Ze'hfa Town.
The war had ended, and Russian forces were gradually withdrawing. No one wanted to prolong battles that yielded no results. The scars of the conflict were evident in every area bombarded by the Russians. Despite efforts to avoid settlements to minimize unnecessary damage, hundreds of villages were still recorded as destroyed, particularly where Papaldia had stationed troops in key strategic locations.
Makarov stood with his close associate from the company—Zudsanov, who was waiting beside a GAZ Tigr, munching on a late breakfast. The process of relocating back to territory soon to be designated a Federal Special Zone was underway, though the local populace remained wary of any Russian actions.
Makarov glanced up at the sky, where a few Su-25SM3s were returning to Harachirst Base—the first overseas military outpost established in this world. Operations were running smoothly, and rumors circulated that the government planned to modernize the infrastructure, aiming to transform the region into an economic hub akin to Hong Kong or Shenzhen.
This would be an opportunity for Arkonis to swoop into this land, a second Africa—underdeveloped, brimming with potential labor, and rich in untapped resources. However, RIM PMC had to compete with Wagner to secure prospective clients and establish a foothold here.
"What can we even do here?" Makarov mused aloud.
Zudsanov, eating canned stew, was caught off guard by the question and had to clarify. "What... do you mean? What can we do?"
Makarov turned to him, explaining, "I mean, can we find clients here?"
"Isn't that obvious?" Zudsanov replied, swallowing a bite. "A post-war region—especially Papaldia—will be unstable. Won't rebel groups form their own states, creating more unrest? That's when future clients will come knocking, hiring us, right?"
Makarov raised a finger, shaking his head. "There's a catch. When the military supports those 'rebels' in combat, it means they've already seen our strength. Even as mercenaries, we have a steady supply chain from factories in Uzbekistan—though not as robust as Wagner's. Still..."
He sighed, his gaze drifting to the Mi-24 helicopters parked nearby. "Our military presence here will persist, so we must seize every opportunity to profit. Choosing the right clients is critical—it'll help us control the regions where we leave our mark."
"That doesn't entirely add up," Zudsanov said skeptically. "What's the benefit of being picky with clients?"
"Let me give you a clear example of selective partnerships," Makarov said, walking to the back of the GAZ, opening the rear door, and stepping inside.
"Do you know what today is?"
Zudsanov followed, puzzled. "I don't recall anything special about today. And how does that question tie into our earlier discussion?"
"It's quite relevant—you just haven't seen it yet," Makarov said, rummaging briefly before pulling out a flag: red with a golden star in the center.
Zudsanov, unimpressed by the sight, responded with confusion. "Vietnam? So, your example is a developing nation? Sounds intriguing."
"Your cohort when you joined the company was probably the most rebellious against our goals," Makarov said, hopping down with a journal in hand. "Back in 2010, your group was the most disobedient before we officially formed RIM. Shev didn't take kindly to you lot either."
Zudsanov, exasperated, muttered, "Commander, don't you ever tire of bringing up old stories?"
"That's just how it is. Over a decade later, we all know each other inside out," Makarov said, holding the Vietnamese flag with pride. "You know our core mission: to make Russia the world's leading power and elevate socialism's standing in this world once more." His voice grew heavier, emphasizing each word. "It's not just about money. Money is a means, not the end."
"Look at Vietnam," Makarov continued, his face stern as he explained to his comrade. "They're a resilient nation, fiercely independent throughout their history. In their wars against the French or the Americans, they proved how far-sighted they are. I won't tolerate anyone calling it the 'Vietnam War'—they weren't fighting themselves; they were battling the enemies of their nation."
Makarov paused, letting his words sink into Zudsanov's mind. He carefully placed the Vietnamese flag on the back seat, treating it as a sacred relic.
"Vietnam," he went on, "isn't a global powerhouse, but they know how to choose allies, exercise patience, and discern when to bow and when to rise. They endure, yet they fight when necessary. They don't chase short-term gains at the expense of their future. That's the kind of client we need."
Zudsanov nodded, beginning to grasp the point. He sat on the vehicle's doorframe, elbows on his knees, deep in thought.
"You're saying," Zudsanov furrowed his brow, "we should pick partners with long-term potential? Ones who may be weak now but could become strategic allies later?"
"Exactly," Makarov replied curtly. "Not everyone with money is a good client. If we blindly work for reactionaries or capitalist puppets, we're undermining the foundation we're building. But we can't rely solely on those we consider allies either." His voice caught slightly, hesitant to continue, but history wasn't something he could ignore. "We, along with China, contributed to their division, yet they forged their own path—a difficult but steadfast one."
"Clients could also be our enemies?" Zudsanov asked. "Is that what you mean? Vietnam's a good example, but it's a bit complex for our future challenges."
"Not at all," Makarov insisted, carrying the flag to his BTR-60. "Vietnam's struggles back then were incredibly complex." He climbed onto the armored vehicle. "Hey! You'll see—when Vietnam utilized foreign aid, including from our forefathers, they accepted weapons, equipment, and advisors, but never allowed a single Soviet soldier to openly set foot there. A few Spetsnaz teams operated as intelligence agents, mostly from the Far East."
Makarov stood atop the BTR-60, his sharp eyes scanning the outlines of Ze'hfa Town emerging under the pale morning sun. The Vietnamese flag in his hands fluttered gently in the breeze, a symbol of resilience and the yearning for freedom. He turned back to Zudsanov, still on the ground, holding his canned stew, his face etched with contemplation.
"Don't you see, Zudsanov?" Makarov continued, his voice low but compelling. "Vietnam isn't just an example of choosing allies or paths. They're proof that a small, war-torn nation can rise from ashes. They didn't rely on others or let anyone manipulate them. That's why I brought this flag today."
Zudsanov set down his can, stepping closer to the BTR and looking up at Makarov. "I get your point. But... why April 30? You're referring to their liberation day, right? The day they unified their country?"
Makarov nodded, a glint of pride in his eyes. "Yes. April 30, 1975, when Vietnamese forces marched into Saigon, ending decades of war. It wasn't just a victory for a nation—it was a symbol of unyielding will, unity, and faith in their chosen path. Today, in this world, we stand on post-war soil where the future remains uncertain. We must learn from them, Zudsanov. Learn to choose the right path, the right allies, and, above all, hold fast to our ideals."
He paused, gently caressing the Vietnamese flag as if touching a sacred memory. "Back then, Vietnam achieved what many thought impossible. They defeated a superpower—not with superior weapons, but with unwavering belief in their cause. We, RIM, need that same belief—not just to make money, but to build something greater: a world where Russia's ideals, socialism's ideals, can shine."
Zudsanov climbed onto the BTR, sitting beside Makarov. "You're right, Commander, but... can we really spread socialism—our core principle—everywhere? I mean, it's a pipe dream for RIM as it stands. Only those from the early days, before we even had the name RIM, could pull that off. Even the KPRF faces severe restrictions. So, how can we?"
Makarov smiled, a bittersweet grin laced with resolve. He placed a hand on Zudsanov's shoulder, his gaze sharp yet sincere. "You're right, Zudsanov. Spreading socialism across this world seems far-fetched for RIM now. But do you remember Lenin's words? 'A small step today can lead to great leaps tomorrow.' We don't need to change the world overnight. We need to lay the first bricks—solid, in the right direction."
He stood, raising the Vietnamese flag higher, letting it wave as a reminder of what's possible. "Look at Vietnam. They didn't defeat America in a day or unify their country in a night. It took decades of struggle, sacrifice, and patience. They started small—guerrilla skirmishes, secret meetings in jungles, tough choices about friends and foes. But each small step was guided by a grand vision. So must we be, Zudsanov. RIM isn't the KPRF, bound by internal politics or party limits. We're men of action, and our actions will shape the future."
Zudsanov frowned, still skeptical. "But Commander, we're mercenaries. No matter how noble our ideals, outsiders see us as guns for hire. How do we convince them—or even our own men—that we're fighting for something bigger?"
"It's not easy. This generation of RIM won't easily grasp the depth of our desire to restore the Soviet Union's legacy," Makarov said, tying the flag to a metal rod and planting it on the vehicle's front. "Mercenaries or not, what matters is the outcome. Along the way, some actions may stray, and you'll still have to lead volatile men like Shatun's crew. They're loyal but unstable, clinging to an extreme, colorless communism—black, not red."
"Then why keep them? Is it folly or a deeper purpose?" Zudsanov asked, his tone lightly mocking his leader.
"Would you abandon brothers who fought and bled with you since South Ossetia? I wouldn't. They may not fit today's mold, but their experience and adaptability in gear make them worth it," Makarov replied, jumping down from the BTR, Zudsanov following. Their eyes lingered on the red flag with its golden star, fluttering against the blue sky.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"By the way," Makarov said, clapping Zudsanov's shoulder, "what's your take on the Vietnamese?"
"Maybe... they're people I'll never measure up to, in ideals or spirit," Zudsanov said softly, but loud enough for Makarov to hear. "But Vietnam's produced more national heroes than most, hasn't it?"
"Yeah," Makarov replied, pausing as if struck by something. "Throughout their history, no great power has ever subdued them. That's something we Russians should emulate."
"But didn't the Soviet Union fail to learn that? Communism—or rather, socialism—failed in many ways. So, Commander—no, Viktor—don't you think chasing a distant dream is the most futile thing here?"
Makarov tightened his grip on Zudsanov's shoulder, a pang of bitterness in his eyes, though he couldn't deny the weight of history. Zudsanov didn't give him a chance to counter.
"Viktor, you know we're here out of loyalty to you—just you. That ideal is just an excuse for us to follow you without complications. The Kremlin's quietly acknowledged us as a strategic asset, much like Vietnam," Zudsanov said, brushing Makarov's hand off and locking eyes with him, as if challenging him directly. "Vietnam was used by the Soviets as a bargaining chip against America, and they realized it, choosing their own path, not dependence."
Zudsanov glanced at the villagers peeking curiously at them. Their debate had drawn a small crowd, including some of their comrades eavesdropping.
"Now, let's look at ourselves. The GRU won't let us go; Arkonis and Ms. Makarova are under FSB scrutiny—all because you command one of the world's top private military forces, rivaling Blackwater, Academi, OSSD, or Wagner," Zudsanov said, his face tightening as he delivered a clear message. "Try seeing it from a broader perspective. We're walking the same meaningless path of ideals with no clear exit. The Vietnamese recognized their mistakes and adapted. Why can't we?"
"You've forgotten what happened, haven't you?" Makarov cut in, his voice stern but empathetic. "Our history remains murky. Somehow, this world knows of the Soviet Union, absorbed its lessons, then forgot. As you said, we must adapt like Vietnam, but also stay true to our ideals." He sighed, staring at his right palm. "We've been given a new duty, with the same ideals but a different mission—not just serving Russia, but spreading socialism across this world."
"Sounds overly ambitious, doesn't it?" Zudsanov asked, his doubt palpable.
"Yes, and it'll be tough. But, learning from the Vietnamese—'take small steps, rest at the finish line'—it's a priceless lesson, Andrei," Makarov said, glancing at his comrade before heading back to the GAZ. "I'm planning to send a few from Arkonis or RIM for reconstruction tasks and to spread our ideals. No rush, no force—just let them follow naturally."
"As for special entities like... the Adventurers, don't bother," Makarov added, reminding Zudsanov. "Cooperate just enough. An NGO like that isn't worth pursuing as a strategic client—they're no different from a typical PMC." He turned back to the Vietnamese flag on the BTR-60, its vibrant red and golden star waving in the cold morning breeze. To Makarov, the flag wasn't just a symbol of a distant nation—it was living proof of what an iron will could achieve.
He stood there, clutching a cheap cigarette, its smoke mingling with the damp air of a land recently free from gunfire. Zudsanov, holding a half-drunk Baltika beer, stepped closer, his voice hoarse from lack of sleep. "Viktor, I get that you're obsessed with Vietnam's story, that April 30. But honestly, we're here in this rubble, our men are exhausted, money's tight, and clients see us as stray dogs. How do you apply Vietnam's spirit to RIM? We're mercenaries, not national heroes."
Makarov exhaled smoke, his piercing gaze sweeping over Zudsanov. "You think I'm spinning Vietnam tales for fun, Andrei? No, I'm not dreaming. Vietnam's no myth—they're real. A bunch of farmers with shoddy weapons took down America, a superpower. How? Not with better guns or cash, but belief. Belief in their path, in kicking foreign invaders out. That's what we need."
He pointed at the charred houses, where locals were clearing rubble. "Look. They're no different from Vietnam post-war. Hungry, ragged, but alive. If RIM wants to survive, to leave a legacy, we can't just carry guns. We must show them a path—the path we Russians, forged in blood and fire, once dreamed of: a fairer world."
Zudsanov sipped his beer, grimacing. "Sounds nice, Commander. But practically, what do we do? Arkonis invests here, fine, but the locals fear us. They think we're land-grabbers like Papaldia before. Your socialism—who cares? They just want food, not philosophy."
Makarov stubbed out his cigarette, his voice steady as steel. "Then we feed them first. Build schools, clinics, wells. Arkonis will pour in funds—not to exploit resources, but to show we're not looters. RIM will train their young men, teach them to hold a rifle, protect their villages. But most importantly, Andrei, we tell them about Vietnam. About April 30, 1975, when a tiny nation made the world bow. Not to worship us, but to believe they can do it too."
Zudsanov shrugged, still unconvinced. "Vietnam, Vietnam... you keep harping on them. What if the locals don't listen? What if they see us as drunk Russians here to profit and leave?"
Makarov gave a faint, weathered smile, born of too much blood and loss. "Then we do as the Vietnamese did—take root, be patient. They didn't beat America in a day. They fought guerrilla wars, waited, endured. If these people don't trust us today, we keep building, helping, staying. One day, they'll see RIM isn't just mercenaries. We're Russians—we don't quit."
He pulled a dagger from his belt, carefully cutting a rope to secure the Vietnamese flag to the BTR's gun barrel. "Today is April 30, Andrei. In Vietnam, it's the day they stormed Saigon, claiming victory. Here, it's the day we start anew—not just for money, but for a stronger Russia, a world where workers can hold their heads high. Got it?"
Zudsanov tossed his empty beer can aside, sighing. "I get it, but... you're the stubbornest Russian I know. Fine, I'm with you. But next time you rave about Vietnam, grab some decent vodka. This beer's like water."
Makarov laughed, slapping Zudsanov's shoulder. "Vodka? Deal. But we'll drink Vietnamese-style—bottoms up, no drops left, to honor April 30, to honor those who dare dream big. Now, get on the vehicle. We've got work to do."
They climbed onto the BTR, the Vietnamese flag flying proudly. Under the sunlight, it stood as a reminder: no matter the place or circumstance, the spirit of April 30—resolve, unity, aspiration—would always light the way for those who believed in their path.
Makarov glanced at his hand once more, then out to the horizon—a duty entrusted to him, one he'd fulfill with unwavering determination. This world still held mysteries; the Soviet Union still veiled its past. But whatever it was, they'd left behind something beautiful, at least for him.
-+_____+-
A TRIBUTE TO APRIL 30 – VIETNAM'S REUNIFICATION DAY
April 30 is a day of profound significance in the history of Vietnam. It marks the reunification of our nation, after years of war and suffering. This day is a reminder of the resilience, strength, and courage of the Vietnamese people, but it is also a moment for us to reflect on the shared values of peace, freedom, and human dignity.
On this day, we honor the countless men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country, fighting for the independence and unity of Vietnam. Their bravery and selflessness laid the foundation for the peaceful, prosperous future we now have.
We also extend our gratitude to the veterans from all sides of the conflict, including the American veterans who, like their Vietnamese counterparts, experienced the horrors of war and bore witness to its deep costs. The sacrifices made by all veterans, regardless of nationality, are a shared legacy that transcends borders. We recognize the pain, the loss, and the enduring spirit of those who served, and we stand in solidarity with them, as we all seek to heal the wounds of the past and move toward a future of peace and cooperation.
April 30 is not just a celebration of the past; it is a call to work toward a world where nations respect one another, where dialogue and understanding replace division, and where the lessons of history guide us toward a brighter future. We remember not only the victories but the shared human experience, and we honor those who, through their service, contributed to the hope of a peaceful world.
On this day, we remember. We honor all who served, and we are grateful for the shared pursuit of peace.
-+_____+-
Flag of the Vietnam Independence League (Viet Minh) [1941–1951] → Flag of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (North Vietnam) [1945–1955]
Flag of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (North Vietnam), 1955–1976, and the flag of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam (after the reunification of North and South Vietnam), 1976–present.
Flag of the Republic of Vietnam (South Vietnam) [1955-1975]
The flag of the National Front for the Liberation of South Vietnam (Viet Cong), used from 1960 to 1977, was later adopted as the flag of the Provisional Revolutionary Government of the Republic of South Vietnam (1969–1976).
On the morning of April 30, 1975, during the historic Ho Chi Minh Campaign, the Liberation Army launched a general offensive into Saigon.
After several fierce assaults, around 10:45 AM, the T-54B tank with the number 843 (on the right) commanded by Captain Bui Quang Than approached the main gate of the Independence Palace, the headquarters of the government of Duong Van Minh.
Tank 843 rotated its cannon, stepped on the gas, and rammed forcefully into the left gate (from the outside). However, due to significant resistance, the tank stalled.
Immediately after, the Type-59 tank with the number 390 (on the left), commanded by Lieutenant Vu Dang Toan, charged forward, broke down the main gate, and cleared the way for other infantry forces and tanks – armored vehicles to enter the palace.
At 11:30 AM that same day, the flag of the National Front for the Liberation of South Vietnam flew proudly atop the Independence Palace, marking the victory of the Ho Chi Minh Campaign.
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