The Sons of Immigrants: The Steele Administration

[Cabbage]

...JOSEPH STEELE!

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November 9, 1932
St. Paul, Minnesota

Joseph Steele, Governor of Minnesota and President-elect of the United States, smiled and waved to the crowd that had come to hear his victory speech. It had been a hell of a race against Democrat Adam Hilliard, but, in the end, Pennsylvania had come in exactly how he'd wanted it.

"My fellow Americans, I stand here proudly before you today to thank you for electing me your next President. It is time for an end of ruthless tyrants using their money to rule this country, to underpay and overwork employees, to destroy the economy by their own incompetence, to shift the burden of the collapse onto their workers, and to be forgiven for their misdeeds so they might start again.

"I did not lie to you when I said I would put in place reforms that would force those on the top to view those less fortunate than they as more than gum on the soles of their shoes. The 45-hour week, the minimum age of employment, and the safety of the workplace will be advanced! This is a time of revolution in America, not toward Communism, which uses human rights as a man uses a spitoon; rather, it is a revolution toward the advancement of human rights, the strengthening of the position of the average Joe..."

Steele grinned at his own quip.

"...and the true glory of America for all. Thank you all for coming out here today, and here's to four years worth living through!"

The crowd cheered the governor as he made his way back inside the Executive Mansion. He waved a few times, but was quick in retreating back into his home. There was planning to be done, after all, and only four months to do it.

November 13, 1932
London, England

Winston Churchill would not have been a happy man regardless of who won the American presidential election. Hilliard and Steele were equally bad, in his opinion (one which, at times, seemed to be an opinion he alone regarded), and there were pluses and minuses to be counted for either candidate, when set one against the other.

Steele, at the very least, would surely weaken Goebbels in Germany, as Hilliard had been the inspiration for much of Goebbels's campaign. The little twerp hadn't been more than a speck on the political plate prior to Hilliard's receipt of the Democratic nomination, but he'd been treating the South Carolinian senator like the Second Coming ever since. And now, it appears that such would be for naught.

Steele, however, was concerningly close to Trotsky on the political spectrum: anti-capitalist, pro-labor restrictions, in favor of violently clamping down on the power of the upper class: all ideals that Lenin and then Trotsky had preached for a decade and a half now. Such might prompt the United States to reopen trade with the Soviet Union, which would bring millions in much-needed income to the struggling state.

In the end, there was one benefit to Steele, however, that Churchill could never deny: he was almost sure to bring Prohibition to a swift and rightful conclusion.

December 16, 1932
The White House, Washington, D.C.

Herbert Hoover was not fond at all of the man the American people had chosen to succeed him.

Joseph Steele seemed to have an earworm of the Soviet National Anthem: "the rights of the workers" this, and "the capitalists have brought this upon themselves" that. It was enough to drive Hoover stark, raving mad. However, for appearances' sake, he knew that he had to be cordial to the Governor of Minnesota, at least until such time as they parted at the end of the day.

Deep down, Hoover still mourned for the party of which he was the last President. Now those people understood that the market would right itself, given time. However, the people had spoken, and they wanted intervention, and lots of it.

"So, Governor, have you decided on a Cabinet?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. President. I've got plenty of fine men lined up to take the reins from...well, you always did prefer to let the horses decide where you went, didn't you?"

Hoover reddened. Steele was quite the sore winner, and with Hilliard having retreated with his tail between his legs, the bearer of the brunt of Steele's arrogant quips was apparently going to be his predecessor. "I suppose I did, Governor. A shame they plunged off a cliff as soon as I was offered a ride."

"Yes, most certainly, Mr. President. Now, tell me, have you got any vodka in this house?"

"Vodka? Heavens, no! Russian peasant swill, if you ask me! And illegal, besides!"

Steele grinned. "A dangerous word from a man who's being blamed for the woes of millions of peasants."

Hoover grimaced. Couldn't the man give him a break about the Depression, already? It had happened because of actions that were largely not his own, mostly taken before he had come to power, for reasons he would normally have disagreed with. But, of course, it was "Hooverville" this, and "Hoover's fault" that.

As they walked by the Oval Office, Steele stopped to peer in, then went inside. Hoover barely stopped himself from crying out for the governor to stop, before remembering that it would be the man's own office in a few months, anyhow.

Steele seemed to drink in the Office, rather than merely look at it. Hoover finally found a reason to smile. "This, my dear Governor, is where you will sit and be blamed for the Depression for four years."

As he turned to face his predecessor, Steele's eyes turned cold as ice.

"No, Mr. President. This is where I will sit and end the Depression in four years."

[Cabbage]

March 4, 1933
Capitol Hill, Washington, D.C.

Tens of thousands of people turned out for Joseph Steele's inauguration speech. It wasn't a long walk for most of them (a lot had been camped out in Washington for years now, protesting the government's failed belief that the economy would right itself). The roar that went up as he took the stage was truly deafening, as men saw more than their new President in front of the Capitol Building: they saw a hero.

Steele waved heartily to the crowd, for once exulting in the attention. The Vice President-elect, Upton Sinclair, stood next to him, waving as well. The tapping of the reformist icon for VP had turned out to be a smart move, as California had handed its critical 22 electoral votes to Steele on a platter. And Sinclair and Steele had agreed on a number of key issues, which had sweetened the deal only further.

Looking back, the now former Governor of Minnesota (Hank Arens would be running that show from here on out) watched as President Hoover continued to look like a sulky boy who'd been told he couldn't have the lolly he wanted. Sit in a capitalist's pocket long enough, and you'll pick up the scent of his perfume. It wasn't a clever line, but it was one Steele figured Hoover exemplified fairly well.

The Chief Justice, Charles Evans Hughes (one of the men who'd struck down Steele's reforms in the past), called everyone's attention to himself. "It is time for the swearing in!"

Another roar went up from the crowd as the current and incoming Vice Presidents, Charles Curtis and Sinclair, ascended the stage together. Both men raised their right hands, with Sinclair repeating after Curtis.

"I, Upton Sinclair, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God."

The two men shook hands as the crowd sent up a third roar. They continued to be all smiles as they returned to their seats (Sinclair bore a smile of pure joy, while Curtis looked more relieved than anything). Then it was Steele's turn.

Chief Justice Hughes gave Steele an ironic smirk as they stepped onto the stage together, as if to say, "Well, isn't this ironic?" Steele returned the lopsided expression with one of his own. Flaming capitalist though he was, Steele found he admired the Chief Justice: if he could be bent, he would be a marvelous ally.

However, scheming could wait until after the Inauguration. Steele raised his right hand and repeated after Hughes:

"I, Joseph Victor Steele, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, protect, preserve, and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God."

The fourth cheer was the loudest. The people knew they were doing more than welcoming in a new President; they were ushering in a new era.

Steele had planned to state as much in his speech. As he stood before the crowd, all hushed. Every ear in the crowd wanted to hear what their champion had to say.

"My fellow Americans, I come before you today, not as some upjumped politician, but as one of you. I, too, have suffered from this Depression; until 1930, I was a farmer up near Duluth, Minnesota, simply trying to scrape by and live the American dream. Then the economy crashed. The banks came for my farm, my father's farm, and left me destitute, as so many of you are.

"I was fortunate enough to be able to convince the good people of my home state that I should be their Governor, and later to be able to convince the good people of this country that I should be their President. However, I know all of you out there today, along with millions across the country, have not been so fortunate. You still languish in unemployment, desperate to gain some semblance of economic stability. America, this is exactly what I offered you, and you have wisely accepted!"

The crowd failed to restrain itself any longer. The whoop that went up lasted a solid thirty seconds, all while Steele waved his support. He wondered if this was what Hilliard felt at the Democratic Convention, and decided it didn't matter. The man hadn't even accepted his invitation to the inaugural, like the petulant child he was.

"I swear to you today that every promise I made on the campaign trail, I will exert the utmost effort and authority to fulfill! You will have a job again, one that pays you a dollar an hour, and one where you'll only be working 45 hours a week! Hoovervilles are slums, but Steeletowns will be glorious neighborhoods, where you can finally come home to a wife and kids, fresh home from the schools they'll be able to go to now! This I promise you."

The crowd had to be held back by the police cordon, so determined were they to swarm over the man who was promising them every single thing they wanted to hear. Steele made merry of the situation, while Hughes and Hoover (now both back in their seats) were showing significant concern, with the latter dabbing at his forehead with a silk handkerchief. Idiot, Steele thought. Can't he see this frumpy, bourgeois behavior is exactly why the nation so violently rejected him?

Rather than force the two men to suffer further, Steele thanked the people and stepped back. A local high school band (Steele had refused to use professionals) played him a fine fanfare as he walked down the Capitol steps, and (to the horror of the police) into the crowd. Thousands of hands reached for him, and he tried to shake as many as he could. He returned dozens of compliments, and hugged dozens of women and children. And why not? These were his people, the forgotten and destitute.

And he was going to help them, no matter the cost.

[Cabbage]

March 5, 1933
Berlin, Germany

Heinrich Himmler watched nervously as votes came in across Germany. The NSDAP was still far short of a majority in the Reichstag, following Hilliard's defeat in the American presidential election. Goebbels, the party leader, had put all his hope in the Senator from South Carolina, and watched it turn to ash in his mouth.

Now, the polls were looking about as dismal as expected. The NSDAP wasn't even going to be the largest party any more, by the looks of it; the SPD was looking at around 300 seats, and the Communists at about 30. Enough for a majority, damn them. The Nasos, meanwhile, were struggling to maintain 200 seats, and losing the struggle, at appearances.

Himmler stormed away from the radio set, enraged by the results, and out of his house. He knew his destination already, and his host-to-be would never argue on a night like this...

***

Goebbels looked extremely wan; evidently, he'd been listening to the results, as well. "Oh, Heinrich. Come in. Sit down. Let me fix you a drink." He walked over to a cabinet full of fine whiskeys, mostly gifts from well-to-do American Hilliard supporters. He pulled a bottle of Old No. 7 from the top shelf (it was lowered specially for him; another gift, this one from a Bavarian carpenter), pulled the cork, and smelled the vintage. "1916. Before Prohibition. Very fine."

"I'm sure, Josef. However, in order to fix me a drink, you must needs not lollygag about sniffing the bottle."

"Oh, yes, right." Goebbels fidgeted with the bottle (to Himmler's amazement, he failed to drop the thing), shaking as he poured.

"Allow me," Himmler offered, as whiskey began to spill across the table (mahogany, from another American). As soon as he'd finished, Goebbels almost leapt upon his own drink. An image of the creature Gollum from Tolkien's children's book sprang to Himmler's mind. He suppressed the laughter (he always did), taking a swig from his own drink. Goebbels had finished two more drinks by the time Himmler looked at him again. His shaking had turned to swaying (the little man had never been able to hold his liquor).

"So, those filthy Red swine have won the election, by the looks of it."

Goebbels's expression turned black. "Damn them all. F--k them all. They don't understand the tyranny they unleash upon themselves! They're worse than the Americans, electing that Steele character! He's a f--king Red, too, but he hasn't got the guts to admit it! No! He wouldn't! The Reds are cowards! They'd never hold up against an actual invasion, not like us!"

"An invasion, or a revolt?"

Goebbels looked at Himmler with a look of bright-eyed fascination on his face. "What are you suggesting, Heinrich?"

"What I say, Josef. That, if we cannot win by democratic means, we shall have to use undemocratic means to free Germany from the chains of Versailles."

Goebbels grinned menacingly. "Oh, yes, Heinrich. That sounds like a wonderful idea. Absolutely wonderful."

March 17, 1933
The White House, Washington, D.C.

"They're heaping coals on themselves, Upton."

Upton Sinclair smirked his agreement as President Steele held the morning's paper, with its headline lambasting the Supreme Court for blocking several of the President's initiatives on the grounds of unconstitutionality. Apparently, it provided too much power to the Chief Executive; needless to say, the Supreme Court, still in the pockets of the long-dead Republican Party, was violently attacking the relief policies, as they feared it would solidify the Farmer-Labor Party as a replacement to the Republicans.

The people could see through the political ploy, however. The New York Times, New York Post, Washington Post, and more had openly struck out against the Court, calling upon them to rescind their decision. Hughes, annoyingly, wouldn't budge, and it was he who ran the Court.

"So, what are we going to do about it, assuming that Hughes gets away with it?"

Steele frowned. Evidently, he was of the firm belief that Hughes would bend under public pressure. Sinclair, however, had been in politics a lot longer than his boss, and had seen a lot of men weather a lot of storms worse than this. Some men were stones you couldn't squeeze blood from, no matter how hard you tried. And, if Sinclair was any judge, Hughes was one of them.

"I suppose we can play rough, if we have to, but I'd rather not. Not this soon."

Impeachment, Sinclair thought. The man's really talking about impeaching the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. "What would the charges be?"

"Treason."

An icy finger ran down Sinclair's back. Having survived the Red Scare of '19, he remembered the treason trials of that year, and the horrors that had resulted. He'd managed to hang on due to his notoriety, but he still remembered the intimidating letters from "anonymous" sources, ones the police had never been able to trace back to anyone.

"Are you sure that's wise, sir? If he's found not guilty, we'll be doomed come '36. And you know as well as I do that Hilliard can get the Democratic nomination again if he wants it."

"Oh, he'll be found guilty, I can assure you."

Sinclair whirled at the voice that had suddenly made its presence behind him known.

The Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, J. Edgar Hoover, emerged through a door Sinclair hadn't been aware existed. If it hadn't been for the notoriety of the other two men, he would have dominated the room. As it was, he appeared far more like one among equals, rather than a man approaching his bosses.

"And just how can you assure it, Mr. Hoover?" Sinclair asked nervously. The man's sudden appearance unnerved him, and he began to wonder from where else he could emerge if he so chose. He also disapproved of this idea as a whole, but, with both Steele and Hoover in the room, he was feeling the reluctance to act on that disapproval rising.

"Oh, the standard means. Investigation, interviews, interrogation at need..." Sinclair had no doubt what "interrogation" meant, and it sounded like something straight out of the Soviet Union and Trotsky's hellish regime. When did the the land of the free turn to ideas such as this to advance a political movement?

Thinking back on the persecution he and his allies had suffered over the years, Sinclair decided he didn't want to know the answer.

[Cabbage]

June 21, 1933
Munich, Germany

The revolt was not going according to plan.

The Nasos had managed to gain control of Munich, Stuttgart, and Nuremberg, but all efforts to take northern territory had ended in disaster. Berlin had been "liberated" by the Reds on the 29th of May, Wilhemshaven a week later. Most of Bavaria had joined the Great Putsch, but they had been forced into brutal sieges elsewhere.

Goebbels had died in Berlin, so Heinrich Himmler now commanded the rebel forces, and he was quickly finding that his strategic methods were less than optimal. The police were closing quickly on Stuttgart, and if he received one more bit of bad news from Nuremberg...

"Mein Fuehrer!"

Himmler turned to face the voice. He'd taken the title of Leader upon his ascent to power, and insisted on being called by it.

"The police have broken through in the northeast! They'll be here by nightfall!"

A chill ran down Himmler's spine. He had been so sure this war was an assured victory, that Germany would rise up to break the chains of Versailles. He'd watched the crowds cheer Goebbels in Berlin, in Potsdam, in Koenigsberg, in Wilhelmshaven, and had been foolish enough to believe that they would fight for what they believed in.

Himmler thanked the messenger, and walked into the beer hall he had made into his base of operations. His followers, seeing his black mood, fled the building. He sighed as he watched them go. They would know soon enough the reason of the Fuehrer's rage. And they would begin fleeing. Mostly to Italy, where Mussolini continued to support the fascist movements of the world (in name, at least), but to other places, as well. Mere soldiers might try to flee to the Hague, but there would be no hope there for rebel leaders.

Himmler doubted he would be safe in Italy, either. Mussolini crowed his support of worldwide fascism, but to actually shelter a foreign political leader, especially one in a position similar to Himmler's, was something most likely far beyond his will, especially if France and Britain were to involve themselves.

And so, there was only one safe path to tread for Himmler.

He followed it up the stairs.

"Heinrich Himmler, leader of the fascist rebellion in Germany, shot himself yesterday, June 21, 1933; his followers are in disarray, and many believe that order will be restored in Germany as soon as the end of the month, although Chancellor Otto Wels has stated that he is far less optimistic, and that fascist resistance could continue for months, if not years."

July 14, 1933
Capitol Building, Washington, D.C.



HUGHES BENDS BEFORE STEELE

The headline rang out, in a hundred different turns of phrase, from papers across the nation. President Steele had, through means unknown to all but the most cynical of the general public, forced the Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court to admit that his reforms were not, in fact, unconstitutional. The photo universally beneath the headline was a noticeably haggard Hughes shaking hand with the President, both men smiling (Hughes's looked forced, while Steele's beam looked honest as could be).

Furthermore, Hughes had announced his retirement from the court, citing age and political pressure. From whom said pressure was descended, there was little doubt. B-----d thinks he can run roughshod over this country, does he? Adam Hilliard tossed the paper aside, disgusted.

Hilliard was not without his own authoritarian leanings, but he'd never envisioned doing something so heinous as torturing an upstanding member of the U.S. Supreme Court. Hilliard had seen torture during the war (he'd been allowed to hang around with the interrogators when he was between running messages); the screams still resonated in his mind to this day. Most men would be haunted by things such as that, but Hilliard was made of sterner stuff than most men.

As, it would appear, was President Steele. Hilliard had been sure Steele would break if one of his own rallies was attacked, but Steele had taken it in stride, and so had caused the attack to backfire on its backer. Which, of course, was why Hilliard wasn't in the White House right now. Now, it would appear, Steele had proven he could play offense.

Hilliard walked over to the paper, and picked it up. Hughes was truly ravaged after what had been done to him. However, when he looked closer at the man's eyes, he didn't see a broken man. On the contrary, he saw a man whose motivations were aligned very much with his own.

When he looked into Charles Hughes's eyes, he saw a man who wanted revenge.

August 1, 1933
New York City, New York

Ed Sullivan read off the news bulletin in front of him with mounting astonishment. Weren't these programs a facet of Hilliard's campaign? he asked himself. Power plants running down the Mississippi River, a national highway system, greater funding for the Hoover Dam: all things that just nine months ago were pouring from the mouth of not the eventual victor, but his opponent. Ed was all for using ideas that worked, but to so blatantly seize upon enemy rhetoric...

"President Steele, having signed these acts into law, stated his belief that the end of the Depression 'is on the horizon.' The projects are expected to create approximately one million new jobs, all of which will comply with the President's new wage and labor laws. Furthermore, three thousand new schools had their ground broken today, as the President's education reform acts mandate schooling for all children below the age of fourteen years. It is expected that these new laws will be able to come into effect as quickly as 1936."

Sunshine and daisies though Sullivan made it sound, he had his own suspicions about how well the projects would actually go. The government was notorious for making a mess of simple affairs, and to believe that "now it'll be different" simply because of the new administration was the definition of foolhardy.

Sullivan was aware he'd supported Steele the previous year, and he stood by his decision, but he also stood by the fact that, had the Democrat been more favorable, he might have swung the other way. As far as he was concerned, he would be a free agent in 1936, and he hoped the people would be, too.

As he walked out of his recording booth, he was surprised to see two men in trench coats and dark glasses speaking to the manager. The man looked harried and uncomfortable, and was nodding nervously along with everything his companions said. Sullivan walked over to the trio, and was surprised to see one of the mystery men smile as he approached.

"Ah, and here's the star of the show, Mr. Sullivan himself!" He clapped Sullivan on the back. Sullivan instinctively recoiled, but the other man seemed only bemused by such behavior. "Now, Mr. Sullivan, we were just telling your boss here that there's some new government regulations going to be coming out in the next few weeks, and we wanted to be sure everyone here at CBS was going to be nice and clear on the rules before they came out."

"Regulations?" Sullivan asked, surprised. "What sort of regulations?"

"Oh, nothing serious, Mr. Sullivan. Nothing serious, at all, at all. Just a few measures to protect the government as we try to rebuild this broken nation. Can't have the stirrings of fascism emerge just as we're at our weakest!"

"Fascism? In this country? Nonsense! America's the most freedom-loving country in the world! Most of the people here would die before they'd kneel to a monster like Mussolini or whatshisname, the German goon who shot himself in Munich...Himmler, that's it!"

The dark-clad man sighed and shook his head. "I wish I could concur with you, Mr. Sullivan. I really do. I truly wish that the American people could be trusted to have such foresight as you and I. However, I am a realist, and the people do not bear such a gift. You know how close the President's margin of victory was against Hilliard, and we can't risk his supporters get that riled again, or else they'll do one of two things: elect the stupid son of a b---h, or rebel in an attempt to gain control, the same as Himmler did."

"The people of America would never do that!"

"They already did, Mr. Sullivan. You recall 1861, I hope?"

Sullivan stared at the man. Much as he had to admit it, the gentleman had a point there.

"Okay, then. I'll bite. What are the new regulations?"

"Oh, nothing too severe, I assure you. Just this: when you're talking about the President or the Party or the government, try to keep it on a positive note, sort of like the way you've been doing it since the Inauguration. It'll just be until we get the economy running, I assure you; after that, I believe the people will be prosperous enough to trust democracy without assistance once more. And the President concurs with me."

Sullivan stood in silence for a moment, weighing his options. While the logic behind the reforms did make sense, the First Amendment as Sullivan read it would view this as a blatant violation. However, the men in the trench coats didn't appear to be here to negotiate, and so Sullivan elected to save his hide.

"I assure you, sir. There will be no trouble from my show."

[Cabbage]

If Steele is President of the U.S. in this TL, who is the leader of the Soviet Union?

Trotsky, since Steele wasn't in Russia to drive him out.

[Cabbage]

True, but honestly Trotsky was one of the few figures prominent enough to keep the Party united following Lenin's death in '24, especially with Besarion Djugashvili having decided he was tired of living under the tyranny of the czars.

[Cabbage]

August 4, 1933
St. Paul, Minnesota

Governor Henry Arens of Minnesota blinked and rubbed his eyes. The missive couldn't possibly be saying what he thought it said. He had no legal experience outside the State Legislature and his time as Lieutenant Governor and Governor. He was a farmer at heart, a man who'd specialized in keeping his head down when it was required of him, agreeing with Governor (now President) Steele when it was required of him, and otherwise avoiding making a fool of himself.

None of which qualified him to be the next Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court.

And yet, it would appear, President Steele was rewarding his former lackey in the most grandiose way he could conceive. With Hughes out of the way, Arens could be set for life with this appointment. Yeah, but how long will that life be if you p--s him off? He shuddered. Hughes was (barely) living proof that the Steele administration saw things such as checks and balances as nothing more than what they were, to a cynical observer: words on paper.

Still, Arens knew, he dared not refuse the appointment. Steele was unlikely to see any qualification-based reason why he shouldn't choose his old second as the new head of the Judicial Branch, and so to refuse would put him in the one mood worse in him than anger: suspicion. Steele had only ever removed people from office when he suspected disloyalty before, but that was Governor Steele, who could be prosecuted by the government for playing the tyrant. All of Congress probably knew by now that, should they impeach him but fail to convict, every single one of them would be on the chopping block afterward.

And so, Henry Arens, Chief Justice-appointee to the United States Supreme Court, telephoned the President to offer his humble acceptance.

August 18, 1933
Shenandoah Valley, Virginia

"A toast, to the end of an era: an era of parched throats and unhappy men, of oppressed workers with no solace, of mass crime to combat a nonsensical and prudish law: to the end of Prohibition!"

"THE END OF PROHIBITION!"

President Joseph Steele helped himself to a tall glass of champagne, the finest vintage straight from France. It was a gift from the Prime Minister, Edouard Daladier, who heartily supported many of the President's economic policies. It had officially arrived only the day before, as the President signed the 21st Amendment into law, and remained untouched from then until now. Unofficially...well, no one needed know exactly how much champagne Daladier had sent.

Steele looked around the room at the gathered dignitaries. Most also held champagne flutes, although a few others had deigned to bring their own re-legalized vintages with them; the President had clapped them on the back, and insisted that if any night was one for "the more, the merrier," it was this one.

Some Congressmen, still indignant over the repeal, were conspicuously absent. Most notable among them was Steele's old adversary, Senator Hilliard. The President was hardly surprised at this revelation (the man was a teetotaler, and a vegetarian besides; any man that tightly wound was unlikely to be any fun at a party, anyway), but he still wondered to himself what the Senator could be planning during the time when he figured his political opponents would be singing bawdy sailors' tunes within the hour. Nothing good, doubtlessly.

However, despite his reservations, the President understood he couldn't have the man "interrogated" yet. He'd burned up a lot of his chips setting his man up as Chief Justice, and to attack another foe so soon was bound to bring condemnation. And, regardless of how he'd shorn up the media with claims of a brewing Second Civil War, he doubted that they would resist such a juicy scoop. Parasites, the lot of them. Steele took a swig to calm himself.

Senator Huey Long of Louisiana (a Democrat who'd turned Farmer-Labor when he heard Steele's positions on minimum wage and child labor) came stumbling up to the President, obviously thundered despite the fact that the party had just begun. Steele smiled kindly, and walked over to the Senator, successfully preventing him from listing into Vice President Sinclair's son, David. The man was a product of Sinclair's abortive first marriage, but still carried some respect from his father.

Hurrying Senator Long out of harm's way, he finally stopped at the base of the high stairwell of the Virginia mansion that was being used to host the event. It was a deal more opulent than he would have preferred, but he'd needed as large a turnout as he could manage to ensure any backlash (from whom, Steele could only guess, but he was a notoriously good guesser) met with firm resistance across the nation.

"Huey, old boy, how are you?"

"Oh, I'm wonderful, Mr. President! It's great that you brought this stuff back, real great! I haven't felt this good in years, 'cept when I was helping share the wealth. You did get my memo about the program, didn't you?"

Steele had. The Share the Wealth program was a system of, effectively, universal income. Everyone would have the money to afford basic amenities, including a house, car, and food for the family. It was a beautiful ideal, and one Steele viewed with favor, with one caveat:

Even to him, it sounded like something out of Trotsky's Russia.

"I did, and I think it's swell, Huey. But you know how those tightwads in the Court are. They'll rip it to shreds before it even reaches my desk."

The Senator frowned. "Well, why don't you just get rid of 'em, then? You got ridda Hughes, didn'cha? Told him he could shape up or ship out, yeah. That's what everyone knows you did, and good f----n' riddance to him, too. He'd keep a dozen chickens in one man's pot, and leave eleven more starving; he would, and he has, for C----sake!" Here, Long unwisely took another pull on the bottle of Daladier's champagne he carried as if it were melted gold. "We just need to...dispose of the whole lot of 'em, that's what!" He hiccuped, then giggled at the noise. "So, Mr. President, what do you say?"

Steele smiled. "Huey, you're a good man with a good plan, and I think the new Chief Justice will like it just fine. Which reminds me: can he count on your vote next week?" Long had been uncomfortably suspicious of Governor Arens, being one of the few Farmer-Labor Senators who'd really gone after the man. In doing so, he'd also given Arens the hardest time of anyone, Labor or Democrat. Now, though...

"Sure, Mr. President. He seems like a real pal."

[Cabbage]

True, but honestly Trotsky was one of the few figures prominent enough to keep the Party united following Lenin's death in '24, especially with Besarion Djugashvili having decided he was tired of living under the tyranny of the czars.

Well, I could forsee some upstart quietly taking power thought the party machine over time (Trotsky famously didn't appreciate the importance of apparatus. He voted to grant Stalin the position of General Secretary, dismissing it as mere "mule's work").

But it's your story, I'm just ventilating

You never know.

[Cabbage]

August 27, 1933
Capitol Building, Washington, D.C.

Adam Hilliard was fuming as he left the Senate floor. Put his toadies on the Supreme Court, will he? Well, I'll fix him!

Chief Justice Henry Arens had just passed his Senate confirmation by a margin of 59-37, barely enough to get him over the line. Hilliard suspected a lot of arm-twisting had gone into this venture, and hated the President all the more for it. It would have been a lie to claim Hilliard himself would have done no such thing, but that would have been for the good of the country, not some psychotic agenda.

And the worst part was, the people loved it.

True, it might have been because Arens had announced he would strike down any claims made against President Steele's "incredibly necessary" relief packages. Nonsense, Hilliard thought, pretty much all of the "incredibly necessary" business was stuff he stole from me. And the worst part of that was, Steele acknowledged that he'd stolen the idea. He'd said not long ago that, "While a man of dreadful opinions on race and workers' rights, Senator Hilliard did have a few things going for him, and it would be foolish not to put a good idea into practice, even if it comes from behind enemy lines. It's not like we spurned flamethrowers and gas in the Great War because the k----s were using them!"

That last bit had stung the worst, since Hilliard's father had been born in Austria, and while Hilliard himself had fought in the Great War (something Steele couldn't boast), he'd always maintained a healthy respect for the Central Powers, even in their defeat. To have them dismissed with a slur, the same way one would treat a black man or a Jew, sent a shudder of rage down the Senator's spine every time he thought about it.

As he walked down the Capitol steps, Hilliard was barraged by reporters from all the major papers. He was courteous enough, but he made it perfectly clear that he was unhappy with the confirmation vote, and complained heartily about a "stolen gavel." As he broke away from them, he continued his brooding.

As he was looking at the ground and grumbling, he never saw the man approaching him in a dark coat pull a gun, and fire.

August 30, 1933
The White House, Washington, D.C.

"D--n it, Edgar! You promised me you could handle this!"

Few people could actually unnerve J. Edgar Hoover, head of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but President Steele was somehow one of them. There was just a look in his eyes, one that suggested that, if you displeased him, no amount of sentiment or importance could save you. It was a scenario he'd never experienced under the other two Presidents he'd served, and he wasn't enjoying it.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President, but the man had to make a clean getaway, or else he could get traced back to us at some point! You know we couldn't afford that!"

For a moment, it looked as though the President had quite forgotten that, and was about to fire him regardless. However, Steele's expression soon cooled, and his next look at Hoover was one of understanding.

"All right, Edgar. All right. Convince the people that it was just a raving loon who, fortunately for Senator Hilliard, couldn't shoot straight."

The way he said the last three words sent a flush up Hoover's neck. "I'll make sure the next one can shoot better, sir."

The President stared at him as though he'd left his brain at home today. "There's no g-----n next one, Edgar! One assassin is a lone gun with a few screws loose. Two raises too many eyebrows to risk. And this isn't the Soviet Union, where, if Trotsky wants someone dead, he can just try over and over until the 'unfortunate accident' occurs. No, we botched this, so now we'll just have to hope we weakened Hilliard enough that he might as well have been killed."

August 30, 1933 (an hour later)
The White House, Washington, D.C.

John Dillinger knew he was safe when he walked through the door of the Oval Office, and saw the President's smiling face. And why shouldn't he be? Everything had gone according to plan, after all.

"That was some fine shooting you did there, John."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

"Tricky?"

"Nah. The old b-----d was too busy moping about Chief Justice Arens to even look where he was going. If he wasn't, he might have noticed a mobster coming at him."

Steele grinned at that. He'd spoken privately with Dillinger after a rally in Chicago (unlike Hilliard, he'd known better than to draw attention to his illicit actions), and had gotten the man to join up with the Feds upon his election, in exchange for a full pardon (and a fairly hefty salary).

When he'd been assigned by Hoover to take out Hilliard, the President had called him to his office, and explained what really needed to happen. Killing Hilliard would have made him a martyr, and the last thing they needed then was some screwball Southerner going around convincing his brethren that Hilliard had died for Steele's sins. So, the President had come up with a different plan: do unto Hilliard what had been done unto Hughes.

So far, it appeared, the plan was working beautifully. Hilliard was slowly recovering, and the papers were quick to denounce his claims of government involvement in his assassination attempt as merely the psychotic ramblings of a recovering trauma victim. They were all quite sure he'd come around soon, as he could offer no solid proof for his allegations.

Dillinger accepted a glass of vodka when the President offered, and drank heartily. He was about to ask why Steele wasn't having any himself when he began to feel an agonizing pain shoot through his entire body.

[Cabbage]

You’re a pretty bad mobster to have not seen that coming.

Probably just figured he was too much of an asset for Steele to do such a thing.

[Cabbage]

You’re a pretty bad mobster to have not seen that coming.

Aren't we talking about a guy who, while trying to escape a massive manhunt, was stupid enough to go see a movie?

This is true.

[Cabbage]

September 15, 1933
Arlington, Virginia

Adam Hilliard walked up to the podium.

He'd recovered surprisingly quickly from his brush with death two weeks ago, insisting on holding a press conference before the end of September to address the attack. His hair was somewhat grayer than it had been ("the color of Steele", he liked to joke), and his hatred for the President (as if there was any other way an assassin could get to the Capitol Building with security guards having been deployed since 1930) had only been exacerbated.

Evelyn had told him he was crazy to do this: is he was wrong, he'd make a fool of himself; if he was right, it would probably prompt the President to try again. He'd told her those were risks he was willing to take to unmask the "red hands in the White House." She'd tried a dozen different arguments, but none swayed him; he needed to do this.

Cameras clicked as he smiled at the reporters. He'd chosen a site not far from the National Cemetery, which provided a somewhat gloomy atmosphere, but he wasn't here to talk about friendship and kindness, or anything even vaguely in the vicinity.

"My friends, I stand before you today to tell you that, if the President had his way, I wouldn't be standing before you today, but rather lying down, a quarter mile back and six feet deep!"

The press stood in stunned silence, but Hilliard knew this was feigned. He'd heard the rumors that the President had gone around, silencing his opponents in order to "encourage stability." He knew all of them would go back and write "HILLIARD CLAIMS STEELE ORDERED ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT!", but he knew that many of them actually believed him. After the wretched, emaciated visage of Charles Hughes had emerged to grant all the President's demands, who could honestly doubt him?

"That's right, folks! President Joseph Steele ordered an attempt on my life, to quiet the loudest and most prominent dissenter against his tyrannical regime! He is afraid of the truth: that his reforms are unsustainable, that his works projects were stolen from me, no less! He is afraid that these self-evident truths will come back to bite him in '36, which his greed and arrogance would never allow him to refrain from!"

Regardless of whether or not they would show any outward signs of belief when their columns were written and the papers distributed, Hilliard could see that his words were getting through to people: he could see reasonable speculation turn into absolute conviction in their eyes, their pencils scratching frenetically as they tried to jot down every word.

"I do not know if I will once again make an attempt at the Presidency three years hence, but I can assure you of one thing: Joseph Steele, you've just made the worst enemy you could possibly imagine!"

September 16, 1933
The White House, Washington, D.C.

J. Edgar Hoover was firmly convinced the President had finally lost his mind.

He'd expected any number of reactions to the news that Hilliard had directly accused him of the assassination attempt: panic, rage, Hoover's own dismissal...laughter, on the other hand...

"Hoo hoo hoo! Will you look at this, Edgar? I've reduced the mighty Adam Hilliard to a small-town crank!"

Hoover couldn't say he shared the President's enthusiasm. While he would have been just as thrilled as Steele to watch the racist little s--t go down in flames, he was far less confident that such was what was occurring. Far from labeling him a crank, many papers (mostly in the South, but joined by the Los Angeles Times) all but stated that they believed him. There were calls for the President to be impeached on these charges, and for "a full and total investigation to take place, run by a private investigator, as it has become clear to us that the Federal Bureau of Investigation is little more than a puppet, dancing on Joe Steele's strings."

"Mr. President, you do understand that half the papers believe Hilliard to the point of wanting to try you for these claims?"

Steele looked Hoover in the eye, a smile still on his face. "Well, can't you see, Edgar? It's a simple process to discredit him, as it is to discredit any man. Either disprove a few of his other statements, or..." He leaned forward. "Find something on him." Steele whispered the last bit, leaving no question as to whether it was an order or not.

Hoover nodded stiffly as he turned and left. As soon as he was out of the office, he groaned mightily, putting his head in his hand. What in hell was he supposed to find on a vegetarian, teetotaling goody-two-shoes whose only negative ties were to the Ku Klux Klan, and those being ones he occasionally flaunted to frighten others?

And then Hoover realized he knew exactly how he could discredit the Senator from South Carolina.

[Cabbage]

September 21, 1933
New York City, New York

"And, in other news, Hiram Wesley Evans, Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, was arrested today on charges of treason against the United States, for attempting to shoot and kill Senator Huey Long. Evans has denied these charges, as has William Simmons, the founder of the Klan in its current incarnation, but the President insists he has evidence supporting such claims. The trial is scheduled for October 15th."

Ed Sullivan signaled to the operator to cut to commercial, and leaned back in his chair. He personally had doubts about the veracity of the claims surrounding Evans's arrest, but d----d if he didn't feel wonderful watching the little pig squeal about how he was being mistreated, about how he was a person too, about how he had rights. Including, apparently, the right to trample on the rights of others whenever the fit so takes him, Ed thought.

He had to admit that the President had been smart about the charges, in any case: if Evans had been grabbed for murder, it would have gone to a jury of the man's peers, and he'd be off the hook, leading to a messy appeal process. This way, Steele could go straight to the Supreme Court, where his best friend was now Chief Justice. And so, by a margin of 5-4, the Court finds Evans guilty of treason, and Adam Hilliard guilty of being dangerously close to the man. Naturally, being an associate of a condemned traitor wasn't illegal in its own right...but illegal and socially abhorrent were two very different turns of phrase.

And, to top it all off, President Steele had made certain Ed was the first to know about the arrest, so he could report it nationwide before anyone else. Some would call that government favoritism, and illegal, but no one was dumb enough to say anything. Especially not Ed. Oh, most especially not me.

October 14, 1933
Moscow, Russia

"But, Comrade Trotsky, we can't maintain the USSR without supplies!"

Nikita Khruschev, General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, was slowly losing his mind trying to convince his de facto leader, Leon Trotsky, to accept the American trade agreement. Steele had offered very generous terms, much more generous than anyone had expected, but he had a deadline: January 1, 1934. If no decision had been reached by then, all bets were off.

"I will never work with capitalist pigs! Do you hear me, Khruschev? Never!"

"With all due respect, Comrade, if Steele is a capitalist, then you and I are social democrats, at best; he's the first American President to give his workers any sort of reasonable living conditions, and it's beginning to shame us!" While the Soviet Union, being less connected to the outside world, had weathered the Great Depression better than most, it was recovering more slowly, as well. Steele, meanwhile, had pushed unemployment back down below a quarter, and was declaring more and more often that he would soon have it below a fifth, and then "back to reasonable levels by this time in my second term!"

None of which impressed Leon Trotsky. The man was a hardliner and an ideologue if ever such a creature existed...and it drove more pragmatic men, such as Khruschev, to the brink of madness on many an occasion. Such as right now.

"Give the dialectic time, Comrade Khruschev. All things will come with time. The great Global Revolution is inevitable, and so to rush it is foolhardy and dangerous." Khruschev sighed, recalling that the one thing Trotsky seemed good at was learning from his mistakes: after several disastrous invasions in eastern Europe and central Asia, he had slowly backed away from pushing a swift global revolution, in favor of waiting patiently for the workers of the world to recognize their woes and turn to Communism, their only hope.

"But, Comrade, if the country collapses, then the capitalists will have won a major victory, for in what other great land does the hammer and sickle fly above the seat of government? None, Comrade! If we do not do something with regards to international trade, we shall be lost!"

Trotsky looked more incensed than convinced, so Khruschev decided now would be a good time to take his leave, before he found himself out of a job and in a jail cell (while fear and mistrust among the governing elite of the USSR weren't as bad as they could be, they were far from nonexistent). He bid Trotsky good day, and exited the room before his premier could recall him.

***

"No deal?"

Khruschev sat down in the Moscow tavern across from a man with a faint accent. The less cosmopolitan denizens of the city (that being most of them) would have not had even the vaguest of clues what it was, but Khruschev recognized it instantly: American.

"Nyet. Trotsky won't budge on the trade deal, no matter how much reason I shine on the subject. He is convinced that, in order to truly call ourselves Communists, we must be self-sufficient, while ignoring the fact that millions of our people are starving to death right now because of his 'self-sufficiency.'" Khruschev had tried that argument the day before, with similar results to today.

"Yeah, your country can't feed itself and industrialize at the same time without foreign aid. That's why Mr. Steele was so kind as to offer you an out."

"And I would take the out in an instant, if only I could!" Despite the fervency in his tone, he whispered, lest he draw unwanted eyes toward himself. "Trotsky, though, as I have said, will not budge."

The American took a pair of spectacles out of his jacket pocket, and began to clean them. Odd, Khruschev thought, questioning why a man would put dirty glasses back in a case, only to pull them out and clean them later. "Have you ever considered, Mr. Khruschev, the possibility of your ascension to the position of premier?"

Khruschev blustered about how he most certainly had not, while at the same time signaling with his eyes that he had every day for years now, and ever more so since the trade deal had come up. The American nodded his understanding.

"That's most dreadfully unfortunate, Mr. Khruschev. I think you'd make a wonderful Premier, someday." He stood up and left, leaving the spectacles on the table. Khruschev had enough sense to finally see why they had been brought out, and to seize them before anyone noticed they had been left behind.

***

As the late hours of the night turned into the wee hours of the morning, Khruschev returned home, and immediately pulled out the spectacles. He had been told previously what to do, and so he grabbed a lamp and immediately shone it over the lenses.

Freshly engraved into them (there must have been a pin in that rag) was a set of instructions, telling Khruschev whom to talk to, when and where to talk to them, and what to talk about, should he prove interested in this scheme of Steele's.

The General Secretary laughed as he read the last part of the message. "Should you prove interested," as if he could possibly have any choice now!

[Cabbage]

November 1, 1933
Chartwell, England

Winston Churchill had been as surprised as anyone in England to hear of the latest foreign affairs news. Daladier in France, Otto Wels in Germany, MacDonald here, and Steele in America had formed an alliance for "moderate progress, achieved by fair and democratic means." It was completely out of character for all parties involved, which concerned the more conservative English all the more.

And if anyone was an expert on suspecting the intentions of foreign powers, it was Winston Churchill. He'd predicted that, should the Nazis (b----r Goebbels, b----r Himmler, and b----r their stupid insistence on using a name that ignored the actual full name of their party, derogatory or no) take power, they would immediately attempt to reclaim lost German lands by force, starting a second general European war. Unfortunately, he had no way of confirming this, as the Nazis had lost, but he still firmly believed it would have been the case.

This business, however, was a different animal entirely. Unlike the Nazis, who had bellowed jingoism to their dying days (most of which had been earlier in the year), the self-proclaimed Alliance for Democratic Progress was ardently against such measures...but, then, why were they forming a military alliance at all? Surely they didn't think they could conquer the world, or that they should, given that they already controlled vast swathes of the planet, and had influence over most of the rest.

Some might argue it was a defensive alliance, but Churchill had his doubts. At the same time that the alliance had been announced, MacDonald had declared a significant "defensive" military buildup. Normally, such would not be out of the ordinary. However, the fact that nearly all the troops and armaments were being sent to Singapore, Australia, New Zealand, and the British Pacific Islands indicated something else was afoot.

And one didn't need to have Churchill's mistrust of those currently in power to see what that something else was.

November 15, 1933
Rome, Italy

Benito Mussolini, on the other hand, had great amounts of mistrust in the leftist boobs in charge of most of the rest of the Western world, and had gone to great lengths to make sure his people felt the same. Nearly every word he said in public was an attack on the Alliance for Democratic Progress (which he claimed was a lie, as he firmly believed that Steele, Daladier, MacDonald, and Wels [the first and last, in particular] were some of the most brutal authoritarians he'd ever seen). He'd also been forced to postpone his planned invasion of Ethiopia until he could dispose of these madmen, as he couldn't risk a war with all four at once (even he understood that such would be an exercise in principled suicide).

Several of his generals walked into his rooms in Rome, as he'd ordered them to. They had been called here to present ideas to remove "the greatest threat to fascism and the sanctity of nations the world has ever seen." From the expressions on some of their faces, not everyone had been successful. From the expressions on others', he was going to hear a lot of stupid ideas before they were done. Then there were those who were neither uncertain nor smug: those were the ideas he was going to listen to.

***

The conference lasted for hours. In the end, an idea had been seized upon: to sow discord within the United States (Hilliard, Moseley, and the few remaining Nasos could be set to this task, and Mussolini had no doubt they would perform with great alacrity).

"Well, gentlemen, this has been a very constructive meeting, and I'm glad we could be so successful. Let us pray God wills we are victorious in our struggle against the vile leftists, and their ideologies that deny His very existence."

His devoutly Catholic generals nodded as they made their egress.

November 17, 1933
The White House, Washington, D.C.

President Steele burst into laughter as he read the meeting minutes his spies had brought to him from Italy. How stupid can these d---s get? He'd had Hilliard shot, the Nazis were nonexistent, and Moseley was Britain's political comedy relief on a good day. There wasn't a prayer of this plan working (not even a prayer uttered by a devout Catholic so close to the Vatican itself), even if Steele had had no idea of its existence.

Hoover, for once, shared in the President's merriment (he could read upside down at a frightening rate). It was the most ridiculous thing he'd heard, as well. Launching fascist revolutions so soon after one had collapsed so violently? It was insanity, pure and simple!

"Edgar, if the funnies could come up with stuff this good, I'd read every paper there is every day!"

Hoover chuckled. "True, Mr. President, but we should probably tell Wels and MacDonald about this, so they don't get surprised by it. Be a shame if we laughed our a--es off about it and then it suddenly works in Germany and Britain."

The President laughed, and gestured for Hoover to move along. "Well, hop to it, then! They ought to have a laugh with this, too!" He laughed a few more times, until Hoover left the room.

Al Capone, recently pardoned for tax evasion, walked in moments later?

"You need it done?"

Steele nodded.

Capone pulled a cigar, lit it, took a puff, and blew a smoke ring.

"Consider the man gone."

[Cabbage]

December 3, 1933
Arkhangelsk, Russia

Nikita Khruschev was beginning to regret his ambitions as he stood shivering in the well below zero temperatures of December on the Arctic coast.

His previous contact, who went by Heinz Neumann (interesting name for an American, but his German accent wasn't bad), had told him that Trotsky was growing suspicious of his weekly ventures into the less reputable parts of the city, and had begun having him tailed. As a result, President Steele thought it was in the best interest of all parties for his contacts to meet him somewhere else. So Khruschev had boarded a train north to this frozen wasteland, not failing to notice a scuffle breaking out between three dark-clad men on the platform, one of whom appeared to have been getting on the car behind his own.

Since then, the General Secretary had been warier of his surroundings, always looking into the shadows for unseen spies, agents of a man too wrapped up in ideology to recognize that Communism could not survive in this situation, that it needed outside aid for the moment.

It was at this point that another contact appeared.

"Yes? What news from Washington?"

"President Steele's just about got everything in place. You don't need to know who you're with until the fun starts, so don't bother asking."

"I knew that-"

"Yes, I'm sure you did, General Secretary. Plans are coming together quicker than expected; Snowball must be an unpopular pig." Khruschev had no idea who had come up with the codename for Trotsky, but it took all his efforts to avoid laughing at it. "Estimated time of arrival is January 15, 1934."

Khruschev blinked. "So soon?"

"Well, the President wants this done as quickly as possible, General Secretary. He wants to give unto the Soviet Union as much as the Soviet Union wants to receive from him."

Khruschev nodded, and rose. "I shall make the necessary preparations for such an esteemed occasion." With that, he hurried off. Well, Nikita, it's official. Trotsky's days are numbered.

December 22, 1933
London, England

Oswald Mosley was enjoying tea with friends when the police burst into his home.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, fully surprised by the intrusion.

"Sir Oswald, you are under arrest for conspiracy with a foreign power, against His Majesty the King, and his Government."

"What? Nonsense! With whom have I been in conspiracy? Himmler, Goebbels, Heydrich?"

"Mussolini."

"Mussolini? That strutting oaf? He couldn't weave a conspiracy with an automated loom!"

"Regardless, sir, we've intercepted correspondence from him to you, desiring for you to lead a fascist rebellion against king and country."

"A request I would most certainly have refused! I love Britain, and while I disagree with the leftist turn it has been taking of late, I would never besmirch it or myself by launching an open rebellion!" The last bit was a lie, but Mosley would have to have been a bigger idiot than Mussolini to speak the truth in that instant.

"Whatever the case in that regard, sir, you'll still need to come with us."

Mosley debated fighting, counted how many constables were at the door, and decided against it. He was innocent, and he knew it, the people knew it, and the world knew it. He would be exonerated, and could use the publicity to strengthen his own position. And wouldn't that just be a terrible shame? Joseph Steele's leftist alliance undone by one of its own acts of suppression?

December 25, 1933
The White House, Washington, D.C.

Joseph Steele and Upton Sinclair stood together on a balcony, overlooking the various Christmas parties going on throughout the city. Sinclair was an atheist, and Steele had never been terribly religious, but both still agreed that this was a truly magical time of year, when even the most greedy of men were willing to spare change for the poor, and when the world got a preview of what life would be like under Steele's reforms.

So far, there had been no further interruption from the Supreme Court with regards to his legislation (he'd sent Hank some fine Norwegian mead for Christmas, and gotten smuggled Russian vodka in return). His wage reforms were set to go into place in March, his child employment laws in May, his education laws in August. Unemployment was down to 18%, and shrinking by the month.

"Feels like the first truly merry Christmas this nation has seen in five years, eh, Upton?"

"More like fifteen years, now Prohibition's finally gone." Sinclair wasn't a heavy drinker himself, but he understood that alcohol provided a solace few things could match, and that the poor and disaffected would need such things until such time as the "Steele Deal," as the papers were marketing it, finally went into effect.

"I'll drink to that." Steele drained his glass (Hank's present was making itself quite useful), and leaned forward on the balcony. "It's amazing what we've done in a year, Upton. Truly amazing."

"It is, sir. I hope we can count on seven more such years before we're out."

Steele smiled at this. He figured he'd save his question of why only seven for a later time, and just enjoy the moment. "So do I, Upton."

Adam Hilliard had been as shocked as any to find out his father-in-law and benefactor, Jefferson Davis Brown, had been killed by mobsters for "an unpaid bill." The media had been rife with speculation as to what the bill was for, but no major mob boss was willing to comment (Al Capone had even ordered the reporters who came to him thrown out of his office). Rumors had ranged from a simple unpayable alcohol tab to all sorts of lewd and despicable ideas. Steele's favorite was the one from the New York Worker, which claimed Brown had used the mob to find him little girls to...be friendly with. He naturally denounced the story as wildly unlikely when the media asked him about it, but it was still a fine bit of reading.

And so, with another drink, President Joseph Steele wished himself a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

[Cabbage]

"Yes, I'm sure you did, General Secretary. Plans are coming together quicker than expected; Snowball must be an unpopular pig." Khruschev had no idea who had come up with the codename for Trotsky, but it took all his efforts to avoid laughing at it. "Estimated time of arrival is January 15, 1934."

I see what you did there. I guess since Stalin isn't in Russia, Animal Farm won't be written anyway...

No, probably not. Orwell might come out with something else, though; you never know.

[Cabbage]

January 2, 1934
Berlin, Germany

Chancellor Otto Wels rubbed his temples to keep down his rising annoyance with the sanctimonious Frenchmen before him. Negotiations to permanently allow for the strengthening of the German military to prevent another fascist uprising were going far worse than expected. Daladier's lackwitted pets wouldn't move an inch with regards to the size of the German military, convinced it would come back to haunt them.

Isn't paranoia and fear how we got into this mess in the first place? Wels thought to himself. He'd survived the revolt of the previous year by a much closer margin than he cared to admit, especially to these simpletons. He knew that Mussolini would use troops to aid the rebels, MacDonald knew that Mussolini would use troops to aid the rebels, and Daladier was an idiot if he didn't know it (Wels wouldn't put it past him).

So why were the French still resisting a clear necessity? The war had been over more than fifteen years, and more than thirty thousand fascists and nationalists had died in the rebellion; what could the French possibly be afraid of?

"We will not tolerate a rearmed Germany. We have seen an armed Germany, and have no desire to see it again! We will never allow this to occ-"

The door slammed open behind the French. In walked a man whom Wels had been praying would arrive (as a good socialist, he normally didn't believe in God, but he figured that any extra help was welcome in this case).

"Secretary Morgan!"

Victor Morgan, the United States Secretary of State, strode in with all the confidence in the world. And why not? Anyone with a brain knew that he spoke with the voice of President Steele, and that to defy him would bring nothing but trouble.

The French, regardless of whether or not they fit said category, knew to give Morgan his proper respect, and smiled broadly at him as he entered the room.

From there, it was a matter of minutes.

Yesterday, the French government agreed to waive the military limitations clause of the Treaty of Versailles until such time as the potential for fascist uprising in Germany has passed once more. US Secretary of State Victor Morgan was an active figure in the negotiations, with their conclusion occurring within an hour of his arrival in Berlin. All four leaders of the Alliance for Democratic Progress have endorsed the plan, while Mussolini has raged about militarism by the "puppets of the radical, Marxist left, and the Trotskyites of the Soviet Union."

January 14, 1934
Moscow, Russia

Tomorrow, it all begins. Nikita Khruschev looked out the window of his Moscow apartment. His return to the city from Arkhangelsk had brought much whispering. Initially, he had been concerned, but he quickly discovered that the whisperers were actually with him. They were simply spreading information the Americans had given them: where to be when the operation began, what to do, how to do it: the Americans had thought of everything.

Khruschev was to lie low until the fireworks had largely died down; he was too valuable an asset to be risked so early on. The rebels weren't even allowed to mention his name until it had been confirmed Trotsky was dead or had fled the country (there were no illusions about the possibility of such). So far, all security had seemingly been maintained. Trotsky was none the wiser about the plot against him, even at this late stage.

Zhukov was to head the insurrection; a minor cavalry office from Belorussia, he had shown enough promise to entice Steele's men to back him for Minister of Defence. Like Khruschev, he was significantly younger than the "old guard" Trotsky had drawn to himself; also like Khruschev, he was far more ambitious than all of them put together.

***

January 15

The first blasts of the attack startled Khruschev awake. He had been told to rest, and warned that he might not have the opportunity for some time after. He sorely wished he'd taken the advice.

As he stumbled from his bedroom, he was met by the pair of Americans who had been posted in his apartment, with orders to protect him "at all costs, from both death and capture."

"Well, Mark, George, it looks like the game's begun."

Despite the Anglophonic sound of the names, Khruschev knew they were fakes; no proof could be found of US agents' involvement if anything went awry. They would have forged Soviet papers, and Khruschev had been told to call the "Lavrentiy" and "Ivan" if they were killed.

"George" nodded. "Yes, sir, Mr. Premier, it looks like it. I'm just happy we rigged the table before we started playing."

"Mark" agreed with the sentiment in silence; he didn't speak much, which was undoubtedly a benefit in his line of work. The characteristic also made evident to the General Secretary whom of the two was the more dangerous.

Another blast rocked the building. Khruschev eyed the walls nervously, noticing a new crack in one. "Is it safe to remain here, or should we flee the city?"

"Run? Nonsense, Mr. Premier ("George" insisted on calling him that)! I'd say that we'll have this business done with soon enough, and then you'll be laughing at how silly you were being, trying to run away from your glorious victory."

Khruschev tugged at the collar of his shirt, hoping he was right. The blasts did seem to be approaching the Kremlin, and Steele's men had assured him that everything would go as easily as could possibly be achieved when launching a rebellion against an established government. They'd promised him many things, however: it would be over by the end of the day, Trotsky would probably turn tail and run for his life, none of his supporters would dare stand up against the new regime.

Khruschev almost wished he was foolish enough to believe them.

[Cabbage]

January 26, 1934
The White House, Washington, D.C.

President Steele looked at a map of the Soviet Union with great irritation. His spies and generals had drawn up approximate battle lines between Khruschev's rebels and Trotsky's loyalists, and none of them were where he'd hoped they'd be by this time. Moscow was still in contention, while Leningrad and Volgograd, rather than being seized quickly and quietly, had devolved into merciless (and messy) street-to-street fighting.

Vice President Sinclair, Director Hoover, and General MacArthur sat across the table from the President, none daring to speak out while Steele was in a mood such as this. Yes, indeed, I picked smart men when I agreed to do this job, he thought to himself. If only I'd picked smarter men to handle the job in Russia.

Admittedly, it wasn't all quite so underwhelming as all that. Kiev had been mostly seized, and Minsk was basically a siege of the government offices. Omsk and all areas east of it were largely contained (although significant forces of gulag guards continued to cause trouble on occasion, struggling to break free from the Khurschevist blockade).

However, the fact remained that, in every sector where fighting was ongoing, it was boding better for Trotsky than had been anticipated by those involved.

The foremost of whom was sitting directly across from Steele, nerves flickering in his eyes even as his face remained utterly expressionless. As the President fixed his undivided attention on Hoover, the man flinched, a surprise from a man so given to acting as though nothing was wrong (and an indicator of how concerningly poorly the man thought the rebellion was going).

"Edgar, would you care to voice your thoughts on this matter?"

Having regained his composure, Hoover nodded and stood. "Gentlemen, we have been called here today to discuss future stratagems for our quasi-war against the Soviet tyranny under Premier Trotsky. I have worked long and diligently to create the infrastructure necessary for this rebellion to begin, but could not, in a reasonable period of time, be expected to create a network comprehensive enough to ensure the totally smooth running of the planned engagement."

MacArthur, ever eager to pick a fight, spoke up at this. "So, you're telling me, Director, that without any evidence to suggest that plans would go this well, and, in fact, evidence to the contrary, if I hear correctly, you proceeded to write an idealistic timetable for all objectives being captured in this campaign. Is that correct?"

Hoover sighed and nodded slowly. "It is, General."

MacArthur looked stern at this. "Mr. President, it would be my advice that you remove Mr. Hoover as FBI Director immediately, considering this disaster he's created."

Steele looked at MacArthur with emotionless eyes, assuring MacArthur would take no offense to what he said next. "With all due respect, General, that's simply not feasible under current conditions."

"But sir-"

"Let me finish, General. At this time, the world is unaware of our involvement in the Soviet Civil War, yes?" He turned to Hoover.

The director thanked Steele wordlessly before proceeding. "Yes, Mr. President, that is the case. While the military aspect of the campaign has yet to produce results at the desired pace," MacArthur scoffed at this. "It has been the case that we are not evidently involved in the rebellion, and any and all claims to the contrary are only speculative."

"Which is why, General..." Steele took the initiative here. "...we absolutely cannot fire Mr. Hoover from his position at this time, lest it fuel further speculation regarding our actions in Russia. Does that clear matters up for you?"

"It does, Mr. President, but why bother with the secrecy?"

The President stared at him as though he'd just suggested Hilliard should have won the '32 election. "Because, General, if we were to openly attack the Trotskyite regime, it would lead to a global conflict in a matter of weeks, and I assume you, of all people, having served in the Great War, understand the downsides of such a scenario."

For a few seconds, it appeared as if MacArthur understood no such thing. Then he responded, finally grasping the more political reasons why a second Great War would be both unnecessary and detrimental. "I do, Mr. President. I apologize for the insubordination." It was evident that he only did so out of his own sense of politics, rather than any true regret, but such an apology would have to do for now. Steele had a more important task for him right now.

"Since you have proven so eager to add your voice to the discussion of proper strategy when engaging in armed conflict, I believe I have an assignment for you in which you would undoubtedly feel quite useful, General MacArthur."

February 4, 1934
Arkhangelsk, Russia

At some point, Douglas MacArthur was convinced, he would learn to shut his mouth before he stuck his dogs--t-covered boot in.

Steele had sent him to Russia, convinced that MacArthur was convinced that Zhukov required assistance in his crusade against Red nutjobs like Trotsky. In truth, MacArthur was convinced both Steele and Hoover required assistance in the location of functioning brains, but such was something that was best left in one's head when speaking with either of the two.

Zhukov, to his credit, greeted MacArthur with all the fanfare the American general believed he deserved (even if he wouldn't have raised a fuss for Julius Caesar himself under these conditions, in order to maintain secrecy and security). The two men shook hands when MacArthur disembarked (Zhukov had clearly been briefed on the American aversion to men kissing in public), and Zhukov presented "our American ally" with a bottle of Russia's finest. Not a man for such himself, MacArthur made a mental note to send it to the President in Washington as soon as the opportunity arose.

Right now, however, he just wanted to get down to business.

He set about inspecting Zhukov's troop alignments, quickly pointing out flaws here and there. He was surprised at how few there were, given how slowly the rebels' progress had been. Zhukov quickly gave the age-old excuse about how the enemy's generals were far more skilled than initially anticipated, until MacArthur told him to cut the crap. "What happened was, you had an intelligence man set your objectives, and, despite the label, intelligence men couldn't figure out a reasonable deadline to reach an objective if you wrote it on a piece of paper and dangled it in front of their face." Zhukov snorted at this, then took a pull on his own personal bottle of Russian antifreeze. "General MacArthur, I do believe we're going to get on wonderfully."

[Cabbage]

February 15, 1934
Moscow, Russia

Leon Trotsky sat stonefaced as Malenkov continued to read off the report on the state of the war. The thing was about 2,000 words long, by Trotsky's guess, and about 1,999 could have been omitted, and the last one changed. The new word being disaster.

Khruschev's rebels (considering his sudden liaisons to various parts of the Soviet Union, and now this, two and two weren't so difficult to add) were advancing everywhere, in spite of valiant and righteous efforts to hold them off. Moscow, Leningrad, and most of the other major cities west of the Urals were under siege, or would be in the next month. Worse still, the Poles had taken this opportunity to make claims into Belorussia (although that was more trouble for Khruschev's forces, it still galled Trotsky to think that the glorious Soviet Union could be brought so low).

What irritated Trotsky the most was the fact that things were not going half so horribly as people outside the USSR would like to believe, and yet still there was rebellion against him, as if he were some malicious czar on a throne of gold, eating richly of the land that by rights belonged to the people. While Trotsky made no claims to self-starvation in the name of the common good, he did not go out of his way to starve them, either.

And yet Khruschev (most likely with foreign backing; Trotsky didn't trust Steele beyond arm's reach, and he had long suspected he had good reason not to do so) had decided that Trotsky must be doing something wrong, and so had to be stopped at all costs. But why? What could Khruschev, what could Steele, gain from making open warfare against the Soviet Union?

Then it clicked.

Trotsky smiled as he rose from his desk. Malenkov stared at him as though he'd lost his mind. Maybe he had, but he most likely hadn't. Oh, no. And, even if he had, he knew a lot of people around the world would believe the madness he was about to unleash.

And may the dialectic help Steele when I do.

February 24, 1934
The White House, Washington, D.C.

The accusations from Trotsky had spread far and fast along the grapevine (all radio signals out of Moscow had been deliberately scrambled weeks ago), much to the President's dismay. The worst part was that they were perfectly reasonable: the US had wanted a trade deal with the Reds, Trotsky wouldn't cough up, so the US had started a rebellion against Trotsky.

When MacDonald had asked Steele over a private line whether he had influenced the rebellion, he'd done what most would consider mad: he was straight with the Prime Minister. He'd done everything Trotsky said he had, and even a few things the little Red weasel didn't even know about yet. MacDonald had been silent for some time...before telling Steele that none of this could get out.

It was an obvious statement, but no doubt it made MacDonald feel as though he'd fulfilled his moral duty to his country and its ally. Steele had assured that Hoover was working on plans to dispose of Trotsky promptly, before he could find any definitive proof linking the United States to any insurrection in Russia. MacDonald had agreed to that, and hung up. This process was repeated with both Daladier and Wels when they called later on in the day.

The narrative was settled upon: no Western power had any involvement or knowledge of the uprising in Russia until its outbreak, and only the latter afterward. Khruschev had most likely seen the economic opportunity being offered to the Soviet Union by the Steele regime and, seeing Trotsky would most assuredly refuse, had decided that this madness could go on no longer. When asked if they would open trade negotiations with Khruschev, all four leaders would declare that this was a prime opportunity to support a Soviet Union that didn't act with open hostility toward the rest of the world, and announce that while they would not intervene in the conflict out of respect to Trotsky, then most assuredly believed Khruschev would be a much better leader.

MacArthur was to remain in Russia, but to go by the alias "Dmitri Maximov" until the end of the conflict. He was to focus on ousting Trotsky himself in Moscow, by whatever means proved necessary, while other commanders focused on the less pressing issues of Leningrad and the gulags (they weren't a bad idea, overall, in Steele's opinion, but he knew that he'd face his own little insurrection if he ever tried such a thing himself).

When all of that was settled, Steele sent for Hoover, knowing the man would want to know everything, so he could plan accordingly.

Hoover was almost supplicant as he entered the office, keeping his eyes low and his head bowed. He shuffled toward the President's desk, almost as if he were afraid. Steele chuckled. Maybe he was.

"Now cut that out, Edgar. You look like a g-----n Japanese when you walk in all bent double like that." Hoover straightened to almost ramrod proportions. Yes, he was firmly convinced he was still in trouble.

As Steele explained the situation to his intelligence chief, he could see the wheels turning, eager to redeem their master in the eyes of his master. Steele let them turn on as he continued, then waited in silence once he finished.

Hoover took a moment to piece together his answer (good God, but maybe I should have given him h--l about Russia; it might at least give him some level of nerves). When he did speak, however, it was in his usual sure character. "I agree with what you've done, Mr. President, but I'm not entirely sure our allies are so sure in their trust of us as all that. I have a bad feeling one or more of them might openly condemn our actions to save their own hides."

"So, what should we do about it, Edgar?"

And so Edgar told him.

[Cabbage]

March 11, 1934
New Orleans, Louisiana

Huey Long walked into the diner to cheers and applause. He waved and smiled, as he always did, basking in the attention. The people loved him and his populist policies, and why shouldn't they? They'd worked wonders for the population of the state, making every man a king.

He signaled to the waiter, who directed him to his own private booth (most of his favorite eateries had such comforts for him), and took him order.

"The usual, Eddie," he responded, knowing Eddie knew what that meant.

"Of course, sir." Eddie hurried off.

As he waited for his food, the Senator was joined by a somewhat unimposing man, balding and moustached. The man was an appointee of Steele's to the FBI, but to a position innocuous enough to ensure he wouldn't be making headlines any time soon (as the President no doubt intended).

Stan McCoy had been working with the Steele campaign ever since he'd lost his job in an Ohio steel factory, and had quickly wormed his way through the ranks into the inner circle, quietly joining the likes of Hoover, Sinclair, and Morgan. He was effectively the President's fixer, and d---ed good at it, at this point. He'd even turned the Ed Sullivan Show into Joe Steele's Propaganda Hour: an impressive feat in a reactionary place like America.

So naturally it had both surprised and unnerved Long when McCoy began asking after him. He'd had his share of questions about the extent and viability of many of the President's programs, so he feared that McCoy was going to do unto him what had been done unto Sullivan (not that Sullivan looked too bad, especially compared to Hughes). It relieved him to see McCoy smiling amiably, but he refused to lower his guard, in any case.

"Senator, I take it you're wondering why Joe Steele's fixer gives half a rat's a-- about your actions."

"I am, yes." Long maintained his composure well. He knew better than to let a man like this smell fear.

McCoy smirked. "Oh, relax, Senator. I'm not here for your head on a spike; quite the opposite, in fact." He paused, allowing Long to grow intrigued. "I'm here to speak to you about the possibility of taking up the presidency of the chamber in which you currently serve."

Long gawked at him for a moment before responding. "But what about Vice President Sinclair? Surely he won't have any of this; he's been wanting an opportunity and a platform like this for years!"

McCoy sighed, rubbing his temples. "You're right on that front, Huey. He won't be going anywhere unless we push him, and the President wouldn't dare push him if he wasn't so violently against the whole Russia business."

Long snorted. He'd long since figured the narrative the President had put out about American non-involvement to be so much horses--t. Trotsky was something in the President's way, as Hilliard had been something in the President's way. Now, Hilliard was growing more and more of a reputation as a crank, and Trotsky...well, if the news had it right, Khruschev would be knocking on Trotsky's door within days now. "So you want a man who's willing to say that Trotsky's a nut for implicating the United States, but the Reds going at each other isn't so bad, is that it?"

McCoy beamed. "That's exactly right, Senator. Can we trust you to be that man?"

Long feigned consideration for a moment. He wanted the job, but to make himself look like he could be made to do anything once he had it would be both foolish and dangerous, neither of which sounded like good characteristics for a Vice President. In the end, however, he stretched out his hand, and said, "All the way to the moon and back."

McCoy grabbed the proffered hand, shook it, and left without a word. Long, however, realized he'd forgotten to ask one key question:

How was he going to be made Vice President, with Sinclair having no outward reason to be removed?

March 26, 1934
Moscow, Russia

The end had come.

Leon Trotsky sat in the Kremlin, raging over the treachery of Khruschev, knowing in his heart that it had been only the corrupting influence of Steele which had driven one of his chief lieutenants to rebel openly against him. The walls shook from the detonations of nearby artillery shells, as the rebels stalked ever closer to his base of power.

He'd been urged to flee by every adviser he had, but he would have none of it. He'd helped birth this nation, and he would stay with it even unto death. Some called him mad as they made plans to escape to Sweden, Switzerland, or any other country that would have them, with the West seeming to support the new Khruschev government. He didn't care. He would stand and fight to the last, even if he had to point a machine gun out one of the windows and fire on the rebel troops from above.

As he walked the halls of what had once been a bastion of feudalistic decadence, Trotsky thought back on all he had accomplished: the collectivization of the entirety of the Soviet Union (casualties be d---ed), the spread of the Red spirit all across the world, the strengthening of the Soviet Union to its power prior to the war. He smiled, even in defeat, knowing that all Khruschev would do would be to throw the USSR back into the reactionary darkness that had been its lot for centuries. And when he did, people would begin scheming against him.

Now small arms fire could be heard, chattering away as it moved closer to where Trotsky stood. He peered out a window, and could see muzzle flashes in the distance. Uncaring about the risk, he walked in front of every single window in the hallway, daring the enemy to take this chance to kill the man they had once sworn loyalty to.

One sniper appeared to take that as an invitation.

Glass shattered as the bullet scythed through Trotsky's brain. He was dead before he hit the floor.