Reincarnated: Vive La France

The Kremlin, lit from within by lamps.

Joseph Stalin stood alone at the window of his office in the Kremlin, hands clasped behind his back, his breath fogging the glass faintly.

He was watching the parade ground empty now where officers had rehearsed formations for the Revolution Day march.

But no rehearsal had been called this week.

No tanks.

No banners.

A knock.

"Come."

Molotov entered, gloved and stiff-backed.

He carried no papers just a small note folded precisely into thirds.

"They've confirmed it. Germany has begun social reinforcement activity in Austria. Cultural cells. Not military. But organized."

Stalin didn't move. "And France?"

"Still in Spain. Roads, dams, alphabet programs."

"Programs," Stalin repeated quietly. "They don't invade now. They standardize."

Molotov hesitated, then placed the note on the desk and stood straight again.

Stalin turned slowly, stepped toward the desk, and picked up the paper.

Just one line.

A coded report.

'Linz, local elections cancelled. No protest.'

Stalin folded the paper, tucked it into his coat pocket, and looked at Molotov.

"Summon Voroshilov. Now."

By midnight, the war room beneath the Kremlin was lit bright as day.

Marshal Kliment Voroshilov stood by a wall-sized operations map.

Lines stretched west into Poland, south into Romania, north into the Baltic red strings and pins.

Stalin entered, flanked by Molotov and Beria.

No greetings.

No delay.

"Show me Belarus," Stalin said.

Voroshilov pointed to a cluster of markers. "Five border divisions. Full strength. Three on rotation."

"Logistics?"

"Rail spines are holding. New construction started toward Grodno and Lida. Air strips planned."

"Timeframe?"

"Eighteen weeks for full fortification."

Stalin stepped closer. "Make it nine."

Voroshilov blinked. "Comrade Stalin…"

"Nine," Stalin repeated. "We don't wait for snow. We build under it."

Molotov stepped forward. "The French are treating administration like artillery. The Germans are moving without borders. We cannot be caught organizing while they are executing."

Stalin walked to the center of the room.

"All construction in the Baltics is to be doubled. Expand every technical institute. Recruit from the Polish exiles and German defectors. We need thinkers as much as builders."

Voroshilov nodded. "And the academies?"

"Empty the reserves. New curriculum. Less Marx, more maneuver. Less theory, more fuel."

Beria spoke, for the first time.

"We've increased surveillance in Riga and Tallinn. Latvian officers are being approached with German material. Books. Scholarships."

Stalin's eyes narrowed.

"Anyone caught reading German literature gets reassigned to Siberian transport planning."

A pause.

"Permanently."

By morning, telegraphs moved like fast across the Soviet network.

In Minsk, a convoy of engineers were ordered from agricultural zones to newly drafted industrial belts.

In Smolensk, cartographers received new instructions to begin overlaying roads not yet built.

In Petrograd, professors of political science were reassigned to research on troop morale, under the guise of "behavioral theory expansion."

And in the Urals, at Chelyabinsk Tank Plant No. 174, the order came by radio.

"Accelerate Model BT-D production. Fuel subsidy approved. Prototype deadline removed. Operate on trust."

The workers read the telegram twice.

Then silently began the third shift.-

Back in Moscow, Stalin convened a private meeting at his dacha outside the city.

Only four attended.

Beria, Molotov, Voroshilov, and Yakovlev, the industrial planner.

A fire burned low in the stove.

Tea sat untouched on the table.

Stalin leaned over the maps spread before them.

"This continent is drifting."

He tapped points across the map.

"Germany whispers its way into Austria. France grows fat on function. Britain is asleep in parliament. We're surrounded by men who think war begins with a trumpet."

He looked at each of them in turn.

"It begins with silence."

Yakovlev nodded slowly. "We've activated construction in Kirov and Vitebsk. We can produce twenty airframes a month by February."

"Triple that," Stalin said. "Redesign layouts. Stack teams. Cut holidays."

Molotov scribbled. "And what about ideology?"

"We soften it."

Everyone blinked.

Stalin leaned back.

"The Red Army isn't an altar. It's a machine. If the parts work, I don't care if they pray to Lenin or to lightning. Give them uniforms, food, homes, and pride. Let them believe what they need. But make them ready."

Voroshilov tilted his head. "You mean… remove party officers?"

"Reassign them. We need engineers more than slogans. The next war won't be won by flags. It will be won by factories, by fuel, and by the man who can build both in silence."

In Leningrad, the Baltic Fleet was put under quiet review.

The admirals received no warning.

Instead, each was ordered to conduct surprise war games in freezing fog, simulating radio loss and foreign encroachment.

Across the Ukrainian countryside, the Ministry of Internal Production authorized 130 new grain silos less for food, more for rail junction control.

Old Soviet warehouses were reopened, and diesel reserves began being moved toward rail hubs in Vinnytsia and Kharkiv.

Every movement was disguised.

Each train listed its cargo as "State Archives" or "Preserved Agricultural Materials."

In truth, they carried munitions.

And tank parts.

Stalin, meanwhile, returned to the Kremlin.

He reviewed ten intelligence briefs in silence.

One noted.

"In Budapest, fascist intellectuals now quoting Moreau's civil order doctrine in university halls."

Stalin circled the sentence.

"Infiltrate. We make our own 'order doctrine.' Draft papers. Translate. Send to Warsaw. Send to Prague."

Beria frowned. "We create counter-theory?"

"No," Stalin said. "We create competition. Ideas are weapons now."

He looked up, dark eyes steady.

"And the West has started using them."

One evening, Stalin sat with his daughter Svetlana, the only time he seemed calm.

She looked up from her book. "Will there be war, Papa?"

He didn't answer immediately.

"There is always war," he said finally. "Sometimes, it just pretends to be a meeting."

By the third week, the speed was rising.

A new tank corps was quietly drafted.

The final change came with a single handwritten note Stalin gave Beria.

"Remove the phrase 'comrades in peace' from military correspondence. Replace with 'brothers in vigilance.'"

No one questioned it.

It was passed down.

Copied.

Spread.

And just like that, the Soviet Union stopped pretending Europe was at rest.