Mother of Russia
Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany had not given up on the war, just as Anastasia had predicted. No, to be precise, he had to continue the war. He needed to devour France by any means necessary if he hoped to recoup the losses suffered in the conflict. Through miraculous backchannel negotiations and diplomatic capital that seemed to have been hoarded specifically for this moment, the Kaiser had forced through a near-perfect peace treaty while minimizing reparations. Yet Britain’s easy acceptance had only stoked fresh ambitions. In short, the Kaiser’s personal greed ran deeper than expected. With the Austro-Hungarian Empire now shattered, it simply would not balance the books unless he claimed France as well.
“Is the operation proceeding smoothly?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Britain and America appear to remain unaware. The Americans have achieved their objective and will now devote their strength solely to supporting Russia. Britain, meanwhile, will be preoccupied with Ukraine.”
Surprisingly, the United States had withdrawn from Europe with startling speed. Their continued support for Russia through the Far East suggested that communist elements were growing inside America itself, and Washington intended to deal with them.
“And what of Anastasia?”
“We are building railways and factories for them. What complaint could the princess possibly raise? She can only accept our gifts with gratitude.”
The German Empire was quietly preparing a secret project. Under the guise of securing industrial capacity for White Russia, they were covertly constructing factories across South Russia and Central Asia. Naturally, the effort was not solely for Russian benefit. The great powers needed to see that Germany was “doing its part.” Russia had its own factories, after all, and the other powers were already pouring weapons into the fight against the rootless Bolsheviks. Germany was merely skimming a modest share. Even that small cut would leave Russia with more than enough.
They would gather these assets carefully inside Germany, then strike with a single decisive blow.
“When the time comes, we must move with caution.”
“Understood.”
“All that remains is a direct march on Paris to force France’s surrender. Britain has already declared that we bowed to them; as long as we continue honoring our secret agreements, they will raise no objection.”
They had only just redirected their troops with broad smiles after Germany handed over colonies. They were unlikely to turn those same troops against Germany again. In the end, it was all semantics. America, too, could hardly re-enter a war it had already declared finished.
“It shall be as you say.”
“What of our tanks’ performance?”
“Testing shows they are comparable to the French Renault FT.”
Germany had already produced a tank matching the Renault’s capabilities, aided considerably by the dissection of captured British and French models after the war.
“Good. While those wretches rejoice over carving up the Ottomans and our steadfast ally Austria, we need only seize that single perfect moment.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And should we take Anastasia as a daughter-in-law once the war ends, Russia would naturally fall into our sphere of influence, would it not?”
If they could draw Russia to their side, the dismemberment of the Austrian Empire—an erstwhile ally—became a tolerable loss. The Eastern Front would be resolved.
“Precisely, Your Majesty.”
If successful, the future might yet be theirs. Russia’s fate remained uncertain, but devouring France alone would allow the German Empire to rise from the ashes.
Meanwhile, the Turkic peoples who had launched the Basmachi Movement also received Anastasia’s proposal. Ibrahim Bey frowned as he read it.
“Duma participation and expanded autonomy. Offering such carrots at this late stage…”
“Her Highness fully understands your people’s suffering—the forced conscription of Muslims. She offers her apology in place of her father, the late Tsar.”
“Hmm.”
“Bogd Khan of Mongolia, who has already presented the title of Great Khan to our princess, has been appointed Governor-General of Mongolia, and members of the royal clan now sit in the Duma.”
The circumstances differed, of course, but Mongolia had been an external state. If even their royal family could enter the Duma, what prevented the Turkic peoples from doing the same?
“Is this not merely an attempt to soothe our hearts while the civil war rages?”
“Her Highness is aware of that concern as well. If you cannot believe her, there is little we can do. Nevertheless, she asks that you remain quiet at least until the civil war concludes.”
“Is the civil war proving that difficult for her?”
Ibrahim Bey’s eyes gleamed. If so, would it not be wiser to pursue full independence? No—if the Bolsheviks would only repeat the same oppression, it amounted to the same thing. For now the Basmachi Movement consisted mostly of guerrilla actions. Should Russia move against them in earnest, the movement would be crushed utterly.
“This arrangement will not be unfavorable to you. It is the very policy the Soviets intend to enact once they seize Russia.”
The envoy relayed the Soviet plans. Ibrahim Bey’s breathing grew ragged with fury.
“Collectivization? You expect us to accept that?”
“Which is precisely why it is the policy of the Reds. Our princess views collectivization as a tool for cementing Bolshevik dictatorship. We are the final bulwark against that threat.”
“Hrrrm.”
“And this is a private ‘proposal’ from Her Highness. She will pay fair compensation and asks that Muslim fighters join the White Army.”
Ibrahim Bey’s hesitation did not last long. The Russian Empire had been a bastard to them, but a Soviet regime would clearly bring even harsher days. In that case, it was better to follow the bastard they already knew.
Thus the Turkic peoples joined the White Army.
Meanwhile, Pyotr Wrangel’s White Army had recaptured Kazan and raised the Russian Empire’s double-headed eagle tricolor.
“““Long live the White Army of Greater Russia! Long live Princess Anastasia!”””
The Russian White Army brimmed with pride as the military of a newborn Russia—the last Romanov, Anastasia’s own force. There were still collateral Romanov branches, of course, but it was Anastasia who stood with them now.
Pyotr Wrangel gazed at the tricolor flying over recaptured Kazan and allowed himself a satisfied smile. Only days earlier, Anatoly Pepelyayev’s twenty-thousand-strong army had taken Perm, making Kazan’s fall almost effortless. South Russia’s decision to link with Yekaterinburg had indeed been wise. Thanks to that union they had reclaimed Samara in the south and now Kazan. At this pace they could even threaten Nizhny Novgorod.
“At this rate Yekaterinburg should be relatively secure. We can reach Nizhny Novgorod.”
Once Ukraine fell into the White sphere, pressure could come from that direction as well. The Reds lurking in Moscow could be hammered from every side.
If only that happens, a detour through Smolensk would also be excellent.
One thing was certain: the enemy army would not endure much longer. Even the Cossacks serving under the Reds were defecting to their side.
Yes. And yet—
Princess Anastasia.
Pyotr Wrangel had known almost nothing about her. He had assumed she was nothing more than a hothouse flower, yet she possessed such steel. Rumors claimed she had survived being shot, though some exaggeration for legitimacy and myth-making was likely. Even so, the fact that she had personally confronted the enemy at Yekaterinburg was undeniable. Had she not been there—if the princess had fled—the White Army would have splintered and fallen to the Bolsheviks. Republicans, non-Bolshevik socialists, monarchists: all were now united beneath Anastasia. They were even attempting reforms. The civil war prevented nationwide implementation, but the mere attempt mattered.
Come to think of it, they said she had first raised her banner in Yekaterinburg.
“She reminds me of Catherine the Great.”
The Mother of Russia, resurrecting a broken nation. That was exactly what she was.
Yes. For now the civil war remained paramount. As they advanced slowly according to the princess’s wishes, more allies gathered. At this momentum, Moscow would not be beyond reach.
This time technicians had arrived from America. The Bolsheviks had already seized the best regions, so the aid was intended to develop the territory currently held by White Russia. Yet one completely unexpected figure had come with them.
Nikola Tesla. Edison’s rival, the man called the father of wireless communication. He had developed countless inventions and even created an early form of radar. Anastasia had never imagined he would appear here.
“Nikola Tesla. The father of wireless communication.”
“You know me well.”
He had been a handsome man in his youth, and even now in old age the echoes of that beauty lingered.
Why had someone like him come all the way to Russia? It would have been far more comfortable to remain in America.
“For a great inventor to visit a nation torn by civil war, of all places.”
“I came because I believed I could find inspiration here. Even as I age, my mind constantly demands new inventive environments to match its endless stream of ideas.”
“Hmm. Due to the civil war we cannot offer much support. Will that be acceptable?”
“It is quite all right. America is already providing considerable assistance.”
She did not know why he had chosen to come, but since he was here it would be wiser to keep him. He was elderly, after all. Better to make use of him in White Russia than leave him solely in America. For that she would need something to spark his interest.
Yes. He had already conceived the concept of radar. Later the Yagi antenna would be developed by Hidetsugu Yagi and Shintaro Uda.
“Are you familiar with radar?”
“Yes. I never expected Your Highness would know of it.”
Tsk. In that case I should seize the initiative.
No choice. The world I live in demands that I act. She had tinkered with radios to learn whether any functioning government cities remained and had studied whatever she could find in libraries. In the process she had learned about the Yagi antenna—an invention widely used in civilian applications, including television reception.
Before Tesla’s eyes she took out paper and sketched.
“What do you think of something like this?”
“What is it?”
“A directional antenna. I wish to use it for military purposes. As a layman I can only offer a rough concept, but I wondered if something of this nature might prove useful.”
“A directional antenna… An antenna. Hmm. For radar this would be quite revolutionary.”
It had originally been developed in 1925. If possible, she would have him create the Yagi antenna ahead of schedule as well.
“Fascinating. This will be a fresh challenge. I shall attempt it at once.”
“And one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“After the war I intend to rebuild Russia’s fleet. I understand you once created a wireless-controlled boat.”
Nikola Tesla had demonstrated a radio-controlled vessel in 1898. At the time it had been dismissed as telepathy or black magic; only after the Second World War had America begun serious research. She chose words she knew would appeal to him.
“Fools and idiots called it black magic and ignored it. Yet that very invention—”
“Would you consider researching it in Russia? The country is vast. What of the transmission tower you designed, Doctor—the one capable of sending electricity across many kilometers? Would you not like to build it here?”
“How does Your Highness even know of that?”
The Great Depression was not far off. Before it arrived, she intended to wring every possible advantage from this era. Germany supplied weapons and technology, Britain and France sent tanks and volunteers, and America sent money. If not now, when could she attempt such things?
Moreover, Nikola Tesla had conducted countless experiments whose methods remained unimplemented even in the twenty-first century. If she could keep him here, letting him pursue whatever he wished until the end of his life, might human history itself shift?
“I never imagined Your Highness would know so much about this old man. Very well. I shall take up the challenge.”
Nikola Tesla was placed in charge of the newly established Russian Science and Technology Department.
It felt as though something truly monumental had occurred. To think it would be Nikola Tesla of all people. Had the old man who sent her here manufactured improbable causality, or had it been possible all along? Given Tesla’s personality in the historical record, it did not seem entirely impossible.
She had meant to examine the rest of the American delegation beyond Tesla, but one name immediately leapt out.
“George S. Patton?”
George S. Patton had arrived as military attaché? Why on earth?