Red Tide Rising

Moscow,  November,2026  

Snow fell relentlessly outside the Kremlin, obscuring the familiar outlines of Red Square and turning the city into a monochrome canvas. Within the fortified walls, the air was warmer, but heavy with anticipation, the smell of old wood and polished stone mingling with faint traces of expensive cologne and tobacco smoke. The Security Council chamber was nearly full, though the usual hierarchy was rigidly maintained: ministers, generals, senior aides, and a handful of political strategists who had survived countless crises and purges, all seated as witnesses to the Premier’s will. 

Anton Volkov, Premier of Russia, sat at the head of the table. His posture was meticulous, his hands resting lightly on the polished surface, fingers steepled. A lifetime of controlling appearances had taught him that perception could be as lethal as artillery, and today he needed both. 

Volkov had just returned from a series of debriefings on the conflict in Ukraine. Reports were precise, surgical, and devastating in their implications. The war was over, or as over as anything in politics and geopolitics ever truly was but not in the way Volkov had imagined. 

Yes, Territory won in the Donbas. But the victory was partial, limited, measured. For every kilometre gained, hundreds of Russian lives had been lost. Strategic objectives had been met only halfway. Morale within the army was fractured and the world beyond had watched with a mixture of caution, horror, and determination to resist Russia’s designs. NATO survived intact. The West had proven it could act, collectively when provoked, marshalling resources, deploying sanctions, and providing unwavering support to Kyiv. 

Volkov felt a familiar tightness in his chest, a mix of frustration and calculation. The “victory” was bitter. It was not the clean triumph he craved, not the statement of dominance he had envisioned when the first orders were given. Now, as he reviewed the reports, the lists of casualties, the strategic maps with thin red lines marking the territory taken, he understood that a new strategy was required, not one of subtle influence, but of unmistakable demonstration. 

He leaned back, steepling his fingers under his chin, and let the room settle around him. His advisors watched quietly. They had learned long ago that in these moments, silence was not submission, it was survival. 

“Gentlemen,” Volkov began, his voice calm but sharp, carrying over the polished wood and low lighting of the chamber, “the Ukrainian campaign has concluded. Territory has been gained. We can mark that as a tactical success. But we cannot pretend it is a strategic triumph. The victory we sought is incomplete. The lesson to the West remains unlearned. NATO, the United States, the United Kingdom, interpret hesitation as weakness. That perception must end.” 

There was a brief, measured silence. General Morozov, seated to the Premier’s right, shifted slightly in his chair, the medals on his chest glinting in the light. He had been in wars that tested men beyond reason, he understood the weight of Volkov’s words. 

Premier Volkov continued, eyes sweeping the chamber, catching and holding the attention of everyone present. “The Collaboration of the Willing, a coalition of thirty-three nations aligned against Russia in support of Ukraine, is a statement. It is also a provocation. They have acted as one, and they will not forget our restraint. But restraint is not power. Restraint is patience, and patience is easily misinterpreted as weakness.” 

A junior minister swallowed hard. “Premier,” he ventured cautiously, “if I may… restraint has prevented further escalation. It has contained the conflict.” 

Volkov’s gaze was a blade. He did not smile. “Containment is not victory. Containment is a temporary measure, a pause in the inevitable reckoning. I am not satisfied with pauses. I am satisfied only with results that echo, results that make the world remember, results that leave no doubt about Russia’s capacity to act decisively and without hesitation.” 

He rose from his chair, the motion slow but commanding, drawing the eyes of every attendee. “The West must understand the cost of opposition. The United Kingdom has positioned itself as a leader of this coalition. Thirty-three countries, united in opposition, must be taught a lesson, not by words, not by diplomacy, but by demonstration. And the United States… they must comprehend that their global reach is limited when they confront Russia directly.” 

The chamber was quiet now. No murmurs, no cautious whispers, only the sound of his voice and the faint ticking of the clock. 

Volkov turned slightly, gesturing toward General Vlasenko, who had remained standing, silent, a figure of controlled intensity. His boots had left faint impressions in the marble floor, but he moved with the certainty of one accustomed to command. 

“Sergei,” Volkov said, “the Council has heard my concerns. The path I wish to take is clear. I require your counsel, and your execution.” 

Vlasenko’s face was impassive, the scar over his left eyebrow catching the overhead light as he nodded once. “Premier,” he said, his voice precise, “the task is possible. There are options that demonstrate power without exposing Russia to unnecessary risk. One option, in particular, meets your criteria: an action that is visible, undeniable, and untraceable in immediate attribution.” 

Volkov’s eyes narrowed. “The Poseidon weapon,” he said slowly, testing the weight of the words on the room. A ripple of tension passed through the chamber. The nuclear option had always been the specter in every discussion of escalation. Its power was unmatched, its risks absolute. 

Vlasenko inclined his head. “Yes, Premier. The Poseidon is capable of delivering a message the West cannot ignore. But it is not without political hazard. Its deployment would be interpreted as a first-strike nuclear act. There would be no half-measures in response. It would trigger global escalation, and Russia would find itself on a path from which it could not return.” 

Volkov considered the statement. The room seemed to shrink, the vaults of the ceiling pressing down with the weight of history. He did not flinch. He had long ago learned that hesitation was a luxury that leaders could not afford. “Then we do not use it,” he said. The words were deliberate, slow, measured. “We do not play their game on their terms. The demonstration must be unmistakable, yes, but it must not be nuclear. It must be something that forces them to acknowledge our reach, our capacity, and our resolve, without risking the finality of global annihilation.” 

Vlasenko’s lips tightened. “Understood, Premier. There are alternatives. Demonstrative options that communicate power and discipline without invoking nuclear escalation.” 

Volkov paced slowly, his long coat brushing the floor. His mind traced every scenario he had considered since the war began, every decision made, every misstep, every casualty. “The West,” he said finally, “believes in containment. They believe in rules, alliances, and moral codes. They must understand that Russia answers only to itself. We do not negotiate from weakness. We do not offer restraint as a gift. Our lessons must be delivered with precision, and with authority.” 

General Morozov leaned forward, his hands on the table. “Premier, the message you propose… if it is too aggressive, it may invite scrutiny. We must consider international optics.” 

Volkov’s eyes bored into him. “Optics are the concern of diplomats. Strategy is the concern of generals. Today, I speak as a strategist. And I say: the message must be clear. The United Kingdom must feel it. The United States must understand it. All those who support Ukraine must grasp that Russia is willing to act decisively. We are no longer interested in measured responses. We are interested in impact.” 

Vlasenko’s response was quiet, but unwavering. “Then we proceed with planning. We involve the Navy. We prepare all necessary channels. We ensure discretion, timing, and execution. And we do so with the knowledge that this act will be seen, remembered, and understood by our intended audience. The lesson will be taught, Premier. The theatre will be ours.” 

Volkov nodded, his pale eyes gleaming with a mixture of satisfaction and calculation. “Prepare the plan, Sergei. I want details. I want contingencies. I want absolute clarity on every possible outcome. And I want it ready for my approval within the week.” 

A tense silence followed. Every member of the council understood the gravity of what had just been sanctioned. There would be no half-measures, no delays, no room for hesitation. The Premier’s will was absolute, and the machinery of power was set in motion. 

Volkov leaned back, eyes drifting to the high windows that framed the snow-swept city beyond. He imagined the currents of the estuary, the channels of the Thames, and the distant, unsuspecting population that would be forced to reckon with Russia’s decision. He felt no excitement, only the cold satisfaction of control. 

“This is not a threat,” he said quietly, more to himself than to anyone else in the room. “This is a lesson. One they will not forget.” 

Vlasenko inclined his head in agreement. “They will understand, Premier. We will ensure it is unmistakable, undeniable, and precise. The message will be clear.” 

The Premier turned back to the council. “You will ensure your departments are ready. Every measure must be in place, every chain of command secure. I want no surprises, no failures, no excuses. We are preparing history here. Not a battle, not a war, but a demonstration. Let this council remember: history remembers only the decisive.” 

Volkov’s gaze swept across the chamber one last time. He saw faces tense with anticipation, faces hardened by years of discipline, and a few that betrayed fear. He did not flinch. He had chosen decisiveness over doubt, action over hesitation, and the lesson to the West would begin. 

Outside, the snow thickened, covering the city in white, muffling the sound of the world. Inside, the Kremlin was a hive of planning, strategy, and determination. The Premier had spoken. The generals and ministers would act. And the world, unknowingly, waited for a reckoning that was already in motion. 

Vlasenko gathered his dossier, straightened his uniform, and moved toward the door, the echo of his boots a reminder that in this chamber, decisions were not debated, they were enacted. He paused briefly, looking back at Volkov. “The Navy will be instructed. The plan will be prepared. The message will be clear.” 

Volkov nodded, a faint, satisfied smile crossing his face. “Good. Let us remind the world that Russia does not forget, does not hesitate, and does not compromise its will. The West will learn, whether they like it or not.” 

And with that, the council session ended, leaving behind a chamber charged with anticipation, strategy, and the quiet certainty that a lesson was on its way. 

A week later the Security Council convened again in the chamber of the Kremlin that had a presence of its own. The vaulted ceiling arched overhead like the spine of a cathedral, and the polished wood of the ridiculously long central table gleamed under the low oblong lights, reflecting the solemn faces gathered around it. The room was too large for comfort, too small to contain the gravity of the decisions that had been made here over decades. Outside, snow fell in thin sheets over Red Square, but inside, the cold clarity of bureaucracy reigned. 

Premier Anton Volkov sat at the head of the table, his posture, as ever immovable, his hands folded neatly before him. Every movement was deliberate, as if any shift in position might be interpreted as weakness by the council that surrounded him. His eyes, pale and sharp, scanned the assembled faces: generals, ministers, advisers, and a small contingent of bureaucrats whose presence was as much for form as function.  

General Sergei Vlasenko’s boots echoed softly against the marble floor as he entered. The sound carried authority in a way that words could not. Crisp in his ceremonial uniform, with the silver braid of his shoulder glinting under the overhead lights, he moved with the kind of confidence that only years of command could forge. His eyes were fixed on Volkov, unreadable, and yet assessing. He did not acknowledge the council at large; they were witnesses, not participants in the moment of power that had brought him here. 

“Premier,” Vlasenko began, his voice calm, measured, like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath, “the West believes it understands the limits of our resolve. They do not. NATO reads the surface; we operate in the current beneath it.” 

Volkov’s eyes remained steady, his hands resting lightly on the table, his fingers steepled. “Proceed,” he said simply, his tone carrying both command and invitation. 

Vlasenko placed a dossier on the polished wood. It was thick, heavy, meticulously annotated, and tabbed. Each page contained photographs, maps, and historical manifests, carefully prepared for this very presentation. He spread it before the Premier, letting the weight of the material communicate its importance. He did not need to speak to command attention; the document itself, combined with his presence, was enough. 

“I have considered the Poseidon option,” Vlasenko continued, his voice steady. “The weapon the West fears most, the so-called ‘tsunami bomb.’ It is a symbol, yes, but it is also a trap. Its deployment would be interpreted as a nuclear first strike. The result is inevitable: a full-scale escalation, uncontrollable and catastrophic. Moscow cannot risk that.” 

Moreover, our scientists do not believe it would have the effect we are seeking. While it proves to be psychologically intimidating, there are concerns regarding its efficacy. 

While the Poseidon drone has stealth capability, it is not invisible, especially in shallow coastal waters. The 500 metre high tsunami wave we have portrayed to the west is perhaps....optimistic, it would cause coastal damage and there would be radioactive fallout but it would not wipe out the UK. It is a nuclear option, and our ICBMs offer a far more effective nuclear capability if we choose that route. 

Volkov inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the summary. “I have spoken to Admiral Morozov,” he said. “He agrees. Nuclear options are too visible, too final.” 

Vlasenko’s lips tightened almost imperceptibly. The concession had been anticipated; the relief in Volkov’s voice, however, was unexpected. The Premier’s ability to weigh risk and still appear composed was formidable, even enviable. 

“Then we must send a different message,” Vlasenko said, “one that demonstrates power without inviting global annihilation. A lesson, a correction, but with the possibility of plausible deniability. A demonstration of our reach and precision, without crossing the line the West fears most.” 

Volkov’s eyes flicked across the table, taking measure of the council. “And this demonstration, General… what does it involve?” His voice was low, almost conversational, but every syllable carried the weight of decision. 

Vlasenko allowed himself a brief pause, scanning the room. He noted subtle reactions: the shift of a foot, the clearing of a throat, the tightening of a jaw. Few in the chamber had the resolve to follow him fully, and yet they understood the import of his words. The decision before them was not about mechanics—it was about will. 

“There is a relic from World War 2,” he said finally, “a vessel, lying off the Thames estuary near Sheerness. It carries a cargo of tremendous potential, 1,400 tonnes of explosive ordnance, left to decay beneath the sea. The SS Richard Montgomery was an American Liberty ship carrying a cargo of explosives from the US to Europe in 1944. It ran aground on a sandbank in the Thames estuary, breaking in two. It has laid there since, slowly decaying. 

It provides an opportunity that demands discretion, subtlety, and timing. If employed correctly, it sends a message without resorting to the nuclear option.” 

A low murmur ran through the chamber. Ministers exchanged glances, some uneasy, some calculating. Volkov’s expression, however, remained composed, unreadable. He had seen this type of strategic theatre before: the careful balancing of risk, fear, and public perception. It was the art of governance in a world where the stage was global, and the consequences of misstep were measured in lives and history. 

Volkov leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “A catastrophe perceived as accidental. But accidents leave questions. Who will be blamed? How do we ensure the narrative remains under our influence?” 

Vlasenko allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Control, Premier, is always partial. Perception, however, is entirely malleable. We dictate the terms by shaping the evidence, the context, the story told afterwards. NATO will see the disaster. They will not know its source for certainty. And the lesson, our lesson, will be unmistakable.” 

The Premier nodded slowly, as if weighing every nuance of the General’s words. “And the human cost?” 

Vlasenko’s reply was stark, precise, and unflinching. “The human cost is regrettable but unavoidable. Every demonstration of power carries it. The West must understand that Moscow’s reach is not merely symbolic; it has consequences. Our objective is not indiscriminate death, it is a statement, a correction, a warning. The scale is contained, the impact theatrical yet undeniable.” 

Volkov allowed the words to settle, his gaze drifting toward the high windows that framed the snow-laden rooftops of Moscow. He remembered other decisions, other lessons learned through blood and fire, and the silent witnesses who had paid for miscalculations. “And the risk to us?” 

“Detectable, yes. Directly attributable, no,” Vlasenko said, his tone even, precise. “The operation relies on layers of obscuration and temporal uncertainty. Our hands remain clean. The West will be compelled to prove involvement. Until then, the story belongs to us, and us alone.” 

There was a pause. Outside the chamber, the wind cut through the Kremlin corridors like a scythe, and within, the council members leaned subtly forward, absorbing the weight of what was being proposed. Even the most seasoned officials felt a tightness in their chests; some hid it better than others. 

Volkov finally spoke, his voice calm, yet carrying the sharp edge of command. “Prepare your channels. Ensure your instruments are ready to be activated at my signal. But remember…” His words slowed deliberately, each syllable falling like a stone, “we are not monsters. Strength lies in perception, not wanton cruelty. Do not forget restraint.” 

Vlasenko inclined his head, the scar over his eyebrow catching the light. “Yes, Premier. The theatre will be precise.” 

The General stood, gathering the dossier and letting his gaze sweep the room one last time. His presence, his resolve, left a residue of tension in the chamber. He was a man who commanded not through threats alone but through the certainty of purpose. Those who saw him leave felt the invisible pressure of inevitability, the sense that decisions had been made before words were spoken. 

Volkov remained seated, silent. The snow fell heavier now, blanketing Moscow in quiet white, as if the city itself was holding its breath. He imagined the estuary beyond, the currents and channels unseen by the public eye, and the lives that might be swept into the theatre of consequence. He knew, as all who had wielded power did, that such lessons were double-edged. 

One of the ministers whispered softly to his neighbour, “Is it truly controllable?” 

The neighbour did not reply. There was no need. The room understood. The lesson would be taught. The world would respond and one outside this chamber would know, until it was too late. 

Vlasenko’s boots echoed again as he passed through the doors, leaving the council behind him. He carried the weight of the plan with the same steadiness he carried every weapon, every decision, every human cost. 

Volkov leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. Power, he thought, was not in action alone but in the orchestration of fear. He had sanctioned the theatre. Now all that remained was to see it performed. 

Outside, the snow drifted into silence, covering the Kremlin grounds. Inside, the Council of Shadows held its breath, waiting for the inevitable. 

Later in the Premier's private office, Volkov met with Admiral Arkady Morozov they sat within in the glassed alcove of the Kremlin office.  Morozov was an officer who had learned to speak in shorthand: certainty, understatement, and the economy of omission. When he spoke now, his voice had the calm of a man who had lived through worse and therefore weighed his words with care. 

“Admiral,” Volkov said, “ do you agree with Vlasenkos assessment?” 

“Premier,” he said, “the Poseidon project, the thing the Western press has named for itself is not the decisive instrument it has been made out to be. It is terrible in concept, but its use would not merely be an escalation. Seen by NATO as a maritime nuclear first strike, it would produce an almost certain path to all-out nuclear war. The strategic option is clear: deployed openly, it eliminates any plausible deniability. The West would respond without nuance.” 

Anton Volkov listened without expression. Power had taught him to make concessions to caution while keeping his hands on other levers. He had risen through intelligence, through the private eradication of rivals, through the slow learning that politics required the cold arithmetic of images and consequences. The admiral’s words were a map of risk. 

Morozov continued, and the Premier’s face did not change when the admiral moved to the second, smaller card he had tucked into his folder. “The other avenue,” Arkady said. “One that carries the terror of a strategic punch without the immediate taboo of the nuclear. It is not modern or elegant. It is crude, psychological. It leaves room for deniability if handled with care.” 

Volkov did not ask the question; he did not have to. He already knew the nature of the instrument the admiral hinted toward: an action that would carry the look and feel of punishment, force a political recalibration in the West, and yet stop short of nuclear apocalypse. The admiral’s hand, when it lifted, pointed to a photograph, a weathered maritime chart folded so many times it looked like a map of skin. 

“The SS Montgomery,” Morozov said. “A wartime freighter, broke open and lying in the shallows off the Thames estuary near Sheerness. Her manifest shows thousands of tonnes of conventional explosive cargo, munitions, propellants, ordnance sent during the war years. It is not a Poseidon; it is not an atom. It is a relic that, if detonated, would inflict catastrophic local destruction. A blast in the estuary during high tide could pull down coastal defences, devastate Sheerness and the low-lying marshes beyond, perhaps reach into the arteries that feed London’s infrastructure. The political image would be immediate: the sea itself used as a weapon without the overt signature of a nuclear attack.” 

Volkov let the image settle. He saw the possibilities as clearly as he had weighed risks: panic in London, blame cast into a fog of plausible deniability; NATO forced to show evidence of Russian culpability rather than immediately retaliate; a demonstration of power that would not, if carefully staged, cross the final nuclear threshold. It was the sort of cruelty that depended upon theater, not physics. 

“You understand the consequences,” Arkady added. “Not merely in lives lost, but in how the West would be compelled to respond. If the explosion is traced to us, then of course we will be at war; if it cannot be proven, the West will be humiliated into asking questions it cannot publicly answer. It is exploiting fear, Premier. It teaches a lesson without breaking the world entirely, if you accept the moral cost.” 

Volkov’s mouth tightened into a line. Behind his eyes, the cold logic that had carried him through purges and presidencies flickered like a steel edge assessing its use. He had come to power promising restoration and teaching a humbled West a lesson. He had not, until now, imagined the subtlety of an attack that would not simply annihilate but coerce through spectacle and ambiguity. 

“Do it,” he said finally, the two syllables precise as a gavel. “Make them look. Make them hunt for a phantom.” 

It was not an instruction so much as a seal.