Russkya
10-10-2007, 20:26
It was considered by the transition government and the populace as a whole to be an internal affair. Because of that, not even Russkya's close allies were notified, nations with whom they share long stretches of history as Kilrany, Aequatio, and Isselmere-Nieland. Over three weeks of planning, freeing up resources, ensuring everything meshed went into this day. October Tenth.
Russkyan Embassies abroad stood to their security details, everyone in a uniform turned out and formed up on the grounds in front of the flagstaff on the small parade square surrounding it in every Russkyan compound. Everyone not in a uniform wore their "Sunday Finest," to borrow a uniquely Western term, three piece suits, in the case of female staff a smart black dress, something of the like. Where the main show was to occur however, things were much more grandiose.
Being a practical people who had little need of said grandiose displays, the Russkyans would only put on such a function for dignitaries of closely aligned nations who appreciated such displays, or for things as important to them as their concept of national honour. In the capital, Berisak, located at the juncture of the Kala and Norava rivers, Russkya's two major lifelines, representative battalions from every distinguished Regiment were paraded.
These soldiers left their barracks and the accommodations that had been designated for them by billeting staff of the Russkyan Military Logistics Corps, Central Oblast Detachment. They formed up first in their sections, then by platoon, platoons coalescing into Companies which then marched in formation to muster points. There, the Companies formed with "A" leading off, followed by "B," until the Battalion was fully formed and ready for parade. Echoed by as many as five Company Sergeant Majors, the Battalion Commander's orders crashed down the street distinctive in their confident, clearly audible volume.
"Battalion! Stand at, ease!"
"A" Company! Stand at, ease!"
"B" Company! Stand at, ease!"
"C" Company! Stand at, ease!"
"D" Company! Stand at, ease!"
The order to "Stand Easy" was given and the soldiers, attired in their "Class 1A" dress uniforms, boots shined to the extent that they gleamed as if made of black glass, knife-edge sharp creases pressed into their uniforms where appropriate, decorations polished and bright against the rich dark fabric of each tunic, waited.
The transition government donned formal attire and met for the last time in the rich wood panelled interior of their favoured conference room. They were the Russkyan Politburo, which had been in power since the beginning of what was called the Communist Era. In modern times, they'd successfully led their nation through the collapse of the Soviet Union, installed a fully functional democratic Socialism, established a Parliament, successfully concluded a number of wars and overseas activities with the help of the iron hand of the Russkyan Military. Never having gripped the people, the Military was held in high regard, and throngs of civilians attired in dressy clothes filled sidewalks, windows facing onto the streets, and even lined the skylines of nearly every building along the route. All this, in the predawn gloom at 05.30 hours local time, Berisak, Russkya. Dawn was one hour off.
Igor Krushamev, the former General Secretary, a Prime Minister-equivalent post, shook hands with Vasily Berkov, the head of the reinstated Skolchoi. Berkov towered over Krushamev by a head, but the shorter man's intense expressions and body language compensated for this to the degree where both men, sensible politicians both if such a thing existed, exuded the same degree of "presence" and natural authority that at this changing of the eras, the former Defence Minister and the new Defence Minister shook hands. The former, Mikhail Bezdidko, gripped Mikhail Sergetov's hand strongly.
"Misha," he said. Sergetov grinned, squeezed back, slapped his counterpart's right shoulder with his free left hand lightly.
"Misha. Congratulations."
"Thanks for keeping it in order."
"Our pleasure, Bezdidko, our pleasure."
The Parliamentary Representative, Veronica Mikovskaya, sat quietly off to one side. Unlike the Politburo, she was unaware that in actuality, little would change. The tall Cossack, Berkov, appeared beside her and offered his hand. She gripped it, a little timidly, and found herself pulled up from her chair and embraced in a rough bear-hug that lifted her off the floor to the amused shouts of the Politburo and the Skolchoi. She heard a deep voice in her left ear, paraphrasing things from the file she had yet to read that still sat closed in front of her now vacant chair. Understanding coursed through her, as well as the awareness that her skirt had begun hiking itself up the back of her legs held as she was in the arms of the tall Cossack, a man nicknamed "The Hetman." She blushed furiously and Berkov put her down before she found reason to stab him with the fine pen laid across the cover of that unopened dossier. Overall, the mood was one of joviality and congratulations - being Russkyans, a bottle was produced from somewhere unknown. Krushamev and his replacement Berkov took the first rough swallow of vodka, inhaling deeply through their sleeves afterwards to make the sting last longer as was the tradition. They turned and hurled the glasses against the oak panelling of the wall, following another tradition: After drinking to such a momentous thing, the glasses could never be used for anything lesser. So they were broken. Bezdidko and Sergetov took the next drink, continuing the pattern until the still-red most junior person in the room, Mikovskaya, had drank with Shtemenko. Broken glass littered an area at the base of one wall, later swept up by the men in the room themselves rather than any waiting staff.
All the private ceremony took only fifteen minutes, and the Politburo and the Skolchoi prepared to walk out to the podium. At the beginning of the Soviet Era, it had been decided that a policy of non-resistance was best to ensure Russkya's national survival rather than assimilation into the Soviet host, and so the Politburo had been elected and became self-governing until the collapse of the Soviet Union, when plans to return to the traditional government were put in place. Through very careful selection of each Politburo member and their careful training and orientation, all desired to see a return of the traditional Russkyan ways. They waited over a decade. Now, on October 10, 2008, they would finally be put into action. A Rada, held mostly in secret and encompassing much of the military and much of the civilian populace, had determined the members of the new Skolchoi, who would hold post for ten years barring a "non confidence" motion put forth in the annual Rada. Rather than completely replacing the Politburo, the Skolchoi opted to assimilate a large number of the Politburo members, recognizing them to be capable ministers and advisors on a number of key issues. The ministers who were replaced were kept on as part of the "Advisory Council," and the role of the Parliament in Russkya was changed to permit function of the Rada. They were met at the door by a ceremonial guard of the Russkyan Cossack Battalion, ten men dressed in black Cherkesska coats with polished 7.62x54R ammunition fed through each of the decorative cartridge loops.
The beshmet, effectively a turtleneck-type undershirt, was dark green. The shoulderboards on each cherkesska were lined with silver and bore rank insignia. All carried shashka sabres, the characteristic curved blade guardless sword of the Cossack, scabbarded on their left side for a quick draw. Dark leather slings held highly polished ceremonial SVT-40 rifles in place on their back. Headdress for all were the characteristic cloth-topped fleece hats, and each wore knee-height riding boots that so perfectly shined that they were effectively a black mirror. Beside this display, several of the politicians felt decidedly unremarkable despite carefully tailored suits of the highest quality.
With their escort of ten split into two sections of five marching alongside both flanks of the political double-column, a rhythmic sound could be heard, bootsoles on concrete. It stopped suddenly, all at precisely the same moment coming to a halt. The Khorunzhy commanding the dismounted escort saluted his superior, mounted on horseback, the Kazachy Polkovnik's uniform bearing decorations from battles on the Southern Border dating from 1960-1970 against the Me'ei. He returned the salute. The sun was rising.
A kilometre away, Major Iltchenko watched a staff officer double-time across the concrete where his battalion waited with dozens of other units. He conferred with a officer wearing the black beret of the Naval Infantry and then came running his way. Slightly breathless from the exertion of running everywheres he went, the staff officer stopped and saluted Major Iltchenko, veteran of the Estonavian Campaign, and his veteran battalion of the same conflict. Iltchenko's right hand snapped up into the salute, held it for a moment, and snapped back down to his side. The staff officer's arm mimicked the downwards movement and he made his report.
"Major, your battalion and the Morskaya Pexhota are to march side by side onto the parade square followed by the Infantry and Armour battalion and squadron, side by side. From there, everything's the same."
"Understood." Iltchenko consulted a watch on his left wrist. "Ten minutes."
"Yes sir. Ten minutes."
Another exchange of salutes and the staff officer ran off again to confer with the dismounted Armour squadron.
Five minutes to go, the remainder of the Cossack Battalion not deployed as a ceremonial escort, marched out from their barracks. Arms swung high to extend straight out from the shoulder before swinging back down, legs straight and gleaming boots in perfect step with one another. Four wide, the formation marched out onto the now lit parade square in front of the dais where the politicians stood, the square surrounded by a huge number of civilians. The dais was at the North, the entry road to the South, and the Cossacks stood in the center of it all. Their column, on command, split down the middle. The two left-most columns turned to the West, the two right-most columns turned to the East. Each marched across the concrete in precision, slamming to a halt at the same time. On command, they turned to face the dais again and thus became the flanks of the square. A staff officer a kilometre away nodded to Iltchenko and the Naval Infantry commander, a Major Bolshoshapov. Both officers marched to the center of their formation, just behind them the Regimental Colour escort with ceremonial SVT-40 rifles. Both officers inhaled deeply, forcing the sound from their gut rather than their throats, bellowing down the road to bounce the sound off a building where they'd be forced to take a left wheel. In synchronous, the NCOs and other ranks snapped to commands.
"Number One Battalion!" This warning order caused hands crossed in front of them to snap behind them to the At Ease position.
"Attention!" Over a thousand boot-soles crashed down onto concrete at once. The sound was better than good.
"By the left! Forward, march!" Leading off with the left foot, the VDV and MORPEH stepped off. Behind them, two Infantry Battalions, a dismounted Armour Squadron, a gun-less Gun Company of artillerymen, the ship's company of the Russkyan Naval Vessel "Norseman," the named ship of the Norseman class, a full squadron of pilots and ground support crew in their light blue uniforms distinct behind the navy blue of the sailors, and that was the entirety of the representative group.
Marching onto the parade square, Bolshoshapov's battalion was in perfect synchronous with the blue berets to his immediate right. The VDV wore their ceremonial uniforms, essentially their combat uniforms with non-subdued insignia, carefully pressed, and worn with deeply shined combat boots, while the Naval Infantry wore the parade uniform of all black. Berets at a rakish angle, both elite groups slammed to a halt fifty meters from the dais. The rearmost rank of each formation swung outwards from the other to form a line. Bolshoshapov and Iltchenko issued their commands simultaneously once more.
"Battalion! Open order, march!"
The front rank stayed put while the middle rank took three steps backwards, the rear rank taking six steps backwards. They crashed to a halt. Infantry marched in behind them, formed up into a three-deep line behind the two elite units. Regimental colours fluttered in the breeze, the wind just strong enough to ruffle the heavy silk. It picked up as the Armour and Artillery marched onto the parade square, the tanker's normal coveralls replaced with a forest green tunic over riding breeches of the same colour with a black stripe down the exterior of each leg, tucked into high legged Commonwealth-style riding boots. The breeze snapped a few of the flags sharply, the crisp crack sounding out of time with the crisp orchestra of well trained soldiers on parade. Awed by the display, Mikovskaya stood behind and to the left of Sergetov, who smiled at the pride his countrymen took in their display. Regimental Colours bore the names of battles that each unit had taken part in, were held by a small group of four men - a junior officer carrying the Colour, a senior NCO escorting him, and two guards with loaded SVT-40 ceremonial rifles to either side. The Colour Parties stood to the front of each formation just behind their respective commanding officers.
When the entirety of the group had marched onto the parade square and assumed their positions, the Cossack's own Battalion Sergeant Major marched across the front of the units formed up and right wheeled to find himself face to face with General of Infantry Taranichev. He halted, saluted. The General Officer returned the salute.
"Russkyan Military Representative Battalion Group reports ready for parade and inspection, sir!"
Taranichev nodded, couldn't help a smile forming at the magnificent display set before him, that he was a part of, unlike those politicians on the dais behind him and unlike the civilian crowds thronging around the parade square in every available space. His trained eye caught an irregularity in the parade's formation. There was a two battalion gap between two of the Infantry Regiment's representative battalions, space where the battalions of either of the Independent Corps would normally parade. Without them it didn't look amiss and would be noticed only by the soldiers themselves, but the gesture spoke volumes. Taranichev paused further, the BSM in front of him still staring at his cap brass, rigidly at attention.
"Sergeant Major?"
"Sir!"
"It would appear that our comrades miss their fellows in the Russko-Celtic and Russko-Deustche Corps."
"Sir!"
Taranichev's words, and those of anyone standing near him as the BSM was now, were being broadcast over four loudspeakers set up in each corner of the parade square. Taranichev disabled the microphone clipped to the inside of his collar and leaned forward imperceptibly towards the Battalion Sergeant Major.
"Sergeant Major, maim any staff puke who tries to "correct" my battalion's formations."
Smiling now, the BSM replied again, just as loud as if he were being broadcast by the loudspeakers: "Sir!"
"Carry on, Sergeant Major."
"Yes sir!"
He about faced and marched, left-wheeling where had once right-wheeled, carrying on to his post. He slammed to a halt, facing front. Taranichev enabled the microphone again, marched ten paces out from the dais, about faced, and addressed the politicians.
"Parade awaiting orders, sir!"
Berkov stepped up to the microphone. "Carry on, General."
"Sir!"
From its place on top of the central and as-of-yet-unchanged Politburo Building just behind the dais, the transitionary flag (http://i76.photobucket.com/albums/j8/PavelKirilovich/Other/TransitionaryFlag.jpg) was lowered while the officers and senior NCOs of every formation on the parade saluted. A one minute pause. General Taranichev ordered the formation to attention, arms held up in salute dropping to sides with a single movement. The colour party atop the building rigged the new national colours to the flagstaff, an orderly standing by the officer in command of that party with a stopwatch. When the hand ticked over to sixty five seconds, the flag was raised. Taranichev's voice echoed up past them on the rooftop.
"Parade! To the Colours, salute!"
Simultaneously, Regimental Colours dipped towards the ground as all rifle armed soldiers on parade slammed their right foot back perpendicular to their left foot, presenting arms. Swords, long since drawn and held vertical from a bent right arm, were raised pommel to forehead then lowered to point at the ground beside the officer or Cossack carrying the blade. The Kazachy Polkovnik on horseback performed this so flawlessly, his horse's still ears avoided the blade lowered in its salute despite their obstinate movement.
The new national flag was raised and command was passed from the Politburo to the Skolchoi. Snapping in the now stiff breeze as over a dozen Regimental, Squadron, and Ship's Colours were raised, the dark green field of the new Russkyan flag stood out strong against the morning sky. Holding the salute, the moment the flag touched the head of the mast, the civilians erupted into applause and cheers.
Around the world, the new colours were raised on Embassy flagpoles everywheres. In Berisak, Taranichev ordered the parade back to attention and permitted them to carry on, marching off in as much splendour as they had arrived.
http://i76.photobucket.com/albums/j8/PavelKirilovich/Other/Russkya.jpg
Russkyan Embassies abroad stood to their security details, everyone in a uniform turned out and formed up on the grounds in front of the flagstaff on the small parade square surrounding it in every Russkyan compound. Everyone not in a uniform wore their "Sunday Finest," to borrow a uniquely Western term, three piece suits, in the case of female staff a smart black dress, something of the like. Where the main show was to occur however, things were much more grandiose.
Being a practical people who had little need of said grandiose displays, the Russkyans would only put on such a function for dignitaries of closely aligned nations who appreciated such displays, or for things as important to them as their concept of national honour. In the capital, Berisak, located at the juncture of the Kala and Norava rivers, Russkya's two major lifelines, representative battalions from every distinguished Regiment were paraded.
These soldiers left their barracks and the accommodations that had been designated for them by billeting staff of the Russkyan Military Logistics Corps, Central Oblast Detachment. They formed up first in their sections, then by platoon, platoons coalescing into Companies which then marched in formation to muster points. There, the Companies formed with "A" leading off, followed by "B," until the Battalion was fully formed and ready for parade. Echoed by as many as five Company Sergeant Majors, the Battalion Commander's orders crashed down the street distinctive in their confident, clearly audible volume.
"Battalion! Stand at, ease!"
"A" Company! Stand at, ease!"
"B" Company! Stand at, ease!"
"C" Company! Stand at, ease!"
"D" Company! Stand at, ease!"
The order to "Stand Easy" was given and the soldiers, attired in their "Class 1A" dress uniforms, boots shined to the extent that they gleamed as if made of black glass, knife-edge sharp creases pressed into their uniforms where appropriate, decorations polished and bright against the rich dark fabric of each tunic, waited.
The transition government donned formal attire and met for the last time in the rich wood panelled interior of their favoured conference room. They were the Russkyan Politburo, which had been in power since the beginning of what was called the Communist Era. In modern times, they'd successfully led their nation through the collapse of the Soviet Union, installed a fully functional democratic Socialism, established a Parliament, successfully concluded a number of wars and overseas activities with the help of the iron hand of the Russkyan Military. Never having gripped the people, the Military was held in high regard, and throngs of civilians attired in dressy clothes filled sidewalks, windows facing onto the streets, and even lined the skylines of nearly every building along the route. All this, in the predawn gloom at 05.30 hours local time, Berisak, Russkya. Dawn was one hour off.
Igor Krushamev, the former General Secretary, a Prime Minister-equivalent post, shook hands with Vasily Berkov, the head of the reinstated Skolchoi. Berkov towered over Krushamev by a head, but the shorter man's intense expressions and body language compensated for this to the degree where both men, sensible politicians both if such a thing existed, exuded the same degree of "presence" and natural authority that at this changing of the eras, the former Defence Minister and the new Defence Minister shook hands. The former, Mikhail Bezdidko, gripped Mikhail Sergetov's hand strongly.
"Misha," he said. Sergetov grinned, squeezed back, slapped his counterpart's right shoulder with his free left hand lightly.
"Misha. Congratulations."
"Thanks for keeping it in order."
"Our pleasure, Bezdidko, our pleasure."
The Parliamentary Representative, Veronica Mikovskaya, sat quietly off to one side. Unlike the Politburo, she was unaware that in actuality, little would change. The tall Cossack, Berkov, appeared beside her and offered his hand. She gripped it, a little timidly, and found herself pulled up from her chair and embraced in a rough bear-hug that lifted her off the floor to the amused shouts of the Politburo and the Skolchoi. She heard a deep voice in her left ear, paraphrasing things from the file she had yet to read that still sat closed in front of her now vacant chair. Understanding coursed through her, as well as the awareness that her skirt had begun hiking itself up the back of her legs held as she was in the arms of the tall Cossack, a man nicknamed "The Hetman." She blushed furiously and Berkov put her down before she found reason to stab him with the fine pen laid across the cover of that unopened dossier. Overall, the mood was one of joviality and congratulations - being Russkyans, a bottle was produced from somewhere unknown. Krushamev and his replacement Berkov took the first rough swallow of vodka, inhaling deeply through their sleeves afterwards to make the sting last longer as was the tradition. They turned and hurled the glasses against the oak panelling of the wall, following another tradition: After drinking to such a momentous thing, the glasses could never be used for anything lesser. So they were broken. Bezdidko and Sergetov took the next drink, continuing the pattern until the still-red most junior person in the room, Mikovskaya, had drank with Shtemenko. Broken glass littered an area at the base of one wall, later swept up by the men in the room themselves rather than any waiting staff.
All the private ceremony took only fifteen minutes, and the Politburo and the Skolchoi prepared to walk out to the podium. At the beginning of the Soviet Era, it had been decided that a policy of non-resistance was best to ensure Russkya's national survival rather than assimilation into the Soviet host, and so the Politburo had been elected and became self-governing until the collapse of the Soviet Union, when plans to return to the traditional government were put in place. Through very careful selection of each Politburo member and their careful training and orientation, all desired to see a return of the traditional Russkyan ways. They waited over a decade. Now, on October 10, 2008, they would finally be put into action. A Rada, held mostly in secret and encompassing much of the military and much of the civilian populace, had determined the members of the new Skolchoi, who would hold post for ten years barring a "non confidence" motion put forth in the annual Rada. Rather than completely replacing the Politburo, the Skolchoi opted to assimilate a large number of the Politburo members, recognizing them to be capable ministers and advisors on a number of key issues. The ministers who were replaced were kept on as part of the "Advisory Council," and the role of the Parliament in Russkya was changed to permit function of the Rada. They were met at the door by a ceremonial guard of the Russkyan Cossack Battalion, ten men dressed in black Cherkesska coats with polished 7.62x54R ammunition fed through each of the decorative cartridge loops.
The beshmet, effectively a turtleneck-type undershirt, was dark green. The shoulderboards on each cherkesska were lined with silver and bore rank insignia. All carried shashka sabres, the characteristic curved blade guardless sword of the Cossack, scabbarded on their left side for a quick draw. Dark leather slings held highly polished ceremonial SVT-40 rifles in place on their back. Headdress for all were the characteristic cloth-topped fleece hats, and each wore knee-height riding boots that so perfectly shined that they were effectively a black mirror. Beside this display, several of the politicians felt decidedly unremarkable despite carefully tailored suits of the highest quality.
With their escort of ten split into two sections of five marching alongside both flanks of the political double-column, a rhythmic sound could be heard, bootsoles on concrete. It stopped suddenly, all at precisely the same moment coming to a halt. The Khorunzhy commanding the dismounted escort saluted his superior, mounted on horseback, the Kazachy Polkovnik's uniform bearing decorations from battles on the Southern Border dating from 1960-1970 against the Me'ei. He returned the salute. The sun was rising.
A kilometre away, Major Iltchenko watched a staff officer double-time across the concrete where his battalion waited with dozens of other units. He conferred with a officer wearing the black beret of the Naval Infantry and then came running his way. Slightly breathless from the exertion of running everywheres he went, the staff officer stopped and saluted Major Iltchenko, veteran of the Estonavian Campaign, and his veteran battalion of the same conflict. Iltchenko's right hand snapped up into the salute, held it for a moment, and snapped back down to his side. The staff officer's arm mimicked the downwards movement and he made his report.
"Major, your battalion and the Morskaya Pexhota are to march side by side onto the parade square followed by the Infantry and Armour battalion and squadron, side by side. From there, everything's the same."
"Understood." Iltchenko consulted a watch on his left wrist. "Ten minutes."
"Yes sir. Ten minutes."
Another exchange of salutes and the staff officer ran off again to confer with the dismounted Armour squadron.
Five minutes to go, the remainder of the Cossack Battalion not deployed as a ceremonial escort, marched out from their barracks. Arms swung high to extend straight out from the shoulder before swinging back down, legs straight and gleaming boots in perfect step with one another. Four wide, the formation marched out onto the now lit parade square in front of the dais where the politicians stood, the square surrounded by a huge number of civilians. The dais was at the North, the entry road to the South, and the Cossacks stood in the center of it all. Their column, on command, split down the middle. The two left-most columns turned to the West, the two right-most columns turned to the East. Each marched across the concrete in precision, slamming to a halt at the same time. On command, they turned to face the dais again and thus became the flanks of the square. A staff officer a kilometre away nodded to Iltchenko and the Naval Infantry commander, a Major Bolshoshapov. Both officers marched to the center of their formation, just behind them the Regimental Colour escort with ceremonial SVT-40 rifles. Both officers inhaled deeply, forcing the sound from their gut rather than their throats, bellowing down the road to bounce the sound off a building where they'd be forced to take a left wheel. In synchronous, the NCOs and other ranks snapped to commands.
"Number One Battalion!" This warning order caused hands crossed in front of them to snap behind them to the At Ease position.
"Attention!" Over a thousand boot-soles crashed down onto concrete at once. The sound was better than good.
"By the left! Forward, march!" Leading off with the left foot, the VDV and MORPEH stepped off. Behind them, two Infantry Battalions, a dismounted Armour Squadron, a gun-less Gun Company of artillerymen, the ship's company of the Russkyan Naval Vessel "Norseman," the named ship of the Norseman class, a full squadron of pilots and ground support crew in their light blue uniforms distinct behind the navy blue of the sailors, and that was the entirety of the representative group.
Marching onto the parade square, Bolshoshapov's battalion was in perfect synchronous with the blue berets to his immediate right. The VDV wore their ceremonial uniforms, essentially their combat uniforms with non-subdued insignia, carefully pressed, and worn with deeply shined combat boots, while the Naval Infantry wore the parade uniform of all black. Berets at a rakish angle, both elite groups slammed to a halt fifty meters from the dais. The rearmost rank of each formation swung outwards from the other to form a line. Bolshoshapov and Iltchenko issued their commands simultaneously once more.
"Battalion! Open order, march!"
The front rank stayed put while the middle rank took three steps backwards, the rear rank taking six steps backwards. They crashed to a halt. Infantry marched in behind them, formed up into a three-deep line behind the two elite units. Regimental colours fluttered in the breeze, the wind just strong enough to ruffle the heavy silk. It picked up as the Armour and Artillery marched onto the parade square, the tanker's normal coveralls replaced with a forest green tunic over riding breeches of the same colour with a black stripe down the exterior of each leg, tucked into high legged Commonwealth-style riding boots. The breeze snapped a few of the flags sharply, the crisp crack sounding out of time with the crisp orchestra of well trained soldiers on parade. Awed by the display, Mikovskaya stood behind and to the left of Sergetov, who smiled at the pride his countrymen took in their display. Regimental Colours bore the names of battles that each unit had taken part in, were held by a small group of four men - a junior officer carrying the Colour, a senior NCO escorting him, and two guards with loaded SVT-40 ceremonial rifles to either side. The Colour Parties stood to the front of each formation just behind their respective commanding officers.
When the entirety of the group had marched onto the parade square and assumed their positions, the Cossack's own Battalion Sergeant Major marched across the front of the units formed up and right wheeled to find himself face to face with General of Infantry Taranichev. He halted, saluted. The General Officer returned the salute.
"Russkyan Military Representative Battalion Group reports ready for parade and inspection, sir!"
Taranichev nodded, couldn't help a smile forming at the magnificent display set before him, that he was a part of, unlike those politicians on the dais behind him and unlike the civilian crowds thronging around the parade square in every available space. His trained eye caught an irregularity in the parade's formation. There was a two battalion gap between two of the Infantry Regiment's representative battalions, space where the battalions of either of the Independent Corps would normally parade. Without them it didn't look amiss and would be noticed only by the soldiers themselves, but the gesture spoke volumes. Taranichev paused further, the BSM in front of him still staring at his cap brass, rigidly at attention.
"Sergeant Major?"
"Sir!"
"It would appear that our comrades miss their fellows in the Russko-Celtic and Russko-Deustche Corps."
"Sir!"
Taranichev's words, and those of anyone standing near him as the BSM was now, were being broadcast over four loudspeakers set up in each corner of the parade square. Taranichev disabled the microphone clipped to the inside of his collar and leaned forward imperceptibly towards the Battalion Sergeant Major.
"Sergeant Major, maim any staff puke who tries to "correct" my battalion's formations."
Smiling now, the BSM replied again, just as loud as if he were being broadcast by the loudspeakers: "Sir!"
"Carry on, Sergeant Major."
"Yes sir!"
He about faced and marched, left-wheeling where had once right-wheeled, carrying on to his post. He slammed to a halt, facing front. Taranichev enabled the microphone again, marched ten paces out from the dais, about faced, and addressed the politicians.
"Parade awaiting orders, sir!"
Berkov stepped up to the microphone. "Carry on, General."
"Sir!"
From its place on top of the central and as-of-yet-unchanged Politburo Building just behind the dais, the transitionary flag (http://i76.photobucket.com/albums/j8/PavelKirilovich/Other/TransitionaryFlag.jpg) was lowered while the officers and senior NCOs of every formation on the parade saluted. A one minute pause. General Taranichev ordered the formation to attention, arms held up in salute dropping to sides with a single movement. The colour party atop the building rigged the new national colours to the flagstaff, an orderly standing by the officer in command of that party with a stopwatch. When the hand ticked over to sixty five seconds, the flag was raised. Taranichev's voice echoed up past them on the rooftop.
"Parade! To the Colours, salute!"
Simultaneously, Regimental Colours dipped towards the ground as all rifle armed soldiers on parade slammed their right foot back perpendicular to their left foot, presenting arms. Swords, long since drawn and held vertical from a bent right arm, were raised pommel to forehead then lowered to point at the ground beside the officer or Cossack carrying the blade. The Kazachy Polkovnik on horseback performed this so flawlessly, his horse's still ears avoided the blade lowered in its salute despite their obstinate movement.
The new national flag was raised and command was passed from the Politburo to the Skolchoi. Snapping in the now stiff breeze as over a dozen Regimental, Squadron, and Ship's Colours were raised, the dark green field of the new Russkyan flag stood out strong against the morning sky. Holding the salute, the moment the flag touched the head of the mast, the civilians erupted into applause and cheers.
Around the world, the new colours were raised on Embassy flagpoles everywheres. In Berisak, Taranichev ordered the parade back to attention and permitted them to carry on, marching off in as much splendour as they had arrived.
http://i76.photobucket.com/albums/j8/PavelKirilovich/Other/Russkya.jpg