Summer 1942
The tumultuous revelry in the streets of Paris, once the epicenter of Western Europe’s culture, now echoed with the jovial laughter and camaraderie of the former oppressed. Yet beneath the veneer of joyous relief, a palpable sense of apprehension began to coalesce as the crimson banners of the Soviet Union were hoisted high, their hammer and sickle emblems gleaming ominously in the early dawn. The citizens of Europe, their spirits bruised by the tyrannical regime they had just shaken off, now found themselves in the curious position of being the audience to a new play, one they had not chosen the script for. The narrative of their future was now in the hands of the very power they had vilified in whispers for years.
As the dust of war settled, the Soviet leaders, with a penchant for dramatic flair, descended upon the continent like avenging angels, promising a justice so extreme it bordered on the ludicrous. The former capitalists, the industrialists who had once wielded the whip of exploitation, now found themselves in the peculiar situation of being the hunted, their assets seized, their factories nationalized, and their opulent homes transformed into communal living spaces. The tables had indeed turned with a comedic twist worthy of Shakespearean farce. The aristocrats who had once feasted on caviar and champagne now lined up for meager rations of beet soup and black bread, their tuxedos and gowns replaced by the humble garb of the proletariat.
Comrade Ivanovich, a burly man with a hearty laugh that could make even the most stoic of comrades crack a smile, took charge of the redistribution of wealth with an enthusiasm that was as alarming as it was entertaining. His robust figure, adorned with medals that jingled like a jolly old man's sleigh bells, cut through the crowded streets as he read out his list of 're-education' programs. The once-proud industrial barons and their families were herded into trains bound for the east, their bewildered expressions a poignant reminder of the swift reversal of fortune. Meanwhile, the working class, their cheers for the Soviet liberators now replaced with cautious nods, began to realize that the yoke they had so fervently hoped to cast off had merely been painted a different color.
The irony was not lost on the sharp-witted journalist, Boris Yeltsin (a boy of 11), who chronicled the events with a quill dipped in the ink of sarcasm. His school paper articles, a blend of wit and wisdom, captured the surreal nature of the situation. The man who would later become the first president of the Russian Federation observed the unfolding drama with a knowing smile, scribbling down notes about the 'extreme justice' meted out by the new regime. His prose, filled with metaphors that danced on the tightrope of censorship, painted a vivid picture of a continent in transition, where the very essence of freedom was being redefined with every decree from the Kremlin.
The grand narrative of the war, which had been a tale of heroism and valor, now took an unexpected twist. The villains had been vanquished, but the heroes seemed to have forgotten their lines, stumbling through their victory speeches with an air of uncertainty. The people of Europe, once hopeful for a return to the halcyon days of yore, now found themselves in the throes of a new kind of theater, one where the stage was set for an era of unforeseen absurdity and the punchlines were delivered with the thunderous applause of a society reborn in the image of the hammer and sickle. Little did they know that their quest for justice had merely led them into a different kind of comedy, one where the laughs were forced and the jokes were on them.
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Winter 1942
As I gazed upon the sprawling expanse of the Siberian rocket proving grounds, the frigid air biting at my cheeks and the smell of rocket fuel lingering like an invisible fog, I could feel the weight of the world's fate resting upon my shoulders. The once-desolate wasteland had been transformed into a bustling metropolis of military might, a testament to the unyielding spirit of the Soviet Union in the throes of victory. The generals, with their stern faces and fur-lined caps, barked orders like they were conducting a symphony of steel and fire. The rockets soared into the sky, their fiery tails leaving temporary scars upon the heavens, as if to taunt the gods themselves with the audacity of our technological prowess. Yet amidst this cacophony of power and ambition, I found myself drawn to the unassuming edifice that stood apart from the rest, a silent sentinel shrouded in secrecy.
The building was a curious juxtaposition, a bastion of knowledge in a land of brute force. It was here, in this unlikely fortress of the mind, that the true vanguard of our nation's strength was being forged. Stalin, ever the showman, took great delight in the dramatic reveal, his eyes twinkling with the same excitement that surely ignited the hearts of Pushkin and Tchaikovsky when they beheld their own grand visions. As he led me through the labyrinthine corridors, the very air seemed to crackle with the electricity of discovery. The walls whispered tales of theoretical physics and mathematical wizardry, echoes of Einstein and Tesla reverberating through the very fabric of the structure.
Inside, the cavernous chamber was alive with the kinetic energy of a hundred Tesla coils, their electric arcs dancing in a silent ballet of power. The scientists, a motley crew of eccentric geniuses who looked as if they'd been plucked from the pages of a Jules Verne novel, toiled away at their stations with the intensity of men racing against the very ticking of the universe's clock. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and the tang of discovery, a heady mix that seemed to intoxicate even the stoic guards stationed at the doors.
As I approached the center of the room, I beheld the pièce de résistance, the holy grail of modern warfare: the atom splitter. It was a monstrosity of gleaming metal and gleaming glass, a Frankenstein's monster of science that promised to unleash the very forces that bound the cosmos. The sight of it was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, a stark reminder of the power we mortals had wrested from the very fabric of creation. Stalin's hand rested heavily on my shoulder, his grip a silent declaration of the trust he placed in me to usher in this new era of destruction and rebirth.
The weight of the task before me was not lost on my young, ambitious heart. Here I was, a mere cog in the great machine of war, suddenly thrust into the role of architect of a weapon that could redefine the very essence of conflict. The generals might have their tanks and planes, but I was to be the conductor of a symphony that could shake the very foundations of the Earth. It was a burden that would have crushed a lesser man, but I felt the thrill of destiny coursing through my veins. For in that moment, amidst the chaos of war and the whispers of history, I understood that this was not just about building a weapon; it was about coming of age, about stepping out of the shadow of the old world and into the blinding light of the new, about proving that even the most humble of us could reach for the stars and tear them asunder.
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Spring 1943
The illustrious assembly of the Tupolev Design Bureau, a congregation of the Soviet Union's most ingenious aeronautical minds, found themselves in a peculiar quandary as the echoes of Stalin's unyielding decree bounced off the walls of their cluttered conference room. The air was thick with a blend of bewilderment and bemusement, as if the very oxygen molecules had conspired to carry the absurdity of the task at hand. Each engineer, designer, and aeronautical aficionado looked around, searching for the telltale glint of a shared joke in their comrades' eyes, hoping that this was but a grand prank orchestrated by their own overzealous imaginations. The room was a veritable cornucopia of furrowed brows and pursed lips, the kind that could only be drawn by the gravity of a task so ludicrously simple that it bordered on the complex. To copy the American B-29, a feat of aviation engineering that had once seemed as elusive as the philosopher's stone, was now presented to them as a challenge devoid of any creative latitude. The venerable Petlyakov Pe-8, the current bastion of Soviet long-range air power, was to be replaced by a mere facsimile of its capitalist counterpart. It was akin to asking the masterful artisans of the Hermitage to meticulously recreate a Cézanne without the luxury of a single stroke of originality.
Yet, amidst the murmurs of disbelief, there was an unmistakable undercurrent of excitement. For while the task was as unorthodox as it was unprecedented, it presented an opportunity to dissect and understand the enemy's technology, to peer into the very soul of the machine that had so often eluded their grasp. The B-29, a gleaming monument to the industrial might of the West, had crash-landed in the unassuming embrace of a Siberian field like a modern-day Icarus, offering up its secrets to the very nation it had been designed to outmatch. The scientists, though initially stunned, could not help but revel in the thrill of the challenge. They were like eager students who had stumbled upon the answers to the most guarded exam questions, albeit with the stern gaze of their teacher—or in this case, their leader—reminding them to simply regurgitate the information without embellishment.
The conversation grew increasingly animated as the implications of their mission sank in. They would not just be crafting a mere replica; they would be engaging in a silent, high-stakes game of espionage, a dance of duplicity played out in the realm of rivets and blueprints. Each detail of the B-29, from its streamlined wings to its formidable defensive armaments, was dissected with the fervor of a group of conspirators planning the heist of the century. They pored over the schematics with the meticulousness of monks transcribing ancient manuscripts, every line and curve a sacred text to be faithfully reproduced. The Americans had unwittingly handed them the blueprints to the very weapon that could shift the balance of power in the skies, and Stalin demanded they do so with all the diligence of a photocopier—no more, no less.
The irony was not lost on these men of science and innovation, that their great leap forward would be a meticulous backward step, a slavish imitation of their rivals' work. Yet, as they set about their task with the determination of a people who knew the weight of their leader's expectations, they couldn't help but feel a certain kinship with the Americans who had crafted the original. After all, in a world where the very essence of identity was often forged in the crucible of conflict, what could be more fitting than for the Soviets to borrow the guise of their adversaries to assert their own dominance? And so, with a collective sigh that was part resignation, part amusement, and part anticipation, the members of the Tupolev Design Bureau embarked on their curious quest to become masters of mimicry, all the while knowing that the true battle was not in the skies, but in the very fabric of the aircraft itself—a battle of wits, wills, and the indomitable human spirit that refuses to be confined by the boundaries of nationality or ideology.
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A lot has happened since the end of the war. Most of 1942 was spent releasing puppet nations in Europe and clearing the dissent of doing so. I have decided not to intervene in Asia just yet. Just digesting most of Europe would take a significant amount of energy by the Soviet Union. As this has been going on, significant innovation continues apace. We have been developing rocket technology in the hopes that this will deliver some cool weapons later, and, of course, have also been devoting time towards atomic weapons.
The Soviets did indeed successfully copy the B-29 bomber. Over the objections of the aviation industry, the Russians merely slavishly copied the design...any changes, no matter how small, had to personally approved by very high ranking leaders. Many were only approved by Stalin himself.
Tupulev Tu-4
Crew: 11
Length: 99 ft
Wingspan: 141 ft, 3 in
Height: 27 ft, 9 in
Wing Area: 1,741 sq ft
Empty Weight: 81,240 lbs
Gross weight: 105,491 lbs
Max takeoff weight: 140,200 lbs
Powerplant: 4 x Shvetsov ASh-73TK 18-cyl. air cooled radial engines, 2400 hp each
Maximum speed: 347 mph at 33,630 ft
Range: 3400 miles
Service Ceiling: 36,700 ft
Armament: 10 x 23 mm Nudelman-Suranov NS-23 cannon, two in each of the four turrets and two cannon in the tail barbette
Bombs: 6 x 1,000 kg bombs
