The Karelian Front

It had been to the world’s astonishment that Lithuanian submarines intervened during the Battle for Gotland in November 1938, tipping the scales in favor of the Union by thwarting the HRE’s counteroffensive. While unusual activity in the Klaipėda’s shipyards had been known for many months prior to the invasion, no nation had seen it as a serious threat to their naval security. Indeed, the Narvalas submarines, while a surprise, were small, poorly designed, strictly offensive pieces of machinery that relied more on their numbers, the element of surprise, and luck, than on actual fighting capabilities. Unbeknownst to the Imperials, three of the under-engineered Lithuanian subs had sunk due solely to design flaws the very day of the Gotland invasion, causing dozens of casualties. Yet, following the Gotland annexation and due to insufficient sightings of the Narvalas, foreign press greatly overestimated the size and efficiency of the machines, equating them with the most powerful boats of the time – which the Union had refrained from correcting. Since then, the Narvalas fleet had had to be recalled due to its technical liabilities. As far as the enemy was concerned however, it had simply gone missing, and remained a danger from below, made all the more threatening by its sudden absence.

Given the fiasco that was the Narvalas and the fact that addressing its flaws would require sinking unrecoverable costs into the overhaul of the entire production line, it was originally slated for permanent retirement. The fear it inspired, however, presented a tactical interest.

In January 1939, an agreement was signed between the Lithuanian Navy and the Nordic Union (with the involvement of Swiss funds). Known as the Gustaitis Plan, after Lithuanian Brigadier General Antanas Gustaitis who supervised its implementation, the agreement focused on liberating funds for military modernization, with the side effect of spurring the production of the Narvalas II within months. This would be a much more prudent endeavor, with the realistic aim of producing a legitimate improvement on the original model in limited numbers for the security of the Baltic coastlines. Still, one of them was built different. Imagined specifically to incarnate the Narvalas I as fantasized by the press – a bloated war machine, the inexplicable leviathan come out of unforeseen technological expertise. This special submarine, dubbed Narvalas Pabaisa, was mostly hollow and barely combat-ready. Deployed in the Gulf of Finland, the titan would surface just frequently enough to be sighted from afar – and for the enemy to take (blurry) photographs of it. From June onwards, Saint-Petersburg would find itself gripped by a strange sense of unease as more and more accounts appeared in the media of a monstrous machine roaming the gulf.

Within Russian intelligence services, the submarine blurred the line between information and disinformation. Disagreements arose as to its very existence or the threat level it posed. This worked well with the NAA propaganda. From this point on, the Pabaisa would remain hidden, having more impact as a fantasy than as a real submarine.

All of this was then again only preparatory work for greater, and ultimately more effective designs of the Union.

The collaboration of Switzerland and Lithuania, along with the most belligerent constituents of the Nordic Union, was not conducted out of mere generosity. Finland and Estonia had made it clear that an offensive on Russia was in the works, and by now the plan was more than ripe. First in line of sight was the Karelian Isthmus, a sliver of forested and boggy land between the Gulf of Finland and Lake Ladoga, delimited to the northwest by the Finnish city of Viipuri (Vyborg), and to the south by Russian Saint-Petersburg.

After the latest of the Finnish-Russian hostilities, the isthmus had been a contested area, but a de facto DMZ. Both nations maintained their industry there, with administrations sharing duties, and settlement somewhat evenly split. Free of central control or military presence, local policies often encouraged biculturalism, and bilingual resources had become commonplace. As a result (or a convenience), NAA maps placed the border just north of Saint-Petersburg – if not on the Neva River outright, which flows through the city – while Russian maps made it a somewhat straight line just south of Viipuri and Käkisalmi (Priozersk).

The year 1939 saw the return of Russian occupation efforts in the isthmus, resulting in a slow push and fortification work towards Viipuri. This was seen as part of the Russian retaliation for the capture of Gotland. By the end of the year, Russian troops finding little resistance had pushed much to their advantage, stationing troops in villages just 25 miles (32km) from Viipuri.

This operation did not go fully unnoticed by the Finns, as stretching a significant portion of the Russian military out of Saint-Petersburg was giving an edge to the allied Estonians. The latter had been organizing near the Russian border for a massive push, which was put in motion on February 25th. What had been a strategy for months in the making, however, would know a quick downfall.

Unforeseen by the Finnish, the push on Viipuri was the setup for a full-on siege, whose resources had been vastly understated for lack of surveillance. On February 26th, Russian artillery started hitting strategic locations around the city, causing the Finnish forces to scramble for defensive positions. Many casualties, including high-ranking military and engineers, were taken until the garrison could be properly protected. More importantly, some of the city’s defensive assets were lost, such as the anti-aircraft system, while several coal power plants suffered critical damage. The low-grade shield generator of the city went into shutdown within an hour of shelling, totally exposing the city to further attacks.

With Viipuri suddenly so vulnerable and reinforcements days away, it became critical for Estonian forces to put immediate pressure south of Saint-Petersburg. Urgency, mixed perhaps with overconfidence in the long-coordinated strategy, spelled the downfall of the Estonian chain of command. Rushed into the frontline through conflicting orders, the infantry-centric attack found itself facing the Regency’s capital head-on, unable to constitute a proper vanguard. The dislocated advance gave the enemy plenty of time to respond. On February 28th, Russian ships would begin firing over the coastline, forcing the army inland and enabling the capital to dispatch its own forces.

A few hundred Druzhinas and Technik-upgraded infantry subsequently tore through the Estonian lines near the village of Zimititsy, inflicting disproportionate casualties and quickly routing the offensive. This was one of the first major successes of the central government’s military in a long time, putting an end to the losing streak that had plagued the Polish-Lithuanian front – and substantiating the corporations’ heavy investments in military augments.

As it became clear that the Estonian front would be insufficient to keep Saint-Petersburg busy, the Finnish organized a front of their own, with the intent to drive enemy troops away from Viipuri and push towards the Russian capital. By the time Finnish reinforcements reached the city from Helsinki and the rest of the front, the date was March 4th and power and heating outages had become rampant. Despite the warming weather, every day still saw subzero temperatures, forcing the displacement of 12,000 out of the 85,000 inhabitants, while hundreds of households had reverted to personal heating devices. This would lead to several fires, adding 57 civilian deaths to the campaign’s toll.

In the Isthmus proper, the Russians were dealing with weather issues of their own. During the day, temperatures rose enough that terrain so far frozen had turned boggy and unstable, requiring wider feet on the walkers and narrowing the corridor of operations. Problems caused by unreliable antifreezes also required additional maintenance. With only two main roads going through the land, the needed logistics was reduced to a trickle.

As the Finnish started marching out from Viipuri and the northern front, the Regency was left with little choice but to lift the siege, retreat to drier land 30 miles behind, and reprepare. This marked the beginning of a short stalemate period.

Thus far, the American involvement in the North Atlantic Alliance had been mainly economic, and frowned upon by the Nordic Union, who would rather not have been coerced by diplomatic games into reliance on another power. Now in light of the Vancouver-Seattle Raids, the diplomatic ties between the two started to look more appealing.

In the aftermath of the disaster, the United States sent out a number of envoys to NAA constituents, with the intent to deepen ties and reach new internal goals. On February 7th, Kalmar became home to the American Special Consulate, consolidating the partnership between the United States and the European NAA. The location near the under-construction Nordic Gate was also strongly symbolic, laying the ground for firmer NU-US relations. To start, Washington would be happy to back the Gustaitis plan, funneling its own funds to the front through the Union. There were talks that an American-backed Nordic fleet could eventually secure large swaths of the Atlantic. This partly addressed the issue of supply lines and the lack of safe routes across the ocean as well. A moderate inflow of resources would soon come to fruition as the Hudson Bay - Reykjavik - Oslo route, which proved strong enough to deliver American tanks to the Baltic front through Canada and the Northern Atlantic. This option, however, was placed under the looming threat of British surveillance and unstable weather, requiring tight international cooperation for a high logistical cost and meager transport capabilities.

A possible alternative was worth exploring for a sustainable supply route across the Atlantic. Nordic leaders were not blind to it and did not miss the opportunity to bring it up with their American counterparts, securing a high-stakes deal for the near future. The Union will be on their toes while this is in development for the upcoming year or so.

Fighting did not stop for the unravelling of diplomatic scrolls. On the contrary, after a year of tiring internal negotiations, the Finnish-Estonian offensive was determined to not let any gain fester in discourses and inaction. On March 21st, as the warmer weather ruled out the use of the powerful Russian snowmobiles, the Finns started moving forward again, this time equipped with American tanks. As the enemy braced for combat, they would find some of their equipment sabotaged – spark plugs disappeared, wires cut, fuel mixed. The Russian chain of command went head over heels trying to find a culprit within their own ranks, considering an outside operation impossible.

Secure in their dominion over the Karelian corridor, there was one side that the Regency had poorly monitored: Lake Ladoga itself, to the east. Yet as part of the Gustaitis Plan, water tactics had precisely been the priority of the Finnish-Lithuanian war industry, leading up to an invention meant to directly rival Russian snowmobiles: personal watercraft. Deemed by Gustaitis himself a technology “long overdue” in an era where movement was often a synonym of victory, prototypes were being tested in October 1939. By the time the offensive began, several dozen Širšė waterbikes had been tested on the Finnish lakes, with engineers focusing on stealth and noise reduction.

Though maneuvering the Širšė came as a heavy burden to its pilot, who must constantly be on his guard and successfully stash it so as to secure his escape, its agility in the network of narrow and shallow water canals connecting the Vuoksi rivers with the small Karelian lakes came as a clear tactical asset. A waterbike-based infiltration operation was also highly experimental and high-risk, with wide uncertainties as to how much the tactical advantage would offset the remaining issues of reliability and fueling. The Finnish command did not try to conceal this fact, instead offering a bounty to the brave men who would volunteer. There were 231 of them, largely surpassing the 120 available waterbikes.

Many soldiers would fall victim to their machine tipping over into freezing water, or get captured subsequent to technical difficulties or lack of fuel. Yet in the end, the deed was done – at least well enough that the Russians could not easily assess the extent of the sabotage, and by March 27th were forced to retreat to Saint-Petersburg.

The success of the waterbikes would make headlines all over the world, attracting the interest of the entertainment sector. Investors imagined Širšės being available to the public and populating popular beaches within years, providing Nordic manufacturers with the prospect of a substantial return on investment. There would be some transatlantic trade tensions, however, as the American investors who had partaken in the Gustaitis plan would use their leverage to try and draw dividends of their own.

As for Russia, it was well within its military might to retaliate and continue the fight over the Isthmus. By that point however, the empire had bigger fish to fry.

As a contested and somewhat demilitarized area just outside the doors of powerful Saint-Petersburg, the Isthmus had appeared to Regent Felix Yusupov an easy region to assert control on. Seizing it was a commensurate response to the loss of Gotland, and would bolster internal stability. Unfortunately, his failure came at double the cost after the Vancouver-Seattle Raids.

The bombing of the American city not only prompted the United States to get involved in the NAA in a more deliberate fashion and to improve relations with the Nordic Union – it also stirred the already boiling pot of the Russian Empire. So far, the central government had been able to mitigate symptoms of weakness through the illusion of control, but this now came crashing down as their own forces were being repelled by the Finnish and Saint-Petersburg came into direct threat from the NAA. Voices of opposition became louder. Bishop Rasputin in particular made a point of presenting Yusupov as the sole person responsible for turning the Americans into a direct enemy, decrying him as an impotent coward defeated by imaginary submarines and a dozen half-drowned soldiers. Many across the country warned that another, better organized offensive from the Estonians was only a matter of time. Others noted the political desertion from Saint-Petersburg and the implantation of an increasing number of state bodies in Moscow.

By late April, leaders of every Russian faction had become very agitated, worrying about their future in a broken husk of an empire, all the while attempting to grab a slice of the already-crumbling cake. The Sandroviks used the unrest to their advantage, fomenting a series of plots and assassinations against the remaining stable pawns in power. Corporations capitalized on the fear, cutting deals more lucrative than ever, up to a point where Chernaya Zvezda Industries owned both the agents tasked with the destabilization of Yusupov’s regency, and the intelligence and bodyguarding services in charge of protecting it. Newly formed mercenary companies and a solid foothold in the Russian technological capabilities placed the corporate states in a very advantageous position, stirring Kazan’s interest in a potential formalized alliance. Rasputin himself was eyeing Perm as a gateway to extend his influence, while the ranks of the Nastyeviks grew – half as a political movement, half as a cult – from political disillusionment. Kazakhstan and the New Khanate, despite the enmity between them, stood together as the emerging face of the independence movement within Russia, a sentiment on the rise in other factions as well. The internal boundaries getting more attention unfortunately did not bode well for the ones facing outwards…

1940, of course, is going to put that bond through the toughest of stress tests, revealing strengths and weaknesses of the Union’s collaboration. The first of which, perhaps, by collaborating with the Lithuanian Navy.