flooded the camp constantly throughout the years of fighting. He distinctly remembered the sour mood when Stalingrad had fallen, one of the last great bastions of Soviet defence before the Germans reached Central Asia and the Ural Mountains. The frustration that brushed over his garrison was incomprehensible, while all their commissar could offer was a reminder of their purpose to ensure stability, and that: Collective support of your comrades is the greatest gift you can give them right now.

Niko was restless, he wanted action. To finally take the fight to the hated enemies of the Soviet Union.

And right now he was stuck in base camp, disassembling his rifle to clean it. While two of his fellow soldiers conversed about personal lives and the war.

"Niko, what do you think about it?"

"Think about what?" He looked up from his gun for a bit. "Don't have him ask me about the ceasefire again. Everyone has already asked me about that, not stopping for two weeks."
"It's not a ceasefire, dumbass. It's an armistice." The second of the two soldiers corrected him. "We should be thankful, we made it without losing our arms."

"We did nothing, you are stupid. We sat around on our asses while the Soviet Union collapsed around us. Captain Strohkov is a commissar who only listens to high command because that's all he can do, and now without us, we're only in a bigger pile of shit than before."

"You are a very brave comrade, insulting the old man." The soldier who first asked him said, before breaking out into laughter. "What next, you want to be the next Hero of the Soviet Union. A dead one, that's for sure."

"In a conflict such as this with the Fascists, there is no room for a ceasefire. It is either we push the Germans and their useful puppets out of our land, or we die doing that." Marashkov insisted, standing up to emphasize his stance on things.

"You are very smart Masha, going to fight the Germans by yourself." Private Tarasov again poked fun at his fellow soldier.

Marashkov just sneered, brushing off Tarasov and his friend. While taking his re-assembled rifle and heading out of their tent. He brought up a face covering while grabbing a helmet to place on, he also made sure to grab his brown winter trench coat before even opening the tent. A blast of cold, Siberian wind would outright shock even the most seasoned of inhabitants.

"Hey, Masha! When you're out, close the tent!" Tarasov called out. Despite Tarasov greatly annoying him, Marashkov did just that.

Today was a gentler winter, snow was falling lightly as Marashkov made his way through base camp. Greeting his comrades in arms wherever they may be. He kept his coat tight, and his eyes open as best as he could in this blistering cold.

He didn't really know where he wanted to go, despite his dedicated fervour in the name of his nation, Marashkov did feel a sense of uneasy calm in this camp. Russia's Far East was nowhere near the conflict zone, and his urge to get into the fighting was born out of the sense that the world just kept going on without him. Niko felt as if it was his duty to actively serve and fight for the Soviet Union, as did many of the Red Army.

Though, now it was a different story. People like Niko were hard to find. The armistice had an effect on both sides of the conflict. Germany felt as if the armistice had meant victory over the Soviet Union, even though it wasn't the grand crushing Endsieg that the Fuhrer had envisioned. While the Soviets, especially the men holding governmental positions, believed that the armistice had bought the Union time. That time was now badly needed, as the Union was now tearing apart at the seams, something that Niko and his garrison unit had no idea of.

As he was passing the base's communications tent, he could overhear a distinct conversation between the unit's communications officer as well as Captain Strohkov. Niko sought to overhear the conversation, taking out a cigarette and pretending to suddenly need a smoke a few feet from the tent.

Niko overheard them talking about Sakhalin Island, a huge island a few hundred kilometres off the Far Eastern coast. Communications between Niko's garrison and the even smaller garrison on Sakhalin Island had completely been severed. A telegram message was able to come through at the last second, however, the message only contained one word. Likely the result of the haste to send it.

"Attack." Captain Strohkov read. "What does that mean Corporal?"

"I do not know. Is it telling us to attack, Comrade Commissar? Attack the Germans? They are all the way in the west. Attack Manchuria? It's already under China." The communications officer was similarly flabbergasted at this, looking at the paper like Stalin would've looked at a map where the USSR and the United States had swapped places.

"Maybe it would be something for us to check out, Commissar Strohkov? Three days and no response, some disaster might have happened to Sakhalin Garrison. It would likely be best for us to mount a rescue mission."

"We shouldn't be all too hasty, Private Andropov." The commissar dismissed.

"It's Marashkov, comrade commissar." Niko corrected, the commissar didn't really like the private's tone, but the paperwork to have him punished for insubordination would've been one ordeal too many for today. Strohkov was a rather ignorant man, promoted to commissar due to his willingness to follow orders, a trait that Marashkov secretly came to despise about his commanding officer. Similarly, Strohkov disliked Marashkov's consistent requests to have the unit head to the Ural Mountains in order to assist the war effort. Warmongering wouldn't have been a fitting punishment, because the defence of the motherland was hardly a precipice to warrant such an accusation.

Strohkov ultimately decided to indulge the private for once. After all, he could be the one to claim that he took initiative after three days of restless waiting.

Ordering Marashkov to gather the garrison, as well as promoting him to corporal for his drive, Strohkov and the few hundred men under his command marched towards the coast, they could use a marching practice after all.

The snowfall loosened as the Soviet soldiers made their way towards the nearest coast, brandishing nothing but rifles, one machine gun, and Strohkov's TT-33 pistol.

Marashkov lamented his lack of ammunition, as most of the production had been diverted to the front, leaving idle garrisons low on supplies at many times.

As the group of soldiers approached a bluff near the coast, they were witness to a horrifying scene in front of them.

They were witnesses to the American invasion of Vladivostok; thousands of men cobbled together from occupation forces throughout the Pacific were now streaming onto the eastern coast of the Soviet Union. Followed by a full platoon of armoured vehicles, mainly heavy Pershing tanks, light Stuart tanks and M3 Halftracks. Of course, along with the army units came forth the highly acclaimed 1st Marine Division.

"The... The Americans." Strohkov shockingly said, trying to comprehend the situation. Out of shock, he collapsed onto his knees. His mind was running through countless options on how to deal with the situation.

Though the Americans acted first, having seen the Soviet garrison cresting the bluffs. Artillery from the heavy cruisers opened up on the Soviet soldiers, bombarding their position almost immediately. Commissar Strokhov was killed when an 8-inch shell eviscerated him and sent a large group of soldiers flying.

"The capitalists, they are finally invading! We have to attack!" Marashkov urged his fellow soldiers, stricken by an inherent need to appeal to his patriotism. While noble, Private Tarasov recognized the impossibility of such a situation, he grabbed Niko's shoulder to hold him back.

"What is the matter with you, Masha? Most of the men here have not seen combat. Now you want to run into the American armies? Just give them a kiss, you will make no difference."

"Tarasov! Our orders are to defend Vladivostok and the Union at all cost!" He turned back to his fellow soldiers. "The commissar is dead! We must act now, and as quickly as possible!" He declared to the rest of the garrison, and many of them cheered in agreement with Marashkov.

Tarasov couldn't stop a good number of the Soviet soldiers from charging down the bluffs toward the Americans to try their best and dislodge them from the beach. While he wasn't one to appreciate the Yankees and their capitalist ways, and would have preferred to have attacked the landing; he didn't want to commit suicide in a vain attempt to achieve that vision. The vast majority of the Soviet army was stuck thousands of miles away across Siberia holding off the Germans. What good could they have done in a two-front war?

He watched as Niko and those who followed him were initially able to shoot and wound or kill a few of the American troops as their valiant charge took them by surprise. However, that was immediately countered by the US soldiers when they opened fire with their M1 Garands.

- White Beach Landing Zone -

"Kill those guys!" An American sergeant ordered.

M1 Garands and Mosin Nagants popped out rifle rounds between the Soviet and American soldiers, cutting down men on either side. However, the more numerical Americans' semi-automatic Garands held a distinct advantage over the Soviet's bolt action rifles, and they were still being reinforced with arriving troops by the second. Very soon, landing ships containing light Stuart tanks began to touch down on the beach.

Amidst the bombardment coming from the American ships, one of these naval vessels stood out among the others. USS Mount McKinley was a converted ship meant to be a command post for the man overseeing Operation East Wind. A quick and rapid US takeover of the Russian Far East in the midst of political fragmentation of the USSR, to ensure that stability is restored in the region. Officially, at least.

A custom general's cap sat above his head as he sat alone on USS Mount McKinley's overwatch post. Binoculars that reflected the landing zone lowered to reveal a pair of aviator's sunglasses, more as an aesthetic choice than a protective measure. A light tan-coloured uniform meant for warmer weather in the Philippines or Japan was replaced with a heavy woollen coat and long black boots for the northern winter.

He took a long drag from his warm corn cob pipe as his junior subordinate opened the door to the command post.

"General MacArthur, I think it's best you stay inside the ship. For safety reasons, of course, don't want to catch a nasty cold."

"Well, I'd much rather stay here, and view history unfolding right before our eyes..." He replied in a gruff tone, raising the binoculars back up and watching as the men of the US Marines mopped up what little resistance appeared on the beach. As genius as he knew his surprise incursion was, MacArthur hadn't accounted for the extended period of time that it took to upend the small Soviet garrison on Sakhalin Island. Meaning his invasion wasn't exactly a surprise anymore...

"Get my landing craft ready, and be sure our VIP is photographed with me..." MacArthur told his subordinate.

The defending Soviets quickly found that their strategy was failing, the remainder of them quickly laid down their arms as fast as they had charged down the hill. Some of them were shot on the spot, but those who weren't were rounded up and placed in a line of prisoners, Brave Marashkov lay dead on the landing zone, having been shot in the head by Kyle O'Connor, who had returned fire after Marashkov's bullet barely grazed his helmet.

"We got us some Russian soldiers, don't we Kyle?" Asked a soldier from Kyle's garrison, Kyle himself tucked his trenchcoat closer as he shivered a little from the chill of the Siberian winter, at the moment he couldn't comprehend what to say.

"Hey, when I said we needed to get into the fight. I never meant like this." Sean joked a little. His breath could be seen in the cold, arid air.

"Hey! There's more of them!" The first soldier pointed to the bluffs, some more Soviet soldiers were coming down the hill with their arms up in surrender. "Get over here! Russky tovarisch! Come! Davai!"

The garrison had essentially disintegrated in the face of the overwhelming American landing force. Some trodded down the bluffs to surrender to the Americans, while many of the garrison fled further inland to escape the bombardment and attempt to warn Vladivostok of the incoming invasion force.

Men of the US Marines held the surrendered Soviet soldiers at gunpoint, removing their Mosin rifles from their hands as they ushered them into the formation of prisoners.

"What are you doing here in Russia? Why have you come?" One of the Red Army soldiers asked Sean, who patted him up and down. The American soldier then pointed him toward the line of Soviet POWs.

"Don't understand what you're saying, buddy," Sean replied, giving him a slight push toward the line of prisoners.

As the American troops rounded up the garrison, groups of infantry and tanks began to head in the general direction of the city of Vladivostok. An interpreter tried his best to tell to the Russians that they've been liberated now, and are now a part of the new era in Russia. Most of the prisoners laughed a little at his spoken Russian sporting a distinct and distracting American accent.

"He speaks worse than the Udmurt." One of the Soviet soldiers joked. The group laughed a little, and the interpreter had little idea what the insult even meant.

Meanwhile, another landing craft had touched down on the coast of Russia. Escorted by US military police, General Douglas MacArthur stepped onto the shores of the Russian Far East, taking in this most recent victory, and already eager for more to come. Most of the US troops stood at attention and saluted the general, though the Soviets didn't really recognize this man at all.

"I always knew this was how I'd one day visit Russia... Bring him out, boys!" MacArthur declared, placing his corncob pipe into one of his pouches before ordering the rest of his men on the landing craft to bring out their VIP.

The man who stepped onto Russian soil for the first time in nearly thirty years caught the Soviet soldiers' attention. Almost all of them turned to see Alexander Kerensky, an aged man at this point in his life. The man who had led the Provisional Russian Government in the First World War. The man who previously tried and failed to bring democracy to Russia. He took this opportunity and breathed in the air once more, finally reunited with his homeland after almost thirty years of exile.

'Russia... All these years and I never thought I would ever see you again...' Kerensky thought to himself, a warm smile found itself on his face. Years he'd been wanting to return to his home, and now was as good a time as ever to begin the liberation of his homeland that it deserved.

And the first step in doing so would be the city of Vladivostok, the centre of the Russian Far East, a vital transport hub and one of the last major Soviet cities in the region.

For the campaign, MacArthur had worked hard to gather such a force needed for an ambitious military campaign, accumulating the prestigious 1st Marine Division, bringing together garrisons from the US' Pacific holdings to form the 336th and 347th Infantry Battalion, and bringing back tanks being used to train armoured units in Korea to form the 66th Armoured Brigade.

Reinforcements from the mainland weren't guaranteed, so he had to rely on his last infantry division in Japan if losses among his troops became too serious.

This was a gamble he was willing to take if it meant that he could try and shore up popular support for the presidency... His eyes had almost become stars at the news of the state of the Soviet Union, realising that the US was in a perfect position to finally finish what they started in 1918.

MacArthur clenched his corncob pipe in his teeth tightly, flashing a smirk that bend his sturdy, iron face for the camera as both he and Kerensky stood together for a photo. Soon after, the Pershing tanks of the 66th Armored Brigade began to roar to life as they and the columns of US soldiers made for Vladivostok.