Soviet Union 1991 #1-100
Author: 陈家过河卒
Date: 2025-12-02T13:32:12+00:00

Chapter 1: This is Redemption

At exactly 7:00 PM on the evening of August 17th, 1991, the ancient bronze clock on the Kremlin Clock Tower, etched with the wrinkles of time, had just struck its seventh bell. The streets were already so sparsely populated they could be described as desolate. The empire built on this ancient and twilight land was like the fading, cooling sunset; with the dissipation of the final ray of light, it let out a heavy, silent, yet desolate sigh.

The red polar bear entrenched in Siberia reluctantly raised its head, looking back on the glory of bygone years, then, old and feeble, awaited the death sentence of its natural end.

At that moment, Yanayev, holding a wine glass at the banquet, was filled with the same melancholy as the motherland to which his heart was bound. This was especially true as he gazed upon the young, hopeful faces at the party, faces full of longing and hope for reform and the future. Yanayev understood that his own negativity was not suited for the cheerful banquet, even if it was just the desolate splendor of a dead end.

He slowly rose to his feet. The chattering crowd immediately fell silent. Bound by bureaucratic etiquette, everyone prepared to stand with him, but Yanayev firmly stopped them. He raised his glass and, under the perplexed gazes of the crowd below, slowly said, “Our motherland is facing all kinds of crises and trials. As you all can see, not everyone understands or supports our construction, our lofty ideals. But her greatness cannot be denied. Our soldiers, our sacred faith will never be extinguished. Her radiance still shines upon every one of us, guiding us forward, forever.”

When he finished his speech, a round of mechanical, routine applause rose from below. Yanayev knew these subordinates were just humoring him, even though his words had come from the heart. So he chose to close his eyes and say nothing.

He was originally a pitiful wretch whose name no one would have remembered. It was only by a transmigratory accident that he had been given a high-ranking and powerful but tragically doomed role: Soviet Vice President Gennady Ivanovich Yanayev. As an instigator and participant in the August Coup, he had lived a miserable life after the coup’s failure, passing away in 2010.

Fortunately for the transmigrated Comrade Yanayev, the timeline was one year earlier, giving him some preparation time, which was better than nothing.

“Comrade Yanayev, can you announce what you wanted to say now? I’ve assembled the members of Alpha as you requested, though I don’t know what you’re plotting.” Seated beside Yanayev was a middle-aged man with a receding hairline. His thick, black-rimmed glasses made him look like a kind and amiable intellectual, but to anyone who knew his identity, that face would first bring to mind the image of a demon. Because he was Vladimir Alexandrovich Kryuchkov, Chairman of the infamous KGB and Director of its First Chief Directorate.

“Of course, Comrade Kryuchkov. In fact, I guarantee you this will be an excellent speech.” Yanayev gave Kryuchkov a mysterious smile, raised his glass, and downed it in one go.

But Chairman Kryuchkov did not share Yanayev’s calm demeanor. What they were about to do tomorrow was a monstrous conspiracy; if they failed, they would all be tried for treason. And yet Comrade Yanayev was somehow in the mood to leisurely summon thirty members of the Alpha special forces for a banquet at a secret KGB safe house on Leninsky Prospekt. What on earth was he thinking?

Yanayev stood up once more. Everyone below watched the Vice President’s strange behavior, but Yanayev, as if no one else was there, walked down from the stage and approached them. He walked up to this group of KGB operatives, glass in hand, and asked softly, “Do you believe in democracy? Do you believe freedom can save the Soviet Union?”

In an instant, everyone held their breath as if walking on thin ice. Although the public discussed democracy and freedom in private, criticizing the Soviet Union’s centralization and dictatorship, it was not a good thing for one of the nation’s top leaders to openly discuss democracy with them. The members of Alpha and Vympel looked at each other, not daring to answer the question. Whether they said yes or no, it could ruin their futures—to put it bluntly, it could even threaten their lives.

Yanayev hadn’t expected them to answer his question anyway. He said, as if to himself, “Democracy, democracy… I’m sorry, but democracy is not what we need. And to the disappointment of everyone here, for nearly a hundred years, the Americans have tried to make democracy take root and develop in other countries, but they have not succeeded once. Instead, they’ve set up a pile of third-world dictators: Ngo Dinh Diem, Syngman Rhee, Saddam, Pahlavi. These countries lack even the most basic conditions needed to establish a democracy. And as for so-called tolerance for dissenters, respect for those of different faiths, humbly accepting criticism from reporters who oppose the president… none of these things matter at all.”

Yanayev’s words sent shockwaves through the room. Even Vice Chairman Kryuchkov’s expression changed in an instant, to say nothing of the special forces members who hadn’t witnessed many high-level power plays.

He continued, “Do you really think you can establish a democracy with religious fundamentalists, a few bombs, and a hand-picked dictator? Wrong. The people don’t actually need freedom, nor do they need democracy. They need a secure livelihood, they need rules and regulations, they need someone to defend them against foreign invaders and to guard against internal factions. They need someone to lead them, to give them security and restraint, so that war and famine will not happen again. As long as you give them that much, everyone will be willing to follow your orders. Power changes everything. Do you understand, gentlemen?”

Yanayev’s words were too blunt, one might even say cruel. It’s not damned communism or faith that feeds you, but the sword and shield in my hands.

Yanayev had been so absorbed in his speech that he had to put down his wine glass to make certain gestures. Only after he finished did he pick up the glass from the table again, surveying these pitiful wretches with a look of pity. It was this very group, brainwashed by democracy and freedom, who would refuse the order to assassinate Yeltsin during the attack on the White House two days from now, leading to the subsequent domino-like collapse and failure. He wondered if, two years later, when they were in the Kremlin opposing Yeltsin’s order to shell the White House, they would regret not having acceded to the pleas of the Soviet high command in 1991.

The atmosphere at the banquet plunged to a freezing point. No one dared to say a word, or even to answer Yanayev. Such was the terror of power; it could instantly transform an unarmed coward into an absolute monarch.

Yanayev sighed. His gaze swept over everyone’s face, and then he asked slowly, “If I gave you a mission tonight to assassinate Yeltsin, would you do it?”

This was Yanayev’s final plea. He hoped someone would stand up, not like in the history he knew, where all the Alpha soldiers put down their officer IDs and shook their heads, refusing to carry out the order.

“No, I would not.” Sure enough, the first voice of defiance rang out. Though faint, it struck Yanayev’s heart like a heavy hammer, the last straw that broke his remaining hope. Yanayev hadn’t even seen the face of the first man to refuse before others followed, one after another, voicing their refusal. Absolutely not.

Their slogan? Nothing more than: for democracy, for freedom, for hope, I choose to refuse.

The spark of hope in Yanayev’s eyes quickly dimmed. In truth, he had never held much hope from the start. He had given these men a chance; it was they who had failed to cherish it. The Alpha members’ replies even made him let out a sigh of relief. Yanayev smiled and took a few steps back, retreating to a safe distance before raising his now-empty wine glass. He toasted them, saying, “Excellent. A toast to your freedom… and the sacrifice you’ll make for it.”

Then Yanayev loosened his grip. Before everyone’s eyes, the exquisite crystal glass fell in freefall, shattering on the floor with a crisp sound. This was a signal known only to Yanayev and his co-conspirators. Even Kryuchkov, the KGB Vice Chairman sitting on the stage, wore a look of bewilderment.

Masked men who had been lying in wait outside swarmed in. Following a pre-written script, they simultaneously pulled submachine guns from inside their jackets and aimed them at the crowd in the banquet hall.

Chapter 2: Only Two Will Die

A rather unremarkable toss of a cup was the signal that kicked off a bloody massacre. GRU soldiers who had been hiding outside the living room window smashed through the glass, aimed their suppressed submachine guns at their defenseless comrades, and pulled the triggers. Muzzle flashes erupted in an instant. The soldiers, still in shock, were struck by bullets and collapsed. Wine glasses on the table shattered, spilling their contents all over the floor. Even the silk flowers on the dining table, torn to shreds by bullets and mingled with the coppery scent of human blood, danced in the air to the stirring strains of the Brandenburg Concertos, seeming to hang there forever before falling.

The crisp sound of shattering plates, the crack of gunfire, the pained groans of men falling to the ground, and the flickering candlelight composed a bloody symphony.

And Yanayev, the man who had orchestrated this entire murder, simply stood there, watching these poor fools who had chosen to oppose the Soviets fall one by one, as if he were enjoying a musical. He had long known that Alpha Group and Vympel Group were unreliable; too many of their soldiers had been turned by Boris Yeltsin. That was why, a year ago, Yanayev had begun searching the GRU for downtrodden, marginalized soldiers who were still loyal to Communism to carry out this mission. He promised them the greatest rewards and quickly assembled a unit loyal only to him. For this grand conspiracy, Yanayev had plotted for a full year.

The symphony reached its final note. No one was left standing.

“Since you refuse to serve me, then please, go meet Marx. The Motherland will never forgive traitors, and neither will Stalin,” Yanayev said softly as the last Alpha Group member collapsed before him, looking up at him with a helpless, pleading gaze. But Yanayev merely regarded him with an indifferent stare, waiting until the man’s pupils had dilated and he had breathed his last before finally looking away.

“Yanayev, what are you doing!” shouted KGB Deputy Chairman Kryuchkov, finally snapping out of his shock. In just a few seconds, the KGB’s elite forces under his command had been turned into cold corpses, and the mastermind behind it all was still calmly sipping his wine and smiling.

He suddenly felt that dragging Yanayev into this coup during their secret three-person meeting yesterday had been a mistake. Compared to a simple coup, this amiable Vice President seemed to have a much grander conspiracy of his own.

“Why would you do this!” The KGB Deputy Chairman’s voice trembled with rage, but he didn’t dare make a move. Ten submachine guns were now aimed at his head.

“It’s nothing. Just a redemption,” Yanayev said. He had the GRU soldiers lower their weapons from Kryuchkov and then ordered them to check every corpse, making sure everyone was dead before waving the intruders out of the room.

Now, only Kryuchkov and Yanayev remained in the living room. Amidst the sweet, metallic scent of blood in the air, Yanayev raised his glass to Kryuchkov. “My dear Comrade Chairman, you only need to handle your own affairs. The rest is none of your concern. The script will proceed as you all wrote it. The New Union Treaty will not be signed, our great Motherland will not be dissolved. As long as all the high-ranking officials do their part, there can be no mistakes. Otherwise, it is we who will be sent to the gallows.”

Kryuchkov now realized that what Yanayev had told him was merely the tip of a massive iceberg. The KGB Deputy Chairman’s palms began to sweat. Yesterday, when everyone else had been at a loss, only Yanayev had arrived with a fully prepared script for his conspiracy. Had Yanayev already decided long ago to treat all the senior officials as his puppets? But Kryuchkov had no other choice now; he could only follow Yanayev’s script.

A coup is a cruel art. Until the final moment, no one can claim to be the one who has the last laugh. Haven’t there been enough unlucky fools who failed at the cusp of success, their fortunes reversed from king of spades to three of diamonds in an instant? Besides, Yanayev had only taken the first step. Eliminating Alpha Group meant severing Yeltsin’s potential supporters. Even if it came to an assassination, Yeltsin would be nothing more than a sickly bear with its claws removed.

If one were to look back on Yanayev’s actions over the past year, they would be astonished to discover how he had gathered the Soviet high command around him, both overtly and covertly, and thread by thread, slowly hollowed out Gorbachev’s authority.

The moonlight outside the window grew soft and mournful. The seeds of conspiracy slowly fermented above Moscow’s Red Square, turning into a treacherous cloud of suspicion that hung over everyone’s heart.

Seeing the utterly demoralized Kryuchkov slumped in his chair, Yanayev took a step forward, grabbed the sleeve of his suit, and said in a cold voice, “Listen here, Comrade Kryuchkov, this is the most critical period of the coup. You will pull yourself together. Do not slack off for even a moment. A bloodless revolution is as laughable as a utopia. For one interest to replace another, some people must be sacrificed, do you understand? Killing isn’t the best method, but it is the most direct and fastest way to get results. The Red Soviet needs you to protect it. We have nowhere left to retreat, nowhere to compromise. Behind us is Moscow, Red Square, The Kremlin—it is our final faith!”

Faced with Yanayev’s forceful demeanor, Kryuchkov actually became meek and subservient. He truly had not been prepared for a coup, whereas Yanayev’s objective was clear and his stance was firm.

Kryuchkov seemed to hesitate for a long time. It was time to choose a side. The fate of a fence-sitter was bound to be bleak. Finally, he steeled himself, gritted his teeth, and said to Yanayev, “I choose to join you, Comrade Yanayev. But I think I need to know your plan. Our ultimate goal is only to prevent the signing of the New Union Treaty.”

In May 1991, the Soviet President, Gorbachev, reached an agreement with the leaders of the fifteen constituent republics to form a “New USSR,” a loose confederation of states. The root cause of it all was Gorbachev’s reforms of democratization, openness, and pluralism, which had rapidly strengthened the centrifugal tendencies of the republics. Although in the nationwide referendum held on March 17, seventy-six percent of the citizens and nine of the republics still supported a federal system and the supreme leadership of the Soviets, they could not rein in a supreme leader as stupid as a pig, who bypassed the Politburo in an unconstitutional act to sign a treaty to break up the family.

To a certain extent, even a pig in the seat of the Supreme Leader of the Soviet Union would have handled things better than Gorbachev. If there were truly a global ranking of idiots, Gorbachev would undoubtedly take the crown and reign as champion.

“The New Union Treaty will be stopped, rest assured. Though our methods may differ slightly, our ultimate goal is the same,” Yanayev promised, patting his chest.

Hearing this, Chairman Kryuchkov’s heart suddenly skipped a beat. A faint sense of foreboding rose within him. He moved his lips, and it seemed to take a tremendous effort to force out the words, “Your methods… what are they? Aren’t we acting together?”

Yanayev’s faint smile was like that of the sanctimoniously smiling demon in Raphael’s St. Michael Vanquishing Satan, thrusting a spear into the heart of his enemy under a self-proclaimed halo of justice. He spoke slowly, “You’re overthinking things, Comrade Kryuchkov. In my plan, for this coup, only two key figures need to die. One is the traitor, Boris Yeltsin.”

Before Yanayev even spoke, Kryuchkov had already guessed that one of them was Yeltsin. As for the other… it wasn’t that he was unwilling to think of it, but that he didn’t dare. But Yanayev said the name for him.

“The other one,” Yanayev paused, “is the weak and foolish… General Secretary Gorbachev.” He added, “Oh, right. I hope you’ll do me the favor of staying put and behaving yourself in this room until the delegation has arrived at the Crimean Peninsula.”

“House arrest?” Chairman Kryuchkov’s mouth had just twitched upon hearing that name. Now, the only expression he could manage was a helpless, bitter smile.

“No. It’s protection,” Yanayev said sternly. “To protect my plan from any interference. And soon, this will all be over.”

Chapter 3: Crisis at the Foros Dacha (Part 1)

A private plane flying from Moscow to the Crimean Peninsula arrived six hours ahead of its historical schedule. The delegation on board represented nearly the entire top echelon of the Soviet party, government, and military: Oleg Semyonovich Shenin, Secretary of the Central Committee of the CPSU; General Varennikov, Deputy Minister of Defense and Commander-in-Chief of the Ground Forces; Boldin, Secretary of the CPSU Central Committee and Presidential Assistant; and Yuri Sergeyevich Plekhanov, Director of the KGB’s Ninth Directorate. The reason these high-ranking officials had gathered was that damnable New Union Treaty of Gorbachev’s.

On the plane, no one was in the mood for small talk. They either rested with their eyes closed or clasped their hands in prayer, for they knew that what they were about to do could very well change the history of the Soviet Union. Whether they would become the makers of history or be nailed to the pillar of shame was yet to be determined. But at that moment, they all shared the same resolve: to not let the Soviet Union fall apart.

They had only one destination: the presidential holiday retreat at the southernmost tip of the Crimean Peninsula, the Foros Dacha.

Shenin clutched the signing order to implement a state of national emergency, his heart a tangle of complex emotions. On one hand, Gorbachev had bypassed the Politburo to sign the New Union Treaty, which was in itself an unconstitutional act—otherwise, he wouldn’t have hidden away at this dacha for over ten days to avoid its members. So, would begging Gorbachev now be of any use? A large question mark loomed over Shenin’s thoughts, constantly interfering with his reasoning.

On the other hand, Shenin vaguely sensed that someone within the emergency committee seemed to have a much more farsighted plan than the rest of them. In just two short days, the hastily formed State Committee on the State of Emergency had astonishingly developed a firm, unified objective, rather than being a disorganized mob waiting to be picked off one by one by their enemies. It seemed as though Gennady Yanayev’s shadow was behind every directive the committee issued.

The red empire was like an old, massive ship, laden with dangerous munitions, drifting aimlessly on the vast ocean. The captain at the helm had lost his way, while the anxious crew was desperate to take his place and steer the empire out of its predicament.

As if sensing Shenin’s unease, Varennikov patted his shoulder and said comfortingly, “It’s alright. Everything will be fine as long as we see President Gorbachev.”

“Let’s hope so,” Shenin forced a smile. In truth, he didn’t hold out much hope for Gorbachev anymore.

The plane flew over verdant mountains and vast plains, finally arriving above a red dacha. Through the window, they could see that the grounds of the Foros Dacha were swarming with elite soldiers. As the man in charge of Gorbachev’s security, Plekhanov knew this was only a fraction of the guard detail. Numerous snipers were concealed in the high ground of the nearby mountains, dozens of special service patrol boats guarded the waters within a five-nautical-mile radius day and night, and fifty kilometers away was the Black Sea Fleet, one of the Soviet Union’s four major fleets. The defenses here could be described as impenetrable.

No one was in the mood to appreciate the beautiful scenery around the dacha. They waited anxiously for the plane to come to a complete stop.

The plane finally taxied to a halt at the end of the Foros Dacha’s private runway. Without a moment’s hesitation, the group disembarked and strode in unison toward the presidential residence.

Despite the heavily fortified security, nothing could stop the delegation’s direct approach. The KGB’s Ninth Directorate, led by Plekhanov, was the very agency tasked with protecting the highest leaders of the CPSU. All these guards had been arranged by him. Just as the guards at the final checkpoint prepared to stop the delegation, Plekhanov took the offensive.

“Get out of the way! These members of the highest delegation have urgent matters to report to Secretary Gorbachev. If you cause a delay, you’ll be the first to answer for it.” Plekhanov’s authority instantly overwhelmed the guards at the entrance. In their moment of hesitation, the delegation pushed past them and burst into the presidential dacha’s living room.

At that moment, Gorbachev was about to take an afternoon nap in his bedroom. Hearing the sudden commotion outside, he threw on a robe and came out to see what was happening. The moment he reached the living room doorway, he was stunned by the sight before him. The entire upper echelon of the Soviet party, government, and military was gathered in his living room. Gorbachev turned to the delegation in a rage. “Who let you in without my approval? Get out!”

“It was my order, President Gorbachev. I let the delegation in. I hope you can understand,” Plekhanov said, stepping forward, his tone neither servile nor overbearing. Gorbachev was so infuriated he nearly raised a hand to slap him. At the same time, he understood that what he had been desperately trying to avoid had finally happened. He just hadn’t expected this group to resort to the extreme measure of a palace coup to oppose the treaty.

Shenin, Secretary of the Central Committee of the CPSU, pulled the signing order from the State Committee on the State of Emergency from his pocket and placed it before Gorbachev. He said in a heavy voice, “President Gorbachev, we absolutely cannot allow the New Union Treaty. It will destroy the foundation the Soviets have built for decades. I hope that from this moment on, the nation will enter a state of emergency until order is restored in the Soviet Union.”

Gorbachev let out a cold laugh and casually tossed the order aside. “A signing order? The State Committee on the State of Emergency? Who gave you that authority, Comrade Shenin? Without my approval, the State Committee on the State of Emergency is an illegal entity. This is a coup! This is treason against the party! It’s a betrayal of the highest directive!”

Shenin’s voice was almost devoid of emotion. He enunciated each word, “This authority was vested in me by the State Committee on the State of Emergency, composed of Soviet Vice President Gennady Yanayev, Prime Minister Pavlov, Deputy Chairman of the Defense Council Baklanov, Minister of Defense Yazov, Minister of Internal Affairs Pugo, KGB Chairman Kryuchkov, Chairman of the Peasants’ Union Starodubtsev, and President of the Association of State Enterprises in Industry Tizyakov. And perhaps President Gorbachev has forgotten that you yourself originally established the State Committee on the State of Emergency as an organization to deal with wartime situations. How could it be considered an illegal entity?”

“You…” Gorbachev was so angered by Shenin’s rebuttal that he was at a loss for words. He pointed a finger at Shenin’s nose, and finally said fiercely, “To hell with it! I will absolutely not sign this document. Go find whoever you want. I won’t issue the order to declare martial law either. And I want to make a phone call, you traitors.”

General Varennikov, the Deputy Minister of Defense, also tried to persuade him. “Mr. President, the signing of the New Union Treaty will be fatal to the Soviet Union. The nation our fathers built with countless drops of blood cannot be allowed to fall apart just like this. Please, Mr. President, reconsider.” Varennikov’s tone was almost pleading, but to the enraged Gorbachev, it was merely adding fuel to the fire.

“Shut up! What do you know, Varennikov? You’re just a soldier, which is why you think so simplistically. And a soldier’s duty is to obey orders, not to participate in a coup,” Gorbachev shouted at him crudely.

“It’s alright, Comrade Gorbachev. We’ll sign it for you,” the Director of the Ninth Directorate said suddenly, stepping forward. He added, “Oh, it seems Comrade Gorbachev has forgotten something. We cut all the telephone lines in the dacha before we arrived, so… you can’t do anything.”

A sense of uneasy premonition washed over Gorbachev. He was about to take a couple of steps back when one of the guards responsible for his protection suddenly lunged forward. Before anyone could react, his hands were clamped viciously around Gorbachev’s neck. The attacker seemed to be using all his strength, intending to kill Gorbachev on the spot.

“Look out!” shouted Boldin, the presidential assistant, from the side.

The sudden turn of events threw the entire living room into chaos.

Chapter 4: The Foros Dacha Crisis (Part 2)

To assassinate the President in front of all the top Soviet leaders—the attacker’s skill was matched only by his audacity. The assassin’s methods were practiced; even his position had been calculated in advance.

The surrounding guards were no pushovers. Although they were a step slower than the attacker, they still desperately pulled him away two seconds after he had seized Gorbachev by the throat, with several of them pinning him to the ground. The guards had assumed the attacker was only trying to strangle Gorbachev, but after pulling him away, they realized it was already too late. Gorbachev collapsed to the floor, his breathing growing faint. Everyone subconsciously looked at the attacker’s hands and saw a needle hidden in the ring he wore on his right hand.

“Get a doctor, quickly!” Shenin said, flustered and exasperated.

The attacker, restrained to the side by two or three men, sneered. “Don’t waste your effort. This is a special KGB toxin. Gorbachev’s heart will stop beating in thirty seconds. Oh, that’s right, now there are only twenty seconds left.”

Enraged, Varennikov slammed a fist into the attacker’s still-youthful face and shouted, “Who sent you?”

“Boris Yeltsin! For the sake of Russia, Gorbachev must die!” the attacker declared with righteous indignation, unhesitatingly naming the mastermind and causing the hearts of everyone present to sink. However, what no one noticed was that Vyacheslav Generalov, the Director of the KGB’s Technical Directorate, who had been the last to enter the room and witness the scene, had secretly recorded the assassin’s actions and words with a small camera. He then raised his head and his eyes met Plekhanov’s for a moment, and the latter gave him a subtle nod.

As with all conspiracies in their fledgling stages, if one had bothered to look closely, they would have discovered that Gennady Yanayev had publicly praised Plekhanov seven months prior, calling the Director of the Ninth Directorate a loyal, brave, and discerning man who understood the bigger picture. It was said the two had held a secret meeting in private. As for what they discussed, only they and God knew.

The assassin was taken away and placed under heavy guard. By the time the doctor arrived in the living room, Gorbachev’s heart had stopped completely. Although emergency treatment was administered immediately, and there were plans to fly him to the nearest hospital, Gorbachev’s personal physician informed the leaders that the hope of the President recovering was slim, and he urged everyone present to prepare for the worst.

They all looked at each other, stunned. Such an abrupt turn of events was beyond anything they had considered. Shenin was so at a loss that he asked a foolish question. “What do we do now?”

“What else can we do? The plan proceeds as scheduled.” Plekhanov took the lead, using their moment of confusion to steer the plan in the direction he had set. “Our original plan was to have President Gorbachev step down due to health reasons, with all power transferred to Vice President Yanayev. Now that President Gorbachev has been assassinated, doesn’t that fit perfectly?”

Plekhanov then said what everyone else was too afraid to say. “With Gorbachev dead, the greatest obstacle to our State Committee on the State of Emergency is gone. And even in the worst-case scenario, even if Gorbachev doesn’t die, it will be at least a month before he recovers. We can use that month to strip him of all power.”

No one spoke, which was a tacit agreement with Plekhanov’s view. At this moment, what they all needed to do was return to Moscow immediately and declare a national state of emergency, not linger here worrying about Gorbachev’s life. Perhaps, these men were all hoping Gorbachev would never wake up.

Boldin gazed out the window. A cloud of political conspiracy now hung over the Crimean Peninsula, which had been peaceful for nearly forty-seven years. Would Gorbachev’s death, like the Balkan powder keg, ignite a civil war within the Soviet Union and inflame conflicts between the various union republics?

Before leaving the Foros Dacha, Shenin reported this “good” news that no one could be happy about to the members of the State Committee on the State of Emergency from an office in the dacha. Upon receiving the dreadful news, the committee members immediately convened an emergency meeting at the Kremlin.

On the afternoon of August 18, 1991, in the historied corridors of the Kremlin, the footsteps of high-level Soviet officials hurried across the smooth marble floors towards the Supreme Council chamber. Every face was grim, as inscrutable as the weather over Moscow’s Red Square.

The heavy, intricately carved mahogany doors closed, and the members of the State Committee on the State of Emergency gathered around a table. The eight committee members—Gennady Yanayev, Pavlov, Baklanov, Yazov, Pugo, Kryuchkov, Starodubtsev, and Tizyakov—were to further discuss the impending declaration of a national state of emergency.

“Comrade Yazov, please convene a meeting of the military district commanders and issue the following directives: maintain order according to the situation and strengthen security at military installations. For all other matters, monitor the radio and newspapers. And, if necessary, you may dispatch troops to suppress any unrest.” Gennady Yanayev said gravely.

“It’s just martial law, is suppression necessary?” Tizyakov said hesitantly. “After all, those are the people we swore to protect.”

“Comrade Tizyakov, open your eyes and see them for what they are. These people gathering on the streets, attempting to use street politics to deny the legitimacy of a regime, deserve to be called nothing more than thugs!” Gennady Yanayev scoffed with disdain. “And Comrade Kryuchkov, there’s no need to keep the news to yourself any longer. It’s time you told us about the intelligence you’ve received regarding the imminent riots.”

KGB Chairman Kryuchkov was taken aback. He hadn’t expected Yanayev to already be so well-informed about the news he had just received. He nodded and said, “Everyone, a major disaster is about to befall the Soviet Union. According to KGB intelligence, someone is about to launch an armed rebellion. Those who seek to subvert our regime are planning to surround several strategic locations in the capital, including the television headquarters, the train station, and two hotels where deputies are staying. I have also discovered a blacklist containing the names of most people at this meeting, along with other government officials. These officials and their families are all slated for execution.”

Kryuchkov’s words struck everyone like a hammer blow. The dreadful news was suffocating. If Moscow fell, the Soviet Union would inevitably be dragged into the mire of civil war.

“Therefore, Moscow must be placed under martial law. We must mobilize three mechanized infantry regiments, one tank regiment, and one reconnaissance battalion from the Taman Division.”

At this moment, Gennady Yanayev was acting as the de facto supreme leader of the Soviet Union, methodically issuing orders to his colleagues. “And Comrade Pugo, mobilize your Ministry of Internal Affairs’ secret police. Have them move into Red Square, the Kremlin, and the White House (Russian) and other key areas to maintain order. Remember to have them carry firearms. If any situation arises, they are to open fire on the spot, without mercy. I don’t care who is at the other end of the barrel. As long as they defy the supreme will of the Soviet and attempt to plunge the nation into turmoil, they must die.”

“Won’t this leave us completely isolated?” Pugo worried that such an action would push the State Committee on the State of Emergency into the abyss of being public enemies.

Gennady Yanayev replied coldly, “What? America’s MacArthur can bloodily suppress World War One veterans, and democratic South Korea can have its Gwangju Uprising, but we are not allowed to take up arms to protect our motherland? Comrade Pugo, a soft heart will be exploited by those with ulterior motives.”

Minister of Internal Affairs Pugo was rebuked into silence. Minister of Defense Yazov, however, voiced his support for Yanayev’s approach, stating that it was time to awaken those ignorant fools with iron and blood.

Gennady Yanayev was not afraid of any last-minute turncoats. Yeltsin’s supporters, Major Yevdokimov and Major Agayev, had been transferred out of the Moscow Guards Division on one pretext or another half a year ago. Lieutenant General Grachev and Konstantin Kobets had also become political sacrifices three months prior. The high command of the Guards Division had long since been replaced with reliable generals loyal to the Soviet. It was safe to say there was no one left by Yeltsin’s side to be his sword and shield.

“The final task is to assassinate the traitor to the Soviet, Boris Nikolayevich Yeltsin.”

Chapter 5: Operation Thunderbolt

“Assassinate Yeltsin? Did I hear you correctly? Comrade Yanayev, I will never agree to such a reckless plan.” The first to object to Gennady Yanayev’s plan was Baklanov, Deputy Chairman of the Defense Council. “We only need to restrict Yeltsin’s personal freedom, then coerce him into surrendering his power and resigning his post. There’s no need to resort to assassination.”

“Naive.” Yanayev glanced at Baklanov and posed a question that left him speechless. “Yeltsin was able to rally more than a hundred thousand supporters from Moscow’s Science City to hold a massive protest at the Manege, and that was just to protest a Pravda report about him getting drunk in America. I ask you, which one of you here can do that? Restrict Yeltsin’s freedom? I’m afraid that before the news even leaves the Kremlin, Yeltsin would have already raised a resistance force to support him.”

In history, the declaration of a state of emergency on August 19th and the plan to assassinate Yeltsin were separated by only a single day, which led to the final tragedy. The moment the state of emergency began, Yeltsin moved with the speed of a cheetah, inciting the uninformed masses to take to the streets. Compared to the sluggish, bear-like movements of the Emergency Committee, Yeltsin had clearly won from the starting line.

“I believe Yeltsin is a man who understands the bigger picture. After all, he was the one who assassinated the President…” Vasily Starodubtsev, Chairman of the Peasants’ Union, still harbored a sliver of hope for Yeltsin. But Yanayev completely cut off everyone’s final path of retreat.

“Everyone, everyone, listen to me.” Yanayev raised the videotape he had been holding and said coolly, “This videotape was given to me by Comrade Generalov. It records the news of Gorbachev’s assassination. If you continue to hesitate, to be weak and compromising, Yeltsin will have a chance to continue growing stronger. Right now, the news of President Gorbachev’s death has not been released. The public knows nothing. But what if I change the message in my hands to say that the State Committee on the State of Emergency assassinated Gorbachev? What then? Yeltsin’s supporters would grow exponentially, and we would be cast into the abyss as public enemies.”

“What are you trying to do? Are you threatening us with the failure of the operation? Don’t forget, you are also a member of the Emergency Committee!” Pugo said warily.

Yanayev shrugged. “It’s not a threat, just a way to get everyone to unite. Look at our State Committee on the State of Emergency—a disorganized mess, a pile of loose sand. No structure, no objective. I am simply leading everyone so that the Soviet Union can pass through its most dangerous moment. So, are there any other questions?”

No one spoke. Yanayev’s presence had stunned them all, including the hesitant reformists. The entire conference room had now become his stage. Yanayev began to eloquently lay out his operation plan. “The current plan is to swiftly mobilize the army to enter Moscow and impose martial law, implementing a wartime footing. Political commissars will have the right to execute any disobedient soldiers on the spot.”

In the past, it was the army’s feigned compliance, crawling into Moscow at a snail’s pace, that gave Yeltsin and his followers an opportunity to counterattack.

“Only after the army has entered Moscow will we issue the state of emergency order. We must catch Yeltsin completely off guard. Tank companies will surround the White House at top speed. They will surround it, but not attack. Seal it off so tightly that not a drop of water could get through.” Yanayev passionately presented his plan. At a time when no one else had a clear course of action, his plan was their only choice.

“Surround but not attack? Why?” Yazov asked, puzzled.

“Killing people isn’t what tanks are for. The tanks’ job is to maintain order and stability. What we need to do is to stand at the gates of the White House, in Red Square, and use every public space to tear off Yeltsin’s hypocritical mask! We’ll set up screens, bring the video cameras, and release the contents of this videotape to the public, so the people know Yeltsin’s true intentions,” Yanayev said fiercely, raising the tape in his hand. Compared to simply killing, he much preferred to kill both body and spirit.

Politics is a magnificent performance of lies. No one would question Yeltsin’s motive for assassinating Gorbachev, nor would they wonder how a guard could have brought poison into the Foros Dacha. Perhaps someone might consider these points after the storm passed, but right now, the only thing the people would believe was what they saw with their own eyes: the assassin was sent by Yeltsin.

Facts, more often than not, are not the same as the truth.

Next, Yanayev discussed the details of initiating the state of emergency with the committee members before announcing the end of the meeting. The order would be issued the next morning, while Yazov would be responsible for coordinating the mobilization of the Guards Division’s tank units tonight. Everyone left the meeting hall looking pale. They all knew tonight would be the calm before the storm. Tomorrow, the political landscape of the Soviet Union would undergo an earth-shattering change.

“May Comrade Lenin bless the Soviet Union,” Minister of Internal Affairs Pugo silently prayed as he stepped out of the conference room. It was already dark, and the Kremlin was brilliantly lit, its lights shimmering in the night. He gazed at the blaze of light. This country was like a terminally ill polar bear making its final, desperate struggle. He couldn’t help but add another thought, “The Soviet Union must not fall. If we lose, the socialist movement is truly lost.”

“Comrade Yazov and Comrade Kryuchkov, please wait a moment,” Yanayev called out, stopping Yazov who had been about to leave. Yazov turned back and asked, somewhat confused, “Is there something else, Comrade Yanayev?”

“Regarding the assassination, I’d like to discuss it with you now. Also, have General Achalov and General Nigen Ageyev come join our discussion. I want a reliable operation plan before midnight.” Yanayev placed his hands flat on the table, waiting for Yazov’s reply. In the historical assassination attempt on Yeltsin, General Nigen Ageyev, acting as a KGB agent, and General Achalov, acting as Yazov’s agent, happened to be the supreme commanders of the operation.

“Yes, I’ll go get Nigen right away.” KGB Chairman Kryuchkov was as meek as a lamb before Yanayev, all due to the bloody massacre he had witnessed the previous night. At the very least, it taught him that Yanayev’s methods were far harsher than anyone else’s.

“Assassination? The KGB’s Alpha Group is enough for that. Why do we need people from the Army involved?” Yazov did not understand why Yanayev had kept him behind as well.

“For this assassination, we will need to mobilize at least two helicopters, five tanks and armored vehicles, and a special forces team of more than twenty men to complete the mission. Moreover, from this moment on, we will no longer be using Alpha Group.” Yanayev took a deep breath and said slowly, “I have already prepared two teams dispatched from the GRU. They are on standby at the KGB safe house on Leninsky Prospekt.”

“Why not use Alpha? Having them infiltrate the White House is the plan with the highest chance of success.” Yazov couldn’t understand why Yanayev had made such a decision. They had the best, and also most convenient, unit at their disposal in Alpha Group, yet he refused to use them.

Kryuchkov, standing to the side, interjected, “Because Alpha Group was attacked by thugs last night. They were all killed.” After he spoke, he even gave Yazov a helpless smile.

“Did you have them all…?” Minister of Defense Yazov instantly understood the meaning behind Kryuchkov’s words. Cold sweat began to form on his forehead. Just how many moves had this Vice President, this man they had elected to be the committee’s Chairman, made behind their backs?

“That is not the point of discussion. The moment Alpha swore allegiance to Yeltsin, their fates were sealed. Besides, who said I was going to intercept Yeltsin at the White House tomorrow? If we wait until tomorrow to make our move, it will be too late. I want tonight to be Yeltsin’s last.” Yanayev was finally ready to take the most crucial step of his entire plan. News of the coup would be intentionally leaked to Yeltsin through certain channels tonight. When that happened, the panicked old fox would surely flee from his heavily guarded villa to the White House. And that road to the White House would be his grave.

Yeltsin must die!

Chapter 6: Bloody August Eighteenth

On the quiet night of August eighteenth, Boris Yeltsin, having just returned from abroad, was enjoying a moment of peace on the sofa in his dacha. At just over sixty, he was undoubtedly the most promising reformer after Gorbachev. Both in the West and at home, everyone had their eyes on him. Even Yeltsin himself had to admit that from a people’s leader to the President of Russia, he was, step by step, destroying the red empire the Slavic people had spent sixty-nine years building.

Just as he had expected, the detailed articles of the New Union Treaty were published in Izvestia on August 15th. So far, the crumbling edifice of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union was collapsing step by step, precisely according to his plan. The thought that this evil empire would meet its end at his hands, or perhaps Gorbachev’s, brought a victor’s smile to Yeltsin’s lips.

“You beasts of the evil empire, thank me, Boris Yeltsin, for the hope of democracy and freedom I bring you,” Yeltsin said to himself, raising his glass in a self-satisfied toast. Feeling a bit bored, he stood up, intending to turn on the television to watch the evening news. But as he reached for the remote, the shrill, urgent ringing of the telephone on the desk stopped him.

At first, Yeltsin had no intention of answering. But the phone shrieked relentlessly like an emergency alarm, and a sense of unease crept into his heart. He had no choice but to put down the remote, slip on his slippers, and walk to the desk. He snatched up the receiver and barked an irritated, “Hello?”

On the other end of the line was General Lebed, commander of the paratroopers, a fish who had slipped through the net of Gennady Yanayev’s political purges. He was also a loyal follower of Yeltsin. General Lebed’s voice was frantic as he tipped Yeltsin off. “President Yeltsin, I apologize for calling so late, but there is something I must report to you.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow? It’s already eleven o’clock,” Yeltsin’s voice was clearly tinged with impatience.

“No, this is truly important.” The man on the other end gripped the receiver tightly, his tone as serious as it could be. “According to reliable intelligence, a group of high-level officials led by Yanayev is preparing to stage a coup. President Yeltsin, please get to the White House as quickly as possible. I will do everything in my power to delay them.”

“You must be joking, General Lebed. To stage a coup, the first thing they would do is restrict Gorbachev’s movements and then declare a state of emergency, not come after me.” Yeltsin was dismissive of Lebed’s words. The domestic situation was overwhelmingly favorable for him; a coup was completely counterintuitive.

“A special plane flew to the Foros Dacha on the Crimean Peninsula during the day. I received news of the coup just two hours ago. Right now, Minister of Defense Yazov is actively mobilizing all the armed forces of the Moscow Guards Division, including the Taman Division, preparing to enter Moscow to maintain stability. Your Excellency, President Yeltsin, you can try calling General Secretary Gorbachev at the Foros Dacha right now. If you can’t get through, then my guess is almost certainly correct.”

Now General Lebed’s words no longer sounded so fantastical. Yeltsin quickly grabbed another phone and tried to dial the president’s Black Sea holiday dacha. But no matter how many times he tried, all he heard was a busy signal. So he called his colleagues in the Politburo, only to be told that the General Secretary’s phone had been unreachable since noon that day. When they questioned Plekhanov, the Director of the KGB’s Ninth Directorate responsible for the president’s security, his answers were evasive.

Now Yeltsin began to panic. Only then, his head clouded by victory, did he remember that he did not have the crucial Taman Motor Rifle Division fully under his control. The only forces willing to pledge loyalty to him were the paratroopers led by Lebed. A fine layer of cold sweat broke out on Yeltsin’s palms. He picked up the phone he had not yet put down and said to Lebed, “Can you mobilize the paratrooper units under your command right now?”

“I can,” Lebed’s reply was short and powerful. His tone had calmed, and he waited quietly for Yeltsin’s next instruction.

Hearing that assurance, Yeltsin’s heart settled slightly. He issued his next order. “Deploy all the paratroopers you can to the White House to protect it. I’m heading there now to call upon the people of Moscow to rise up against Soviet tyranny, to defend Moscow, to defend Russia! I refuse to believe those high-level officials would dare turn their cannons on the people!”

“Understood, I’ll make the arrangements now. Take care, President Yeltsin.” Lebed’s voice was grave as he bid Yeltsin farewell.

“You too, General Lebed. The Russian people are fortunate to have you.” Yeltsin smiled in relief, the weight in his heart finally lifting. “Go on and get busy. I’m heading to the White House now. I’ll see you there.”

“Goodbye… President Yeltsin.”

On the other end of the line, General Lebed put down the receiver. He looked up at Gennady Yanayev standing before him, and at the fully armed GRU soldiers surrounding him. With a trembling voice, he said, “I’ve done as you said. Can you let my wife and son go now?”

“Of course. Thank you for your cooperation, General Lebed.” Yanayev gave Lebed a slight bow, his reply Neither servile nor overbearing. “Oh, by the way, do you know why your superior, Lieutenant General Grachev, was dismissed, while you were allowed to remain?”

“No, I don’t want to know.” Lebed shook his head in panic. He knew the less he knew now, the better off he would be. People who knew too many secrets never lived very long.

But Yanayev clearly wasn’t going to give him that chance. “Actually, I was just waiting for this day. Now, as a pawn, your task is complete.”

“Thank God,” General Lebed said, clutching his chest and breathing a quiet sigh of relief.

Just as he was about to stand up, Yanayev nodded to the soldier beside him. The soldier, wearing a black mask, raised a pistol fitted with a silencer and fired a single bullet into Lebed’s broad forehead. There was no flash of light; the bullet left the muzzle with a barely audible hiss and bored into Lebed’s skull.

The paratrooper general fell silently onto the floorboards of his own home. Blood seeped from the bullet hole, staining the yellow wood an ugly, dark red. Yanayev crouched down, closed Lebed’s eyes, and said slowly, “Your task is complete, so naturally, you have no more value. As for thanking God, you can go tell him that yourself.”

Yanayev ordered his men to turn on all the gas stoves in Lebed’s house. After sealing the doors and windows, they all quickly exited. When the gas concentration inside reached a certain level, it met the lit lamps inside and instantly exploded.

There was a tremendous bang. Yanayev, who had just stepped outside, turned back to see a giant orange fireball rising slowly into the sky. Flames shot out from the windows, gradually burning the wooden building to ashes.

“Let’s go. Nothing to see here. There will be many more victims of this political cycle,” Yanayev said to the GRU soldiers around him as he lit a cigarette. These men were now all supporters of his coup. If Yanayev succeeded, their once-dim prospects would immediately become limitless.

Everyone climbed into the jeeps parked by the roadside. Yanayev instructed the driver to head for a highway on the outskirts of Moscow. There, he had meticulously prepared a fireworks display for Boris Yeltsin.

Chapter 7: A Feast of Fireworks

On the outskirts of Moscow, the summer nights were usually quiet and peaceful. Fireflies deep in the roadside grass clung to leaves and branches, emitting faint spots of pale green light that echoed the twinkling stars in the sky. Suddenly, the ground began to tremble slightly. The fireflies in the grass took flight, their wavering lights illuminating the vast, once-dim fields.

The roar of tires on pavement grew from a distant rumble to an approaching thunder as three black Jeeps sped toward the city of Moscow. Sitting inside one of them, Gennady Yanayev was in no mood to appreciate the beautiful scenery. A few more kilometers ahead was the ambush point for Boris Yeltsin. This particular stretch of highway, a crucial route from Yeltsin’s suburban villa to Moscow, was the only section that ran through a deserted wilderness with no potential witnesses.

For this ambush, Yanayev had even given a heads-up to Minister of Internal Affairs Pugo to ensure that not a single police patrol car would appear in the vicinity tonight when Yeltsin was attacked. Of course, the top brass of the KGB Technical Directorate had also set up a radio jamming system in the area. To be on the safe side, Yanayev had not told them who the target of the abduction was.

Right now, Yeltsin was prey slowly walking into a trap.

“President Yanayev, we’ve arrived at our destination,” the GRU soldier in the front passenger seat called back to him. Yanayev, who had been lost in thought, snapped back to reality and nodded at the soldier. A wave of heat washed over him as the Jeep door was opened. Under the protection of the GRU soldiers, Yanayev stepped out of the vehicle.

A trace of dry heat hung in the air. In the darkness, aside from the symphony of frogs and insects, there was only the calm breathing of the conspirators. Several agents had already been lying in ambush along this section of the road. Yanayev could see them hunched over by the roadside, tinkering with something.

A man who was clearly in charge saw Yanayev and immediately walked over to greet him respectfully.

“Comrade Vladimir, good work,” Yanayev said with a smile, patting him on the shoulder. A year ago, Yanayev had unexpectedly promoted this young man, then the Chairman of Leningrad’s Committee for External Relations, transferring him from Leningrad to serve as his office secretary. Just when everyone thought he was about to become a rising star in Soviet politics, Yanayev made the surprising decision to have him lie low for a while to plan some dark, unsanctioned operations for him. After all, Russia’s future president had been a KGB agent in his youth.

Vladimir was a little surprised that Yanayev was addressing him so directly and friendly by his first name. He picked up a block of C-4 plastic explosive bristling with wires and said to Yanayev, “We’ve placed these simple explosive devices along the roadside to destroy Yeltsin’s convoy. From our prior observations, his protection detail usually consists of four black sedans. The C-4 planted here can destroy the first vehicle in the convoy, forcing them to a halt. Then, our agents hidden in the grass behind will use an RPG to destroy the last car. That way, the vehicles in the middle will be trapped and unable to move.”

“This stretch of road has a wide field of view, so I’ve positioned machine gunners on both sides. No matter which direction they exit their vehicles, they will be met with heavy fire,” Vladimir said, lifting a heavy PKM general-purpose machine gun. This weapon, firing 7.62mm caliber bullets, would surely be a nightmare for Yeltsin’s bodyguards. “Considering the President’s vehicle is armored, we’ve also prepared GP-25 grenade launchers. If Yeltsin is unwilling to surrender, we can just turn him into a piece of charcoal.”

“Meaning, even if Yeltsin is in an infantry fighting vehicle, we can still blow him to bits?” Yanayev was extremely satisfied with the thoroughness of Vladimir’s assassination plan. Of course, Yanayev now owed GRU Commander Yegor a huge favor. If he hadn’t secretly mobilized military-grade weapons for Yanayev, this assassination might never have gotten off the ground.

“Theoretically, yes,” Vladimir said gravely.

“But all we need right now is a single bullet to set the entire Soviet Union ablaze,” Yanayev said slowly.

Four black cars, engines roaring, sped toward the Russian White House in Moscow under the cover of night like howling steel beasts. The bodyguards inside were all armed with AKS-74Us, protecting Yeltsin like stars orbiting the moon, vigilantly watching the roadsides for any movement. At that moment, Yeltsin’s mind was in turmoil. He had informed his political allies in the upper echelons of the Communist Party that a coup was imminent and had been actively mobilizing what little military power he had left. However, the vast majority of the calls he made were met with a busy signal. He realized then that the Emergency Committee had acted faster than him; some of his supporters in the military might have already been detained.

Yeltsin straightened his suit, having already prepared himself for a long standoff against the upper echelons of the Soviet coup inside the White House. If the coup turned into a protracted confrontation, Yeltsin would have more cards to play. He could incite the clueless masses in Moscow to act as his shield, he could instigate a mutiny in the army, and he could encourage the union republics to break away. After all, there were always plenty of people eager to carve off a piece of flesh from the dying red behemoth. When a wall is about to collapse, everyone gives it a push.

The agent sitting beside him spoke to Yeltsin, “President Yeltsin, there’s a problem. We can’t contact the outside world right now. It seems someone has specifically jammed the radio signals in this area.”

Yeltsin frowned. He shifted his body, trying to find a comfortable position. Resting his hand on the leather seat, he turned to the agent beside him and said, “Confirm it again.”

“Understood.”

BOOM.

The moment Yeltsin finished speaking, a dazzling ball of fire erupted from beneath the lead car, hurling the several-ton steel monster more than three meters into the air. It traced a clumsy arc through the sky before its overturned carcass slammed back onto the ground. The sound of the fuel tank exploding was like the final death cry of a great beast.

“So beautiful,” Yanayev remarked with a sigh, admiring the feast of fireworks from a short distance away.

The rearmost Jeep seemed to be attempting a retreat when a hidden agent suddenly stood up from the grass. With an RPG on his shoulder, he fired a rocket at the back of the Jeep. In the darkness, only a brilliant trail of flame could be seen flashing across the distance before it slammed viciously into the vehicle. The entire car instantly became a burning fireball, the roaring flames turning it into a massive coffin for all those still inside who hadn’t had time to evacuate.

The middle cars tried to escape through the grass on the sides of the road. The machine gunners lying in wait pulled their triggers. A continuous stream of fire from the PKM machine guns reduced the sedans’ tires to piles of black rubber. But the gunners soon noticed something was wrong—one of the cars was actually withstanding the PKM’s bullets. The gunners didn’t dare to let up, pinning down the agents inside with the most intense firepower possible. Then, agents swarmed in from all directions, slowly tightening the encirclement, leaving the people in the car with nowhere to run.

“The armor on that thing is pretty good. It’s as good as Shevardnadze’s armored Mercedes.” Yanayev turned to Vladimir and asked, “Was this within your range of considerations? I told you beforehand that I wanted Yeltsin’s body intact.”

“Of course,” Vladimir’s voice was steady. “Rest assured, the KGB has enough experience to handle this kind of situation.”

As he spoke, a loud blast echoed from the bushes to Yanayev’s side, as deafening as if someone had detonated a grenade. Then Yanayev saw the car’s window shatter instantly, a splash of blood, not very distinct in the dark, splattering across the broken pane. Another one of those chilling reports came from the bushes. The bulletproof glass, which the 7.62mm bullets couldn’t even scratch, was sliced open like jelly by this rifle’s rounds.

“We also brought a large-caliber anti-materiel sniper weapon to prevent unnecessary situations like this,” Vladimir said, lowering his binoculars. The sound of gunfire gradually faded, signaling that it was all over.

“Let’s go. Let’s pay our old friend Yeltsin a visit,” Yanayev said, standing up and brushing the dust off his clothes before heading down the slope. He could hardly wait to see the look of desperate terror on Yeltsin’s face before he died.

A machine gunner was still firing his PKM nonstop into the palm-sized bullet hole until all movement inside the car ceased. In truth, in such a confined space, the ricochets alone would have been enough to kill everyone.

Yanayev, who had been full of anticipation, was sorely disappointed by the scene inside the car. All that lay before him was the president’s car, filled with the bodies of agents. The cunning Yeltsin was not inside. The acrid smell of blood was so strong he had to cover his nose.

“Yeltsin wasn’t in this convoy. He took another route,” the nearby Vladimir said, clenching his fists. In fact, none of the GRU soldiers had noticed an inconspicuous Volga drive past them earlier, speeding towards Moscow.

Chapter 8: A Kiss with Death

The Volga car, under the cover of night, slipped into the White House (Russian). It wasn’t until they reached the parking lot that the driver finally eased off the accelerator, letting the car coast to a slow stop. The agent, disguised as a driver, turned his head and said to Boris Yeltsin, “President Yeltsin, we’ve arrived at the White House. We’re safe now.”

Only then did Yeltsin, who had been lying on the back seat, poke his head up. He scrambled up and breathed a sigh of relief. He had been curled up in the corner the entire way, almost afraid to breathe too heavily. Fortunately, the journey, while tense, was without mishap. He had arrived safely at the stronghold of the democratic and liberal faction—the White House, an administrative building in the heart of Moscow.

As for the fate of the agents who had been protecting him, that was not something the future leader of the Russian Federation needed to concern himself with. If they were dead, he could award medals to their families, manipulate the media to craft tragic hero narratives, and use their deaths to highlight the evil of the Soviets. It was the best of both worlds. In any case, it wouldn’t create the image of a leader who was a coward afraid of death.

At this thought, the corners of Yeltsin’s mouth couldn’t help but rise in a slight smile. The response from the high-ranking officials of the Soviet Communist Party was frustratingly inept. Once he broadcast the news of the coup, the citizens of Moscow would all stand with him. If the State Committee on the State of Emergency, whose foundations in the military were not yet stable, dared to suppress the people, it would only cause the Soviet Communist Party to slide into an irreversible abyss.

Yeltsin quickened his pace. His allies were waiting for him in the conference room. He had already devised a plan: he would establish a shadow cabinet of more than twenty people. They would be sent to a backup broadcasting station in a forest seventy kilometers from the city of Sverdlovsk to lead Russia. This was a contingency in case the White House fell, allowing them to organize another base for a long-term struggle.

Yeltsin had even mentally drafted An Address to the Citizens of Russia, intended to incite the people of Moscow, and indeed all of Russia, to oppose this coup against him. Because of Gennady Yanayev’s strategic and operational blunders, Yeltsin had thought of this countermeasure even earlier than he had in the original history.

Yeltsin stepped onto the last marble stair. The doors to the conference room beckoned. Through the crack of the ajar wooden door, he could even see the white light emanating from the dazzlingly bright crystal chandelier inside. He just had to push open this heavy wooden door, and a group of supportive allies would be sitting at the conference table, waiting for his command.

Yeltsin slowly pushed the door open, but the moment he saw the scene in the conference room, his hand tightened on the cold handle.

There was no enthusiastic applause, no eager gazes. The room was deathly silent. All Yeltsin saw were dilated pupils, temples pierced by bullets, congealed black blood, and bodies slumped over the table in silent despair. These dead men were all his supporters within the Russian government, and now the murderer seemed to be using their corpses to mock his powerlessness.

“What is going on?” Yeltsin took a few steps back, the sense of security he had painstakingly built collapsing in an instant. When he turned around, he saw a pair of cold eyes watching him in silence. Figures that had been hiding in the building’s shadows slowly emerged. They held submachine guns and closed in on him from all directions.

Yeltsin glanced at the body lying behind the unmoving figure in front of him. He was certain that even the last agent who could have protected him was gone. As if knowing he was about to die, Yeltsin suddenly became calm. He began to applaud the mastermind. “Congratulations to Gennady Yanayev and his accomplices,” he said flatly. “You’ve won completely.”

“You’re mistaken, President Yeltsin. There is no Gennady Yanayev and his accomplices. The Vice President planned all of this himself, including infiltrating this place last December under the guise of guards. Of course, we were just waiting for this day.”

The assassin, who had been expressionless, smiled faintly. “How wonderful. The first President of the Russian Federation, and also the last. It is truly my honor to be able to kill you with my own hands.”

“A professional agent wouldn’t be so talkative. Tell me, how did your boss find me? If I’m not mistaken, he should be waiting to ambush my motorcade in the outskirts of Moscow right now.” Yeltsin had become completely composed. He even walked into the conference room, found a chair, and sat down. He calmly took a drink of water, even with the muzzles of several submachine guns pointed at him.

The assassin sat on the table and explained slowly, “It’s nothing. My boss said that if I caught you, I should tell you that your phone call with General Lebed was arranged by him, and infiltrating this building in advance was also part of his design. Our mission was to take down everyone first, then stage you and your friends to look like a mass suicide.”

Yeltsin’s hand, holding the glass of water, paused. He looked up and stared at the assassin. “You’re saying this was all Yanayev’s setup? That the phone call from the very beginning was the first step of his plan? He’s been planning this coup for a year? Why? Did he even calculate when I would enter the White House? To go to such great lengths to kill me… this can’t be a simple power struggle. It seems your Vice President has fooled everyone.”

The assassin raised his pistol and pressed it against Yeltsin’s forehead. “I’m afraid you’ll never have the chance to find out,” he said in a low voice. “Any last words?”

“Yes.” Yeltsin looked up, his expression contorted with fury. He sneered, “Do me a favor and tell Gennady Yanayev I’ll be waiting for him in hell.”

“Of course.”

Then the agent’s index finger pulled the trigger. The bullet, emerging from the silencer, tore through Yeltsin’s cranial cavity in a soft spray of blood. It embedded itself in the floor, creating a small, uneven hole. Yeltsin’s head snapped back, and fragments of his shattered skull, along with a splatter of brain matter, flew onto a portrait of Gorbachev hanging on the wall, leaving it speckled with dark scarlet spots.

For Yeltsin to die beneath Gorbachev’s portrait was truly a perfect irony for the Soviet leadership. But regardless, at the last moment, Yanayev had stopped one of the Soviet Union’s pallbearers, and one of its gravediggers.

On a road more than ten kilometers from the center of Moscow, columns of T-72 tanks moved in an orderly fashion. These steel blades from the Manta Division were heading to the city center to impose martial law. The decision to enter Moscow at just after four in the morning was made in consideration of the announcement the Emergency Committee would make on television, which was likely to plunge the city into chaos.

Yanayev sat on the cold roof of T-72 tank number 100. The cool night wind rustled his hair. He hadn’t chosen to ride a tank for show; it was a clear demonstration of his resolute and unyielding stance. Historically, it was on this very tank that Yeltsin had delivered his inflammatory speech, which ultimately caused the wavering Moscow Garrison Division to fall completely into the arms of the liberal camp.

At this moment, Yanayev’s mood was hardly any lighter than it had been during Yeltsin’s assassination. He now had to face the people of Moscow. Disorderly freedom and hypocritical democracy were like a virus, deeply rooted in the blood of the Slavic people, and had become a malignant tumor destroying the very foundation of the nation.

Although Yanayev leaned more towards Trotskyism in some of his political views, there was a gap between ideals and reality. Without methods of iron and blood, it would be difficult to rule this vast red empire.

An executioner of an empire? Yanayev shook his head with a bitter smile. These people were destined never to understand his painstaking efforts. Perhaps he would be labeled a tyrant, and the idealistic intellectuals who so often harmed the nation would compare him to Hitler. Perhaps in several decades, someone would shout in his defense and clear his name, but unfortunately, Yanayev would no longer be there to hear it.

The tank commander climbed out of the turret and said to Yanayev, “Your Excellency, Mr. Vice President, we’re almost there. The center of Moscow is just ahead.”

Yanayev nodded at him, then looked back at the empty streets of the early morning. “Someone has to use blood and violence to awaken the Soviet Union,” he said slowly. “In that case, let me be the helmsman of this old, dilapidated giant ship.”

Chapter 9: The Self-Inflicted Injury Ploy

On August 19th, when the citizens of Moscow woke up in the morning and turned on their televisions as usual, they were surprised to find that no matter which channel they turned to, they were all, without exception, broadcasting the ballet Swan Lake. The repeating melody made them wonder if there was a malfunction at the television station. However, some Moscow citizens with a bit more media experience guessed that some new change might have occurred within the Soviet government.

In truth, if they had turned on their televisions half an hour earlier, they would have seen a Moscow TV anchor reading the “Message to the Soviet People.” Soviet Central Television and Radio had formally announced the order from Soviet Vice President Gennady Yanayev: President Gorbachev was unable to perform his presidential duties due to health reasons. In accordance with Article 127 of the Soviet Constitution, Vice President Yanayev would assume the duties of the President. In a slight departure from history, only Prime Minister Pavlov and First Deputy Chairman of the Defense Council Baklanov had jointly signed the “Statement of the Soviet Leadership,” declaring a six-month state of emergency in certain parts of the Soviet Union starting from 4:00 AM on August 19, 1991, and establishing the State Committee on the State of Emergency. Yanayev, meanwhile, was accompanying the Taman Division’s tank units on their way to the White House.

Pavlov had also received news that morning. A security motorcade for Yeltsin had been ambushed on the outskirts of Moscow the previous night. All the agents protecting Yeltsin were killed, and Yeltsin’s own whereabouts were unknown. From the report, Pavlov could roughly guess the cause and effect, but he still couldn’t help but break out in a cold sweat. Yanayev’s methods were so clean and decisive. Was this a good thing for them, or a bad thing?

Pavlov’s face darkened as he gazed at the sky outside his Kremlin office window. He sighed helplessly and said to the secretary beside him, “We’ve already done our best on many things. How the Soviet Union will proceed from here… is in God’s hands now.”

The Prime Minister’s secretary beside Pavlov wore an awkward expression, unsure how to respond to his words.

At this moment, Yanayev not only wanted to assassinate Yeltsin but also to utterly ruin his reputation, to completely shatter the image of a savior of democracy and freedom that Yeltsin had painstakingly crafted. As the tanks advanced to the streets near the White House, the crowd of onlookers gradually grew. It seemed no one had yet realized that the conspicuous middle-aged man sitting on a tank was their Vice President. Most of the onlookers were young people. They sized up Yanayev, who stood tall and unmoving on the tank, with looks of ill intent, warily watching the Taman Division’s every move.

These must be Yeltsin’s supporters, Yanayev thought to himself. He analyzed the current situation. These people had made no further moves, likely because they hadn’t received instructions from the higher-ups in the White House. Yanayev still didn’t know the specific situation inside the White House. He hoped that by the time the tanks reached the square, he would hear news of Yeltsin’s suicide.

At eight o’clock sharp on the morning of the nineteenth, twenty-six tanks surrounded the White House, making it impenetrable. Their cannons were aimed at the building that symbolized the highest power of the Slavic people. The nearby intersections had also been barricaded by the Ministry of Internal Affairs’ secret police, prohibiting vehicle traffic.

The previously indifferent citizens of Moscow finally began to gather in the square out of curiosity, only to find the soldiers scrambling to set up the kind of large screen used for open-air movies. Then, they brought out a projector and placed it in front of the screen. At this, the Yeltsin supporters who had been planning to step forward and intervene ceased their small movements, watching curiously to see what these soldiers were up to.

Not only the White House, but Red Square and other important public areas were also setting up similar screens for open-air movies. Passing Moscow citizens stopped in their tracks, their curiosity piqued.

In the square, Yanayev personally pressed the start button. The film began to roll, projecting a blurry but still discernible video onto the screen. When Gorbachev’s much-watched face appeared, the previously silent crowd erupted into an uproar.

In the video, Gorbachev’s expression looked somewhat angry, but due to the lighting, many could only make out the general outline of the scene, along with the sound that traveled from the speakers to everyone’s ears.

“Shut up! What do you know, Varennikov? You’re just a soldier, that’s why you think so simplistically. Besides, a soldier’s duty is to obey orders, not to participate in a coup.”

The citizens were shocked to see the General Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party, who seemed to never lose his temper, now looking flustered and exasperated, showing the people of Moscow a rude and ill-mannered side of Gorbachev. Then the image suddenly shook, and before everyone’s eyes, the clip of Gorbachev’s assassination was played.

This was a prime headline. If not for the press ban implemented by the State Committee on the State of Emergency, which allowed only nine Party newspapers to print their publications, those reporters with no moral compass would have already fabricated distorted reports at the first opportunity. Although Gorbachev was disliked by both pro-reform and pro-conservative citizens, he was still the First General Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party. The simple and kind-hearted Slavic people would not condone such a blatant assassination of the supreme leader of the Soviet state.

Especially when they heard the final sentence, “Long live President Yeltsin!” the crowd’s smoldering fury was instantly ignited. KGB agents hidden among the citizens fanned the flames, shouting, “Yeltsin is hiding in the White House!” “Let’s go get that butcher!” “Avenge President Gorbachev! Long live the Soviet Union!”

The incited crowd, shouting slogans to bring down Yeltsin, surged towards the White House. Meanwhile, those who had originally supported Yeltsin’s uprising looked at each other in dismay. The script had gone completely off the rails, and for a moment, they didn’t know what to do.

An enormous crowd of indignant citizens had already gathered in front of the White House. Ironically, the Taman Division, originally there to capture Yeltsin, had now become a steel barrier protecting the White House in order to stop the agitated mob. The ever-growing crowd of Moscow citizens tried to break through the barricades and pour into the White House, but they were held back by the soldiers.

Sitting on the tank, Yanayev watched this anticipated scene unfold. He patted down his clothes, stood up, and picked up the megaphone beside him, preparing to turn the speech he had mulled over all night into an inspiring address.

“Citizens of Moscow, please calm down. I am the Vice President of the Soviet Union, General Secretary Gennady Ivanovich Yanayev.” Yanayev’s voice was steady and powerful. Perhaps someone else might not have been able to cow these people, but the moment Yanayev announced his identity, the bustling crowd slowly grew quiet. Perhaps this was the unique charisma of a politician.

Ignoring the resentful gazes from the crowd, Yanayev continued on his own, “I regret that the government has deceived you all. Gorbachev is not unable to serve as General Secretary due to health issues, but because of a traitor’s shameless assassination! As you have seen, the despicable Yeltsin has betrayed the people. He used the slogans of democracy and freedom to deceive everyone. He is nothing but a dark and scheming villain. To ascend to the position of supreme head of state, he did not hesitate to use a despicable method like assassinating the General Secretary to achieve his goal. Fortunately, those who fight for justice and truth will not be subdued by his petty tricks.”

Yanayev’s righteous speech stunned those who were attempting to riot and those looking to fish in troubled waters.

“Great Russia has endured great suffering. It has experienced the savage iron hooves of the Tatars, the long spears of the Napoleonic Empire, the sharp blades of the Poles, and the endless cannon fire of the Nazi bastards. Yet, without exception, we drove all these invaders out of Russia. Without exception, they left with their heads hung low. And this time, our motherland once again faces a dangerous test, not from a cruel foreign enemy, but from a despicable, shameless traitor. Countless foreign enemies are waiting with schadenfreude for us to fall, so they can carve a fat piece of flesh from the people’s interests. And I promise you, Yeltsin, this shameless traitor, will receive the judgment he deserves. His vile actions will be made public. He will not be allowed to remain at large!”

“However, if anyone attempts to storm the White House, I will consider them an accomplice trying to rescue Yeltsin amidst the chaos. As for cowards who betray the Russian people, who betray the nation…” At this point, Yanayev picked up the AKS74U at his feet and said in a cold voice, “We will send them to meet God!”

Yanayev’s speech was met with thunderous applause. He raised his hand to the crowd in a gesture of respect and thanks. Suddenly, he noticed a man in a flat cap quickly moving through the dense crowd, heading toward him. Yanayev instinctively sensed a threat and took a few steps back. Just as he was about to speak to the soldiers beside him, the man had already come within ten paces. He then pretended to raise his hands to applaud, and a small pistol hidden in his palm suddenly fired at him.

Because of the flash suppressor, the already faint gunshot was immediately drowned out by the wave of applause. Yanayev slowly collapsed in front of the crowd. He felt a burning pain from the wound and saw, on the hand covering it, a shocking patch of dark red.

As the assailant fled, he pushed through the crowded people and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Long live Yeltsin! Long live democracy!” The guards, realizing something was wrong, quickly chased after the retreating figure of the attacker.

“This guy… he’s really… a bit ruthless!” Yanayev’s consciousness slowly faded as he watched the figure recede into the distance. When the guards rushed to his side, he felt the entire world go quiet, as if a sponge had absorbed all sound. Then, his eyelids grew heavy and closed. The guards, busy and tense around him, failed to notice the faint, lingering smile on Yanayev’s lips—the smile of a successfully executed plot.

Chapter 10: The Great Purge

The assassination attempt on Gennady Yanayev sent significant ripples through the already turbulent political landscape of the Soviet Union. The Soviet authorities could not bear the devastating news of losing two of their highest leaders within two days. Fortunately, the bullet had only grazed Yanayev’s shoulder, leaving him with nothing more than a minor flesh wound. Even the doctor who bandaged him marveled that the shot was a stroke of luck amid misfortune.

Of course, no one would ever know that the assailant was the GRU’s finest sniper, who had rehearsed this seemingly impromptu assassination over a dozen times.

The injury to the highest leader of the Soviet Communist Party gave the soldiers enforcing martial law a legitimate reason to disperse the crowd of protesters. The people, already disorganized and lacking any real fighting power, had lost their will after Yanayev’s iron-man-style speech. When the police advanced with riot shields to clear the area, they scattered in all directions. Only after the square in front of The White House (Russian) was empty was Boris Yeltsin’s body carried out by the GRU assassins and secretly transported to the hospital morgue.

That afternoon, the news that Russian President Boris Yeltsin had taken his own life to escape punishment played on a continuous loop on television screens. The broadcast declared that the Soviet would not spare Yeltsin or his co-conspirators who had attempted to destroy the nation. Upon seeing the news, some of Yeltsin’s political allies, who had made secret deals with him, pulled out their pistols in despair and put them in their mouths.

For them, suicide was preferable to being arrested by the KGB.

However, quite a few intellectuals who idolized Western-style democracy and freedom sneered at the news, which was being hailed as a “victory for the people,” and spat in disdain. But these flies, still lost in their pipe dreams of democracy and freedom, had no idea of the impending disaster, that winter was coming. Only then would they discover that being locked away in a special psychiatric hospital of the KGB’s Fifth Directorate would feel like a summer vacation compared to the torment that awaited them.

Yanayev sat cheerfully on his hospital bed, watching the news on television. After only half a day of martial law, the center of Moscow had largely stabilized. Aside from a few small-scale clashes in some areas, everything else had returned to its usual order. The scenarios for the major riots that were supposed to have occurred had, with Yeltsin’s death, become secrets that no one would ever know.

KGB agents were stationed outside Yanayev’s hospital room. The attacker had not yet been caught, so they couldn’t relax for a moment. If anything were to happen to Yanayev, the last leader who could save the Soviet would be gone for good.

Prime Minister Pavlov had made a special trip from The Kremlin to check on the Soviet Union’s supreme leader. He sat by Yanayev’s side. As one of the organizers of the State Committee on the State of Emergency, Pavlov was particularly concerned about Yanayev’s health. When he walked into the room and saw Yanayev’s healthy complexion and the friendly way he greeted him, the weight that had been pressing on Pavlov’s mind was finally lifted.

Yanayev gestured with his bandaged shoulder and said with a smile, “I really don’t know if that gunman was a terrible shot, or if his skill has reached a sublime level.”

Pavlov chuckled along but then his expression turned serious. “It’s time we discussed the future of the Soviet, General Secretary Yanayev.”

Pavlov had changed his form of address for Yanayev from Vice President to General Secretary. Yanayev shrewdly noted his expression.

“Gorbachev’s disastrous reforms have driven the Soviet economy into an abyss. We must abolish all of his political and economic reform plans and draw up new ones to stop all this. Of course, reform isn’t something that can be decided on a whim and accomplished overnight. I’ve analyzed the failures of Gorbachev’s case.” Prime Minister Pavlov sounded as if he were about to give Yanayev a proper lecture, so Yanayev feigned an attitude of respectful attention.

“Gorbachev’s pursuit of a multi-party system and parliamentary politics is the deep-seated reason for the decline of the Soviet socialist system. Because our socialist state can, in essence, only be a state of proletarian tyranny. What is the dictatorship of the proletariat? It is the transition from the last exploitative society—capitalist society—to a proletarian society, that is, a communist society. Gorbachev abandoned even this most fundamental, most core principle of the socialist path. And in the economy, he pushed for privatization. A privatization conditional on begging for economic aid from capitalist nations led by the United States, with the aim of fundamentally changing the economic foundation of socialism. My God, such a foolish approach has shaken the very roots of our economy.”

Pavlov had essentially summarized the problems with Gorbachev’s reforms. Since the Soviet Union’s problems stemmed from the economy, Yanayev didn’t mind parroting what he himself had learned from textbooks.

“Since we’re on the topic of the economy, I’d like to add a bit more.” Yanayev gathered his thoughts and spoke slowly. “Beginning in 1990, the Soviet economy ran into grave difficulties. This economic crisis can be called the most difficult period since the war. The rate of economic growth has fallen drastically. Compared to previous corresponding periods, the growth rate of national income and industrial output value has dropped by almost half; for instance, national income growth fell from 4.7% to 2.4%. And starting this year, our economic situation has deteriorated further. The gross social product has fallen by two percent, national income by four percent, and labor productivity by three percent. Although we all realized the severe consequences of systemic rigidity, Khrushchev, Brezhnev, and Gorbachev only ever attempted to patch things up, without ever touching the fundamental root of our economic problems.”

“So?” Pavlov’s eyes lit up. It seemed Yanayev already had a reform strategy in mind.

Yanayev held up a hand, signaling for Pavlov to let him finish. “There is a severe shortage of consumer goods, and market supply is extremely tight. Some reports indicate that only five percent of products are in adequate supply, while the other ninety-five percent are effectively experiencing shortages. The food supply, which is intimately tied to the lives of our citizens, is even more strained. Out of 211 types of food products, 188 are subject to a rationing system. Is this not the fault of our country’s leaders? Of course, I am no expert in economics, so I can only point out some of the problems. The specific methods must be entrusted to the economic professionals.”

“But starting last year, we implemented a series of economic adjustment policies. For example, the growth rate of urgently needed industrial products is to exceed that of heavy industrial products by 12.4 times. Investment in the material production sector is to be reduced by 12 billion rubles compared to 1989, while investment in agro-industrial complexes, light industry, and daily life services will be increased. Investment in agro-industrial complexes alone will increase by 8 billion rubles. To strengthen agriculture, in addition to widely promoting leasing and contracting systems, we will structurally adjust agricultural investment to focus on modernizing the agro-processing sectors and storage facilities.” Pavlov recited the government’s policy measures word for word.

“But many of these reforms are just emergency measures. The Soviet economic situation is not going to change dramatically. The adjustment and austerity policies will likely only show significant effects by 1995. Many of these adjustments are difficult to implement in the short term; restructuring the economy, for instance, is a process. Moreover, the government still has to cut spending and reduce the proportion of military expenditure in the total budget.” At this, Yanayev scratched his head. Gorbachev had left him an absolute wreck of a country. The army was already rife with complaints about Gorbachev’s cuts to military spending. If he continued down that path, he couldn’t guarantee that someone else wouldn’t try to stage a coup. But if he didn’t cut military spending, continuing to pay the enormous maintenance costs for the Soviet’s iron torrent would be a massive headache.

“Do you mean we need to continue downsizing the military, if possible?” Pavlov frowned. “The Soviet Union is unstable everywhere right now. We need an army to maintain stability.”

As Pavlov spoke, it dawned on Yanayev that the mess Gorbachev had left him was not just a mess—it was a minefield from which a venomous snake might strike at any moment. Every issue was desperately urgent, yet the only thing he could do was proceed slowly and deliberately.

An idea suddenly flashed through Yanayev’s mind. It wasn’t a good one, but it was a desperate, self-destructive solution that could temporarily solve the problem of military funding.

“Perhaps we can learn from our neighboring country and allow the army to engage in business to self-fund part of its expenses?” Yanayev said thoughtfully, resting his chin in his hand. Given the state of the country, the Soviet military could only engage in business through foreign trade, and the illicit gray income involved would be another thorny problem to solve.

“The army in business?” With a stunned expression, Pavlov couldn’t quite grasp Yanayev’s idea. “Are you suggesting that our Communist machine should emulate Western capitalism?”

“No, allowing the army to engage in business is a very complicated matter. There’s no rush. We still need to discuss it with Minister of Defense Yazov and General Varennikov from The Army. But I’ve just thought of the perfect person to lead our economic reforms,” Yanayev said.

Chapter 11: Ryzhkov

A curfew was imposed on Moscow during the period of martial law. After seven o’clock in the evening, the once-bustling streets fell silent. Soldiers armed with Kalashnikov rifles could occasionally be seen patrolling back and forth, preventing any rioters from using the cover of darkness to carry out subversive activities. Several buildings in Moscow had already been attacked by unknown assailants who had even torched vehicles. At the same time, agents of the KGB—the so-called sword and shield of the Soviet Union—and the secret police of the Ministry of Internal Affairs were conducting a city-wide manhunt for Boris Yeltsin’s supporters. The assassination attempt on the supreme leader of the Soviet Union had given them a legitimate reason to arrest these people, to paint them as instigators of unrest and turn the public completely against them.

Inside a certain house, a heavy curtain was pulled aside just a fraction. The bright light from within shone through the tiny gap, illuminating the otherwise dark and gloomy street. A pair of small, frightened eyes peered through the sliver in the curtain, observing every movement in the dark world outside, watching the future of the country with a sense of trepidation.

A pillar of bright light pierced the darkness as a car drove past those eyes, heading into the deeper gloom. It was like a great ship that had strayed from its course in the fog, its dim lights illuminating the treacherous waters ahead, guiding the way forward for the Soviet Union.

Seated in the car, Nikolai Ivanovich Ryzhkov had never felt as conflicted as he did today. From hearing the news on television this morning that Gorbachev could no longer serve as General Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party, to the announcement in the afternoon of President Yeltsin’s suicide out of guilt, and then the evening report of the assassination attempt on the new General Secretary, Gennady Yanayev, by Yeltsin’s supporters—the emotions of the Soviet people had been on a roller coaster, a ride too turbulent for any faint heart to bear.

Still, Ryzhkov was delighted to hear that Yeltsin was dead. Pushed aside by the Russian President, he had more than once privately called Yeltsin the gravedigger of the Soviet Union, referring to him as “the despicable villain who destroyed the empire with his own hands.”

As Ryzhkov was preparing to wash up for bed, he had received an unexpected invitation from General Secretary Yanayev to go to a Moscow hospital. The only person sent to fetch him was a silent driver. Ryzhkov’s mind was now churning with questions, wondering what on earth Yanayev wanted.

He thought back on his political career, which had just ended six months ago. Aside from offending Gorbachev and Yeltsin, he had gained nothing. That was why, after Gorbachev abandoned his “Government Program,” he had indignantly resigned from his post as Chairman of the Council of Ministers.

So, with Gorbachev and Yeltsin’s downfall, had his opportunity returned? Ryzhkov mulled over the possibilities of why Yanayev had summoned him. The most likely reason was a reappointment as Minister of Economy.

The driver turned his head and said to the pensive Ryzhkov, “Comrade Ryzhkov, we’ve arrived at the hospital.”

“Oh, right,” Ryzhkov said, snapping out of his thoughts. He looked up and saw the courtyard filled with KGB agents. The way they stared at him, as if sizing up a suspect, made Ryzhkov deeply uncomfortable. The General Secretary’s security was at its highest level; in their eyes, everyone was a potential suspect.

After getting out of the car, Plekhanov, the Director of the KGB’s Ninth Directorate in charge of protecting the supreme leader, came forward to greet him. He shook Ryzhkov’s hand and said warmly, “It’s been a long time, Comrade Ryzhkov. I haven’t seen you since you resigned as Chairman of the Council of Ministers. How have you been lately?”

“Not too well. My health is as bad as the state of this country,” Ryzhkov replied evasively, as he wasn’t very familiar with Plekhanov. “I’m here to see General Secretary Yanayev. Please lead the way, Comrade Plekhanov.”

“Of course. This way, please,” Plekhanov said, making a gesture to invite him forward.

After the brief pleasantries, Ryzhkov followed Plekhanov to the even more heavily guarded second floor. The scene inside the room left him slightly stunned. It wasn’t just Yanayev; Pavlov was there as well.

“You’re here, Comrade Ryzhkov. Come, have a seat,” Yanayev greeted him warmly. Full of questions, Ryzhkov sat down beside Yanayev and asked with concern about his injuries. Yanayev, smiling, assured him that it was nothing serious while sizing up the man who had been the Soviet economy’s last hope. If it hadn’t been for the 500-Day Program that Gorbachev had pushed, the Soviet Union’s economic foundations would never have rotted away so quickly and so hideously under Ryzhkov’s “Government Program.” After the dissolution of the Soviet Union, Ryzhkov’s life had been unremarkable; he could only write memoirs about the collapse to reminisce about a glorious past and a bygone red empire.

“Is there something important that the General Secretary and the Prime Minister have summoned me for?” Ryzhkov asked cautiously.

“Of course,” Yanayev said, getting straight to the point. “The Politburo is planning to abolish the so-called 500-Day Program of Gorbachev and Yeltsin and reinstate your ‘Government Program.’ Hopefully, it’s not too late for us to do this and remedy the foolish things Gorbachev has done.”

Previously, Gorbachev and Yeltsin had reached an agreement to form a group of experts led by Academician Shatalin, a member of the Presidential Advisory Council. This group was to formulate a 500-day plan for the entire Union’s transition to a market economy, based on Russia’s own 500-day plan. The result was “Transition to the Market: Concept and Program.” In early September 1990, the group submitted the plan, which stipulated that the Soviet Union would undergo “drastic reforms” over seventeen months along the path of privatization and marketization. At least seventy percent of industrial enterprises were to be privatized and transformed into joint-stock companies, while large-scale foreign investment was to be encouraged, and a new financial system was to be established based on private commercial banks and so-called “market guarantees.” Its full name was the “Shatalin-Yavlinsky 500-Day Program.”

While the fools who advocated privatization were cheering for this plan, only Ryzhkov was clear-headed enough to realize what a terrible disaster would unfold. But he was powerless to stop it, because public opinion and the government were all on Yeltsin’s side. No one was willing to speak up for him. So, Ryzhkov could only choose to protest silently with his resignation.

Pavlov picked up where Yanayev left off, saying to Ryzhkov, “Therefore, you will be appointed as the Soviet Minister of Economy to implement your plan of cautious reform. Do you have any objections, Comrade Ryzhkov?”

“You’d better find someone more qualified,” Ryzhkov said, hearing the Prime Minister’s words. He decided to feign reluctance to gain more leverage. “Reform is an extremely risky endeavor. Many measures will bring unforeseeable consequences. What I need is an absolute guarantee that my actions will not be influenced by the higher-ups or anyone else. And most importantly, how can a man like me, with no power or position, be appointed Minister of Economy in the Central Government?”

Yanayev and Pavlov exchanged a smile and said in unison, “This is the unanimous decision of the Politburo members. You will be our Minister of Economy.”

“If you put it that way, doesn’t it feel a bit like an imperial decree?” Ryzhkov muttered under his breath.

Seeing that he was still uneasy, Yanayev could only offer a wry smile and a guarantee. “The post of Minister of Economy is only temporary. We will make further adjustments to your position later. Today is just to give you a heads-up; a separate meeting will be arranged another day to discuss the specifics. And I guarantee that your reform measures will be implemented. This is no longer the era of Gorbachev. In September 1990, you were powerless as you watched the Motherland fall into an abyss because of a gang of fools and schemers. But now, if you are given another chance, will you choose to save her without a moment’s hesitation?”

“Of course I will.”

Hearing Yanayev’s words, Ryzhkov looked up at him. His eyes were brighter and more resolute than they had been during that desperate meeting in September 1990.

Chapter 12: A Declaration of War to the West

The August Coup acted like a shot of adrenaline for the heads of government in Western nations. Presidents and prime ministers who had been preparing for vacation quickly canceled their plans to closely monitor every move the Soviet Union made. Staff members scurried relentlessly between presidential offices and intelligence buildings, delivering the latest firsthand news from Moscow.

By now, everyone was ecstatic. They hoped to see the Red Empire, which had oppressed them for over sixty years, quietly collapse in the midst of the coup, making this event the final straw that would break the Soviet Union apart. These capitalists, who viewed Communism as a plague, were viciously cursing the entire top leadership of the Soviet Communist Party to the gallows.

Just as they thought Moscow was in a state of treacherous turmoil, everything was quietly settling. Gennady Yanayev had seized power as the supreme leader of the Soviet Union. Boris Yeltsin and his supporters had suffered a crushing defeat in Moscow. The opportunists who had been swaying on the fence were already leaning toward the Emergency Committee, only to be met with unanimous looks of scorn from the top brass. They probably didn’t yet realize that a much larger political purge awaited them in the future. Whether they would live or die would be left to fate.

The great bell of the Moscow clock tower heavily struck eleven. In the United States, it was still a dim, sunset afternoon. In a villa in Kennebunkport, Maine, an old man sat by a telephone, anxiously waiting for it to ring. His wife stood beside him, patting his shoulder to comfort him and help him relax.

But the old man could not relax. He was the current President of the United States, George Bush, and beside him was the First Lady, Barbara. Bush was supposed to be resting at the presidential vacation villa, but news of the sudden Soviet coup had kept him on edge all day.

Standing near Bush was another balding, elderly man: the U.S. National Security Advisor, Brent Scowcroft. It was he who had relayed the news of the Soviet coup to the vacationing president. Now, he was also acting as the conduit between the intelligence agencies and the President, reporting the latest information to Bush.

“Brent, is there any new data from the National Intelligence Council?” Bush asked with a frown. “According to the latest intelligence, it seems the situation is developing in a direction we did not hope for. Damn it!”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. President,” Brent said respectfully. “The National Intelligence Council is currently analyzing all reliable intelligence. I’m sure they will give you the best possible conclusion tonight.”

“Looks like it’s another sleepless night for the intelligence agencies,” Bush said with a dry laugh, speaking his mind. “I just hope the situation over there develops in our favor. After all, we spent so much effort turning Mikhail, making him a lapdog of the Western free world. I’d hate to see my and my predecessor’s hard work go to waste. The joy of seeing an enemy your country has been wary of for decades fall on your own watch is immeasurable.”

In this private setting, Bush referred to Gorbachev as a lapdog, which showed he had never truly cared for his old friend, at best viewing him as a key chess piece in the effort to bring about the Soviet Union’s decline. In truth, the West had never wanted to deal with a bunch of Siberian barbarians, especially since they always managed to press the West to the point of suffocation.

“Dear, everything will be all right,” Barbara said softly, sitting down and holding Bush’s head. Bush just gave a slight smile and said nothing. He was waiting for the final conclusion from his intelligence agencies, or for Mikhail himself to call the villa.

Brent exited the room, preparing to wait by a phone for the Intelligence Council’s call. Just as he reached the hallway, a breathless intelligence officer appeared around the corner, running and waving a white sheet of paper.

“Quick, for the President! The results from the Intelligence Council.”

Before he could finish, Brent snatched the paper. Without knocking, he threw open the door to the President’s bedroom and, ignoring all etiquette, shouted excitedly, “Mr. President, the latest conclusion from the Intelligence Council is here!”

But as he opened the door, he saw Bush picking up the bedside telephone. The President was frowning at him, gesturing for him to be quiet. Then, as if he were catching up with an old friend, Bush spoke that historic greeting, “Thank God, Mikhail, my friend, is that you? Are you all right?”

However, the reply from the other end of the line sent a chill down George Bush’s spine. The one who had picked up the phone was not Gorbachev, but the supreme leader of the State Committee on the State of Emergency, Gennady Yanayev, calling from his office in the Kremlin.

“I’m sorry, my friend George. President Gorbachev is unable to continue performing his presidential duties due to health reasons. From now on, I will be taking over all of his responsibilities. Oh, right, I almost forgot to introduce myself. I am the former Vice President of the Soviet Union, and the current supreme leader of the Soviet Communist Party, Gennady Yanayev.”

“What have you done to Mikhail? He is a friend to us Americans,” Bush said, gripping the receiver tightly, even employing a small threat to warn Yanayev.

But Bush forgot that Yanayev was not one to be intimidated. He never fell for such tactics and replied with disdain, “I thought there were only interests between nations. I never expected that Americans, so famous for betraying their friends, would actually befriend a country they consider the most evil.”

“Mikhail and I are good friends in private. It has nothing to do with you or the Soviet Union,” Bush argued.

“Forget it. I don’t care what your relationship with Gorbachev is, but there is one thing I need to remind you Americans,” Yanayev’s voice suddenly turned serious, and he spoke in a cold tone. “So please, put away that disgusting, hypocritical act of democracy and freedom. The Soviet Union is indeed facing enormous difficulties, but it has not reached the point where it needs tyranny to secure its future. You hypocritical vampires, do you really think no one in the Kremlin can see through your tricks? Even a child knows that ‘if the enemy praises what you have done, it must be something foolish.’ Gorbachev is a fool, which is why you call him your best friend. Indeed, for us, there is nothing worse than personally dismantling a vast empire.”

Bush looked up and met Brent’s eyes, then he lowered his head and asked, “Then what do you want?”

“Nothing. I just want to tell you that sometimes, relationships between nations should be like a merchant doing business—only talk of interests, not ideology. When there are common interests, we should profit together, shouldn’t we? But if the other side tries every trick in the book to set us up, the Slavic people have more than just vodka to welcome guests. We also have Kalashnikov rifles for our enemies.”

Yanayev was telling Bush in no uncertain terms that he did not want to continue the pointless ideological confrontation, but if the United States continued its arrogant provocations, he wouldn’t mind turning the bipolar world order into an abyss of war.

“Alright, if there’s nothing else, President Bush, you should get some rest. After all, you probably haven’t slept well all day. Good night, my new friend.” Yanayev hung up before Bush could reply, letting out a long breath. It felt incredible to have vented all the resentment in his heart.

On Bush’s end, he and Brent could only stare at each other in dismay. Brent still didn’t understand what had happened. Bush explained it to him directly, “The coup… the State Committee on the State of Emergency has won. Our friend Gorbachev has lost. The Soviet Union is now sliding into an abyss we cannot control. Brent, I need to call an emergency meeting.”

Brent was dumbfounded, standing frozen on the spot as if struck by lightning. He slowly looked down at the paper in his hand and saw the intelligence agency’s most concise summary written on it, perfectly echoing the outcome of the phone call.

Success probability for the State Committee on the State of Emergency’s coup: fifty-five percent. Failure probability: forty-five percent.

Bush rubbed his face with both hands and said slowly, “It seems we are about to face a Stalin-style opponent. For the free world, this is undoubtedly another grave disaster.”

Chapter 13: The Crackdown

Although it was a bit later than expected, the armored divisions successfully entered Leningrad and Volgograd. One was the most important transportation hub in the west, the other the breadbasket of southern Russia. Gennady Yanayev would not allow either city to fall and become a base for democratic parasites.

Before the troops moved in, he had a long, heart-to-heart talk over the phone with the commanders of the Soviet military districts. Every general and marshal clutched the receiver, trembling, as they listened to Yanayev’s instructions. There was one person, however, who would never hear these orders again. General Shilichenko of the Ural Military District had shot himself in his office three hours earlier. It was said that GRU soldiers had gone in to discuss some matters with him. After they left, Shilichenko sat on his sofa, smoking, looking utterly downcast and distraught. After finishing his last cigarette, he abruptly picked up his handgun and killed himself. Two hours later, Shilichenko’s family also disappeared without a trace.

Everyone in the army knew that Shilichenko and Boris Yeltsin had been secretly colluding. Less than two hours after Yeltsin’s fall, Shilichenko met his doom. The retaliation from the upper echelons of the Soviet Communist Party was far more ruthless than they had imagined.

So when the commanders of the other military districts received Yanayev’s call, their hands trembled with fear. For the first time, these generals, the vast majority of whom had been through the bloody Great Patriotic War, showed fear and reverence before a General Secretary with a civilian background. Yanayev ordered them to deploy troops to enforce martial law in the cities and forbade them from withdrawing without his command. Everyone complied without fail. No one dared to feign compliance while acting in opposition ever again.

The higher one’s position and power, the more one cherishes life. These old men, ravaged by alcohol and age, would do anything to hold on to their status. As Yanayev hung up the phone, he felt, for the first time, a sense of sorrow for the Soviet Union.

The people who once fought for the communist ideal had long since lost their way. Drunk on the joys of power, they had forgotten their objective and begun to doubt the ideals and beliefs they once held dear. They had become a small clique of scoundrels who sought to usurp the nation’s wealth for their own enrichment by changing the system. And those who still fought for their faith grew disillusioned with the unsatisfactory reality, ultimately choosing to look on with cold indifference as the motherland they had fought for collapsed with a crash. Then, in the dust, they would pick up the rusted and faded hammer and sickle emblem, lost in sorrow.

Fortunately, Yanayev still had the passion for reform and enough power to support him in this endeavor. As he signed a stack of appointment orders with a pen, Yanayev knew that a smokeless war was being waged all across the Soviet Union.

Although the self-organized opposition groups did not erupt into shocking demonstrations under Yeltsin’s call, quite a few people still took to the streets, holding banners and shouting slogans for the Emergency Committee to step down. Gradually, the protests devolved into riots. Numerous shops were smashed, cars were set on fire, and some women were even harassed and molested in broad daylight. These despicable scoundrels, flying the banner of democracy and freedom, always enjoyed committing acts in the dark that were the complete opposite of their supposed ideals.

The people’s initial anticipation turned to disappointment. These people weren’t targeting the government, but plundering their property, like righteous robbers brandishing the flag of justice as they broke into their homes to pillage.

At first, the martial law troops followed the Central Government’s instructions, observing covertly without taking action. However, they reported directly to the high command every half hour. When Yanayev realized that the actions of these reactionaries had pushed the citizens of Volgograd and Leningrad to their breaking point, he finally issued the long-prepared order to clear the streets.

On this day, these parasites, basking in the joy of a false democracy, finally learned the terror of the iron torrent. The violent machines with their turning treads would become an indelible nightmare for the rest of their lives.

The clearing troops first threw tear gas into the crowd. By the time the people realized what it was, their eyes were stinging so badly they couldn’t open them. Some tried to use homemade Molotov cocktails to set the soldiers on fire, but snipers already positioned on the rooftops shot them in the legs with air-powered rifles.

Then came the soldiers to clear the area. The Soviet army’s brutish style meant they had no use for such refined riot control weapons as batons and shields. They all held riot guns, loaded directly with rubber bullets—extremely painful, but not lethal. The order from Yanayev was: show no mercy to any rioter, not until you’ve fired every last bullet. Forgiving them is God’s business; we’re just responsible for sending them to Him. If you catch them on the street, beat them on the street. If you catch them in the toilet, drown their heads in the toilet bowl.

The rubber bullets tore their skin and split their flesh on impact. Even if they didn’t, they left vast, purplish-red bruises. These young people, raised in a greenhouse, had never experienced such pain. They immediately fell to the ground, wailing and howling, begging for mercy. But the soldiers did not spare them. Whether they were on the ground or pleading, they continued to enjoy the torment of the rubber bullets.

The demonstrators were terrified. For the first time, these dissenters experienced just how terrifying the iron fist of tyranny was. They had originally thought that launching street politics would force the upper echelons of the Soviet Communist Party to yield, unwilling to act against the people. They never expected that the newly appointed General Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party was a leader of iron and blood. As long as the army and the state apparatus remained loyal to the leader, those who sought to fish in troubled waters through social change would never have a chance.

The leaders of the demonstrations were scared. Like clowns who had made a grand entrance, they quickly faded from the stage. They abandoned their followers and fled in disgrace, leaving the duped youths to taste the chastisement of communism. Having lost their organization and will to fight, they immediately surrendered their arms.

In the clearing operations in the two major cities, a total of six people died from being trampled, twenty were seriously injured, and sixty sustained minor injuries. Hundreds of young people involved in street politics were arrested. Although many cried on the news, claiming they had been tricked into protesting, Yanayev had only a brief and sharp comment for them: “A farcical performance composed of cowards and trash.”

Those whose offenses were severe would be sent to a special KGB psychiatric hospital to receive warm and wonderful treatment, until the aural mention of ‘democracy and freedom’ an aural mention made their legs tremble. Only then they would regain their freedom. Heh, how ironic.

In response to this crackdown, the intellectuals who considered themselves the conscience of the Slavic people began to criticize Yanayev’s actions. The writer Solzhenitsyn, who had published The Gulag Archipelago and was hailed as the conscience of Russia, compared Yanayev to a savage, inhumane tyrant of iron and blood, describing him as a madman just like Stalin. In response, Yanayev merely curled his lip in disdain, mocking him as a fool who could only write sentimental prose and accomplished nothing.

However, in this incident, the majority of the country’s intellectuals chose to remain silent. Yanayev didn’t think it was because they were so sensible; perhaps the press ban left them with no platform to speak from.

Naturally, the Western world also condemned Yanayev’s actions in speech and writing. The British even issued a special statement saying that the UK was shocked by the Soviet Union’s repressive actions, hoping the Soviet government would stop this barbaric and bloody slaughter, and stated that they would closely monitor the development of the situation. The United States then issued a similar notice, but it was much more tactful than Britain’s. In response, Yanayev issued a statement, claiming the British government simply had nothing better to do. They should first whitewash their own suppression of the Irish national independence movement before discussing human rights with the Soviet Union. Of course, if the British government continued to talk such nonsense, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t one day be defeated by a powerfully armed Irish Republican Army. He even emphasized the phrase “a powerfully armed Irish Republican Army” one more time.

Yanayev’s direct and sharp remarks left the Western European countries staring at each other in bewilderment. They hadn’t expected the new Soviet leader to be so blunt. Only the United States stood aside, laughing at the British government’s embarrassing public humiliation and threats. At this point, the Western European leaders finally understood that the current General Secretary of the Soviet Union was, perhaps, truly a formidable tyrant of iron and blood.

Chapter 14: The Baltic Dilemma

With the pressing domestic issues temporarily resolved, the overwhelmed Gennady Yanayev finally had a moment to spare to deal with the secession crisis brewing in the member republics, especially the three Baltic states. Ever since Stalin’s death, the harsh policies for cracking down on separatism had loosened. From Khrushchev to the Gorbachev era, the iron chains binding national separatism had slackened, the cracks growing wider and wider. The moment Gorbachev proposed political pluralism, the final breach occurred, completely washing away the last dam protecting the territorial integrity of the Soviet Union.

Though the Soviet Union’s territory was vast, not a single piece of it was superfluous. The three Baltic states served as a crucial springboard for threatening Western Europe and suppressing NATO, as well as a strategic buffer zone on Russia’s Baltic frontier. If they were truly to become independent, the Soviet armed forces would not allow it, the Baltic Fleet would not allow it, and likewise, the top echelons of government would not allow it.

In the end, after being fooled by the West, most of the idiots in the member republics who declared independence would only discover they were more destitute than before. Those countries with rich resources like oil and cotton would ultimately become regions that produced dishwashers and prostitutes for Western Europe.

But being honest with himself, even Yanayev couldn’t guarantee that he could suppress the arrogant and domineering wave of separatism before the disintegration of the three Baltic states reached an irreversible point.

In March of this year, Lithuania had already begun planning to strike out on its own, a move the Soviet Communist Party’s leadership naturally refused to recognize. Although Gorbachev’s New Union Treaty had given these member republics hope for independence and autonomy, the coup by the State Committee on the State of Emergency had cast a shadow over the hearts of these separatists. Upon hearing the news of the successful coup, Estonian President Arnold Rüütel, who was still visiting Finland, was even prepared to establish a government-in-exile.

Yanayev had considered using the military, to advance into Czechoslovakia just as they had to suppress the Prague Spring, but facing the Soviet Union’s internal and external troubles, he dismissed the idea. War was the continuation of political helplessness. While he wouldn’t mind turning the three Baltic states into rubble with his iron torrent, he would then have to spend a great deal of manpower, resources, and money to defend the hard-won fruits of victory. It wasn’t worth it.

For instance, the decapitation strike in the Iraq War that took out Saddam Hussein’s forces was indeed easy, but dealing with the endless stream of guerilla fighters and suicide attacks in the aftermath was a constant headache for the American treasury. The Soviet Union had already suffered in the graveyard of empires that was Afghanistan, so no matter what, Yanayev didn’t want to solve the problem through war. Diplomatic pressure? Anyone could see that the red polar bear was already weak and feeble. Acting tough would just be putting up a brave front.

For this reason, he needed to discuss the matter with Minister of Defense Yazov. After all, as the former leader of the Central Group of Forces, Yazov had more of a right to speak on this issue than an armchair strategist like himself. Yanayev put forth his question, but the Minister of Defense’s answer took him completely by surprise.

“War? Why would we start a war? The Soviet Union’s economic situation is already this terrible. If we start another war, I truly can’t imagine what kind of abyss our country will slide into. With all due respect, General Secretary Yanayev, if we do this, will the Soviet leaders be portrayed as the butchers who started World War III, or as the Hitler of the Evil Empire?” Yazov asked calmly.

“I always thought you would be in favor of using military force, Comrade Yazov.” Since even the top military and political leaders were unwilling to resort to war, Yanayev’s anxious heart could finally rest. But he still had a big question. “If we don’t agree to use war, then the separation of the three Baltic states will become a fait accompli. The subsequent chain reaction from the other member republics will probably be… even more unacceptable.”

“Besides, Estonia’s oil shale reserves are as high as fifteen billion tons, with an annual output of thirty-five million tons, accounting for eighty percent of the former Soviet Union’s total oil shale production. No matter how you look at it, it’s a strategic location we cannot afford to give up.” At the mention of resources, Yanayev’s eyes lit up with the expression of a greedy capitalist. Any resource that could create wealth for the Soviet Union was indispensable to him.

“Rather than go through all the trouble to maintain a ruined post-war country, it’s better to squeeze out its remaining value while it’s still breathing, until the three Baltic states have no choice but to turn back and beg us for help.” Yazov smiled and offered Yanayev a vicious suggestion. “Dismantle all the industrial infrastructure we helped build in Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia. Either ship it back home or destroy it on the spot. Let these bastards return to an agrarian civilization.”

“That alone isn’t enough. To deal with us, the West will give them a large amount of economic aid. We have to cut off their hopes at the root.” Yanayev, whose mind always raced with ideas, quickly thought of other countermeasures. “The Latvian nation includes Latvians, Russians, Belarusians, Ukrainians, Poles, and Lithuanians. There are also Jews, Estonians, and other ethnic groups. The Lithuanian nation includes Lithuanians, Poles, Russians, Belarusians, Ukrainians, Jews, Latvians, and so on. Complex ethnic relations have always been the fuse for civil war. The masses just need an outlet for their frustrations.”

Thinking of this, Yanayev smiled faintly. “The Soviet Union has more than enough weapons brought back from hell. We can sell them to the people of the three Baltic states at half price, or even give them away. After all, the democratic world has the right to take up arms to defend its own security. Then, under the brilliant light of the Democratic Spring, they will discover that a safe and stable social environment is far more important than the ballots in their hands. Of course, as for those who would rather die for a vote than live for a dictator’s food, they can do as they please. Moreover, once a member republic betrays the Soviet Union, it will have to bear the risk of civil war and regime subversion. They will all slowly have to think it over.”

“But are we really going to do this? Although it’s a temporary compromise, once we set this precedent, I’m afraid the other member republics will get ideas. This method might work against these three countries, but if we were to use it on Ukraine, our heavy industrial base, all our hard work would be destroyed in an instant.” Yazov hadn’t expected Yanayev’s plan to be even more ruthless than his own. It wouldn’t just cripple the three Baltic states; it would leave them utterly defenseless for decades to come.

“On the issue of other important member republics, we cannot compromise. We’ll send in troops when we have to. The West knows full well that Ukraine is not Afghanistan; they won’t dare to pull any tricks behind our backs. So our actions must be faster than the West’s. We’ll stir up ethnic divisions and conflicts in the three Baltic states, giving NATO no time to react, and a civil war will silently blossom. As long as one of these countries erupts in war over ethnic issues, then the others will definitely not be spared.” Since the three Baltic states were unwilling to submit, Yanayev had to show the other member republics the consequences of seeking independence for themselves.

Yanayev’s method was simply a carbon copy of the prelude to the Crimean War.

“What if NATO intervenes to mediate? If they succeed, not only will we lose three member republics, but we’ll even lose our strategic advantage.” Yazov always considered the worst-case scenario first. The Baltic states would now become the first chessboard in the battle of wits and trickery between the Soviet Union and the Western countries.

“NATO only likes to give empty promises to Eastern European countries. We have sufficiently covert means to subvert their regimes, and we also have the means to prop up a dictator. Although instability in the member republics will directly threaten the security of the Soviet Union, it’s far better than the outcome of being besieged and betrayed on all sides. Thank you for your answer, Comrade Yazov. I have other matters to attend to, so I’ll take my leave now.”

Yanayev stood up and bid Yazov farewell. He had to rush back to The Kremlin to draft a plan of attack against the three Baltic states—a feasible carrot-and-stick policy.

Gazing at the retreating figure of the Soviet General Secretary, Yazov thought to himself, “I hope we can still fix that fool Gorbachev’s mistakes.”

Chapter 15: Amending the Constitution

Not only the entire Western world, but also the top leaders of the three Baltic states were anxiously awaiting the Kremlin’s response. Four days had passed since the August Coup, yet the upper echelons of the Soviet government remained silent, creating the suspicion that one party intended to nullify the previously drafted New Union Treaty.

The most agitated was Estonian President Arnold Rüütel, who was still hiding out in Finland, monitoring the movements of the Central Committee of the CPSU and preparing to establish a government-in-exile. Meanwhile, Latvia’s acting president, Anatoly Valerianovich Gorbunov, and the Chairman of the Supreme Council of Lithuania, Vytautas Landsbergis, met in secret to discuss how to deal with the threat from Russia. Although the Soviet Union was facing crises on ten fronts, it was still more than capable of dealing with their three small nations.

The result of their secret meeting, besides mobilizing all their armed forces to resist the Soviet Union, was to appeal to NATO for help. Of course, the Western world had solemnly sworn that if Soviet troops invaded the Baltic states, NATO would immediately deploy its own forces to stabilize the region. Naturally, the leaders of the three countries knew full well how empty that promise was. The only reason the leaders of the member republics dared to show their treacherous intent at this time was that the Soviet Union hadn’t demonstrated its military might through a bloody war in decades.

While they were heatedly discussing the Soviet Union’s next move, Gennady Yanayev was busy with two important tasks inside the Kremlin. The first was to amend the Soviet constitution regarding its member republics. According to the Soviet constitution, each union republic had its own constitution, but it could not conflict with that of the Soviet Union. They had their own supreme state authorities and administrative bodies. They had the right to freely secede from the USSR. They had their own territory, which could not be altered without their consent. They had their own citizenship, and citizens of the republics were also citizens of the Soviet Union. They had the right to engage in relations with foreign countries, conclude treaties, exchange diplomatic and consular representatives, and participate in international organizations.

It was the clause stating “the right to freely secede from the USSR” that he found particularly galling. In Stalin’s time, this article of law was a mere formality. It loosened during the Khrushchev and Brezhnev eras, and by Gorbachev’s time, those eager nationalist elements could finally pull out this tiger’s skin to use as a banner against the weak Soviet President.

It was time for these arrogant fools who overestimated themselves to learn their lesson. Yanayev picked up a fountain pen and drew a cross over that article. Then, his pen hovered hesitantly over the clause that allowed them to have relations with foreign countries and freely conclude treaties.

He intended to transform the member republics into regions of national autonomy, truly incorporating the sixteen republics into the Soviet map. But this would surely be a long and bloody process, and the Soviet Union’s currently unstable internal situation was not suitable for such complex, surgical reform. So, Yanayev ultimately moved his pen away from that article, casting a few reluctant glances at it. Sigh, let’s leave it for now.

“Everything has to be done one step at a time. If I rush things, who knows what problems might arise. If this group compromises, then I can push my advantage a little further,” Yanayev thought, setting his pen down on the constitution. He then prepared to secretly convene a Politburo meeting for the Soviet side to privately discuss this news, which was certain to shock their allies.

In any case, the Politburo meeting was just a formality at this point. Whether they agreed or not, Yanayev was determined to press ahead. During the private meeting, everyone’s reactions might differ. Aside from the First Secretaries of the major member republics and Vladimir Ivashko, the Deputy General Secretary of the Central Committee, who was still undergoing thyroid surgery, everyone else attended the secret conference.

When Yanayev announced his decision to amend the constitution to remove the right of member republics to secede from the Soviet Union, an uproar erupted from below. Some thought Yanayev had gone mad, believing he wanted to drag the Soviet Union into the abyss of civil war.

But some people loyally supported Yanayev’s proposal. For instance, Frolov, the editor-in-chief of Kommunist, immediately stated that they would publish the news as soon as it was needed. Although his words earned him glares from some, Yanayev saw everything. Shenin, as the new Secretary of the Secretariat, had completely sided with Yanayev after the Foros Dacha incident. He also agreed with Yanayev’s proposal, but tactfully asked, “How will we clean up the mess if things get out of hand?”

“And we are not prepared for an all-out war with the member republics,” said Surkov, Secretary of the All-Army Party Committee. He pointed out that ideological divisions had indeed appeared in the army. Some were more inclined towards democratic ideas, even feigning compliance while acting in opposition, refusing to obey orders from the Central Government. And all these mistakes were messes left over from the Gorbachev era.

Yanayev smiled mysteriously. He had long since devised a plan to deal with this situation. He just needed to discuss the next steps with Yazov, Surkov, and General Varennikov. Some things could not be discussed openly and had to be handled in private.

“Are you all just going to watch as the Soviet member republics fall apart and collapse? Or are you all so eager to change your identities that you no longer wish to fight for our former ideals?” Yanayev’s voice was not loud, but his words struck everyone’s heart like a heavy hammer.

The bustling discussions gradually quieted down as everyone looked at Yanayev. Some of them turned pale. They all knew what “change your identities” implied, but no one dared to say it out loud.

Yanayev continued, “Certainly, we also thought many things were impossible. In 1812, for example, we thought it was impossible for Moscow to stop Napoleon’s iron cavalry. In 1942, hiding in the trenches, we thought it was impossible to halt the Nazi advance. And now? Those relentless invaders are in the sights of our Katyushas. And now, the tiny Baltic states alone are enough to break everyone’s resolve?”

Everyone fell silent. The supreme leader of the Soviet Communist Party had made up his mind to amend the constitution. It was useless for them to say more. Rather than futilely opposing him like a mantis trying to stop a chariot, it was better to follow the leader. It was just that no one knew what the next step would be. They only hoped Yanayev wasn’t just acting on a rush of blood to the head.

“I never would have thought,” Zasokhov tossed his pen aside and said sarcastically to Shenin, who was beside him. “I never thought our army would turn its guns on the very people it once swore to protect. When word gets out that we’ve invaded the Baltic states, what will the Soviet people think of us? A bunch of warmongers?”

Shenin pushed up his glasses and stared at Zasokhov with a serious expression. “Perhaps it is because the upper echelons of the Soviet Communist Party have too many timid and overcautious people like you that the opportunistic West has been able to find so many openings.”

“Comrade Shenin, I never said I was against retaking them by force,” Zasokhov raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. “But if we’re going to fight a war, we at least have to consider our current situation. There is unrest everywhere, and riots of varying degrees have broken out in major cities. Although they’ve been temporarily suppressed, there’s no guarantee they won’t flare up again someday. So, maintaining stability is the top priority. It would be better to advocate for peace for now, to keep them steady, and then strike when the time is right.”

Perhaps finding Zasokhov too grating, Shenin snapped his notebook shut, scooted one seat over to draw a clear line between them, and decided not to waste another word on this bookish armchair strategist. “Your enemy will never give you the chance for the time to be right. Zasokhov, perhaps you are still truly immature when it comes to foreign affairs.”

Zasokhov, who had always advocated for peace, pursed his lips. “Whatever you say, Comrade Shenin. But I think this move by General Secretary Yanayev will completely ignite all the member republics and burn the Soviet Union, the life’s work of our fathers, to ashes.”

“You’re wrong, Zasokhov. A revolutionary fire will burn away the shackles of the old society, and the Soviet Union will be reborn from the ashes,” Shenin said with a faint smile, while Zasokhov failed to notice the contempt in his eyes.

Chapter 16: Reinstating the Political Commissar

After the secret meeting ended, everyone dispersed, each lost in their own thoughts. Yanayev had asked them to maintain secrecy for the time being, only to spread the news through the Communist Party’s propaganda outlets when he went to meet the leaders of the three Baltic states alone. One could only wonder what expressions the various national leaders would have on their faces when they received Yanayev.

The day after the meeting, the leaders of the three Baltic states finally received a response. The Soviet Union stated that Yanayev was willing to engage in friendly consultations regarding the independence of the member republics and to jointly discuss their future. He even suggested that the talks be held in Tallinn, Estonia. This gesture was meant to demonstrate that he came in peace and friendship. As for whether he meant peace or a peace brought by annihilation, only Yanayev himself knew.

Nevertheless, his action brought a sigh of relief to the Western world. The fact that the Russians weren’t planning a surprise attack indicated that the top leadership could no longer resolve the issue through military means. It also suggested that the Soviet Union was gasping for breath under the oppressive policies of the Gorbachev era. NATO hinted to the presidents of the three Baltic states that the Soviet Union was no longer capable of waging war. They increased their verbal support for the Baltic states and declared that if war were to break out, they would be the first to charge into the fray.

In a conventional or nuclear war, the combined forces of NATO were not necessarily a match for the Soviet Union. But when it came to political intrigue, the straightforward polar bear was likely no match for the cunning and deceitful politicians of Western Europe.

Everyone knew this was an unrealistic promise, and no one knew the odds of it ever being fulfilled. But the Estonian president, having just returned from Finland, took it as gospel. Spurred on by NATO, his sense of superiority swelled, and he made arrogant pronouncements like “independence even if it means war” and “Russians out of Estonia.” He even incited the public to storm the local offices of the Soviet Communist Party and demonstrate against ethnic Russians and other minorities to gain more political leverage. In Moscow, the supreme leader simply observed this with his hands behind his back and a grim smile.

Events were developing in the direction he had hoped for. All he needed to do now was wait and watch as the preparations for war fermented.

The red polar bear’s composure in the face of humiliation began to unnerve NATO. They started convening think tanks to guess what the Soviet Union was secretly planning. But after countless discussions, the conclusion remained the same: it was impossible for the Soviet Union to send troops to suppress them. They no longer had the capacity to fight a war of attrition. Besides, the member republics were not Afghanistan. Even if they defeated the government forces, they would have to spend vast sums on reconstruction and preventing attacks from nationalists. The costs far outweighed any potential gains.

And the reason the red polar bear remained so composed, they concluded, was that it had already accepted defeat.

Before setting off, Yanayev held a special meeting with Surkov, Secretary of the All-Army Party Committee; Varennikov, Commander-in-Chief of the Ground Forces; Yazov, Minister of Defense; and General Arkhipov, Chief of the Logistics Department. Yanayev had deliberately chosen the same conference room where the army had held its emergency meeting for the Battle of Stalingrad, a choice laden with obvious political significance.

Everyone present knew full well that the Soviet Union was facing a crisis as perilous as the Battle of Stalingrad. The motherland was on the verge of collapse due to internal problems.

The difference was that back then, the Soviet Communist Party was united from top to bottom. Now, it seemed as if Yanayev alone was trying to turn the tide. Everyone else, whether openly or secretly, had become a force pushing for the Party’s disintegration.

Yanayev sat at the head of the table. On the wall behind him hung a single portrait of Stalin. There were no pictures of Gorbachev, Khrushchev, Brezhnev, or even Lenin. This unconventionally decorated conference room carried a far deeper meaning: he would become the next Stalin-like figure.

Apart from Yanayev, everyone else present was a man who had risen through the ranks of the military. Yet these iron-willed veterans regarded this slightly younger General Secretary with a mixture of trepidation and reverence. After all, he was the strongman who had taken down two supreme leaders in a single day.

“I know you all come from a military background, so I’ll spare you the meaningless talk.” As soon as Yanayev spoke, everyone sat bolt upright to listen. “I’m sure everyone here understands why the position of Political Commissar was established during the Great Patriotic War, correct?”

Varennikov, who was very familiar with the Political Commissar system, immediately answered, “During the arduous Soviet Civil War, the Red Army expanded rapidly from nothing, with workers and peasants eagerly joining the fight. However, there was a severe shortage of military commanders. Many old officers who pledged loyalty to the Soviets were promoted and retained. Lenin established the Political Commissar system. These men were mostly Old Bolsheviks drawn from the major factories. Political Commissars at all levels of the Soviet army led from the front in every war, fostering a brave and tenacious fighting style in their units. Leading the charge was a fundamental quality for Communist Party members and commissars, ensuring that troops would not surrender or rout. Even during the Soviet-German War, there were almost no instances of entire units surrendering. But later on, as most commanders became Party members themselves, the function of the Political Commissar was weakened.”

As soon as he finished speaking, a sense of foreboding flickered through Varennikov’s mind. Does General Secretary Yanayev intend to restore the Political Commissar system? But our commanders are all Party members now. In my view, establishing a commissar system would be completely redundant.

Yanayev folded his hands on the table. Hearing Varennikov’s answer, he said calmly, “Oh, is that so? If those men are all army commanders loyal to the Soviets, then who can explain to me why a traitor to Communism like Major Yevdokimov appeared in the Taman Division? And why do we have degenerates who betrayed the Soviets like Lieutenant General Grachev, Major General Konstantin Kobets, and Major General Lebed in the air force? Is it not because our Party’s political and ideological work was inadequate during the Gorbachev era?”

Varennikov had no rebuttal. Although he opposed the dual-command system that came with adding commissars, every word Yanayev spoke was true. The Soviet army’s political work was indeed in a terrible state. Perhaps their fighting style was as valiant as it once was, but they were no longer loyal to Communism, leaning instead toward their ideological enemies.

Previously, Stalin and Zhukov had also clashed over the single-command versus dual-command systems. Stalin established commissars to dilute the army’s power, allowing him to maintain a firm grip on the Red Army. Zhukov, on the other hand, believed that an army could only achieve maximum efficiency with a single supreme commander. In the end, Stalin compromised, and Zhukov was sidelined because of the dispute.

Now, Yanayev was emulating Stalin’s methods, undoubtedly as the first step toward gaining full control over the military.

Surkov was a bit sharper than Varennikov. He said directly, “If we are truly to establish a Political Commissar system, I will take responsibility for it. But with all due respect, General Secretary Yanayev, implementing it across our entire army would take at least six months to complete.”

“The time it takes is irrelevant. I can wait.” Yanayev was quite satisfied with Surkov’s response. He gave Surkov another directive, “But our Soviet armored and infantry divisions responsible for the western front must be prioritized over other units. Oh, and the Baltic Fleet as well.”

“Wait, are we going to war with the armies of the three Baltic states? No, Mr. President. If we were to go to war, our current mobilization capacity could only sustain us for about a week. Preparing for a long-term conflict would take over a month of mobilization time,” said Arkhipov, the Chief of Logistics, anxiously.

“Who said anything about a full-scale war with the three Baltic states? Can we even afford a war right now? Are you not afraid of it turning into the next ‘graveyard of empires’ meat grinder?” Yanayev scolded, both amused and exasperated. At the same time, he glanced at Yazov, and the two shared a look of tacit understanding and a smile.

Yazov cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “It’s like this. A few days ago, the military leadership drew up a detailed offensive plan. Of course, the General Secretary has already reviewed it and given his final approval.”

As the others marveled at how many secrets the General Secretary was keeping from them, Yanayev said innocently, “Gentlemen, the plan you are about to see is a top Soviet secret. I hope you can keep it that way. Yes, until the very day the war begins.”

Chapter 17: Lord of War

An unassuming car drove out of the Kremlin and headed toward downtown Moscow. No one paid any mind to what sort of minor figure might be sitting in such a dilapidated vehicle. Only a few sharp-eyed individuals might have wondered why a car like that would be in the Kremlin at all, as it seemed completely out of place.

Of course, others gave it only a passing thought before dismissing the matter. But inside the car, Plekhanov, Director of the KGB’s Ninth Directorate, was on edge. Next to him, Gennady Yanayev wore a calm and composed expression, looking over the file in his hands with great interest.

The supreme leader’s outing was an impromptu decision, a spur-of-the-moment idea, so it was no wonder Plekhanov looked as if he were facing a formidable enemy. Although Yanayev kept signaling for him to relax, Moscow, with its state of emergency yet to be lifted, was a ticking time bomb. If some thug were to jump out from a corner and happen to recognize Yanayev, the consequences would be unthinkable.

Yanayev, however, wasn’t dwelling on it. Ensuring his safety was someone else’s job, and he didn’t need to teach them how to do it. At that moment, he was looking at the profile of a man the KGB had specifically procured for him. A photograph was attached to the top-left corner of the file. The man in the picture was average-looking with a scruffy beard, and his resume had nothing remarkable about it. Even his background information consisted of only a few brief sentences. He didn’t look at all like a promising up-and-comer who would catch the eye of Moscow’s top brass.

“Joined the Air Force in 1986 as a navigator, then was sent to the Moscow Military Institute of Foreign Languages to study foreign languages. In 1988, he entered the Moscow Military Institute of Foreign Languages, becoming proficient in Russian, Uzbek, English, Portuguese, and French, and even knows some Chinese. Hmm, just as the rumors say, he has an incredible talent for languages. A very good candidate, indeed,” Yanayev said to himself as he closed the file.

“Who is this person? Is he worth the General Secretary meeting him in person? No matter how you look at it, his resume is that of an air force ground crewman who couldn’t be more ordinary,” Plekhanov asked in a low voice. Having joined Yanayev’s inner circle, he now had a say on certain matters. But Plekhanov still spoke cautiously, as he had no idea what Yanayev was truly planning.

“Oh?” Yanayev turned his head and said to him calmly, “This fellow, Viktor Bout, is indeed as mediocre as they come, by all appearances. But you must remember one thing, Plekhanov. The most important thing when judging a person isn’t what they’ve done in the past, but what they can and will do in the future.”

To Yanayev, Viktor Bout’s past wasn’t important. What mattered was that in the future, he would have a very special nickname: the “Merchant of Death.” From entering the arms business in 1992 to becoming one of the world’s most formidable arms dealers, his net worth had reached six billion pounds in less than a decade. His story was even turned into a movie—yes, the one starring Nicolas Cage, Lord of War.

In Yanayev’s plan to save the Soviet Union, Viktor Bout was a key piece.

Of course, he couldn’t tell Plekhanov any of this. Since Viktor was a brilliant businessman, Yanayev, who had always been unconventional in his choice of personnel, didn’t mind having him handle some of the Soviet government’s shady, under-the-table dealings, even if the man was currently poor and dejected. Besides, Yanayev was quite curious to see what the legendary arms dealer was like in his early days.

The car stopped in front of a dilapidated apartment building. The driver turned his head and said to Yanayev, “Mr. President, we’ve arrived.”

“Ah, good. Just wait for us downstairs,” Yanayev nodded. He and Plekhanov got out of the car, climbed a staircase littered with trash, and walked down a foul-smelling corridor. The two of them arrived at a battered iron door. Plekhanov glanced at the residence, clearly that of an impoverished person, and then knocked.

“Who is it?” a rough voice sounded from behind the door, followed by the clatter of something being knocked over and the faint sound of a man cursing. If the voice hadn’t clearly belonged to a person, Yanayev might have thought there was a Siberian brown bear locked behind the door.

The door opened and a man with messy hair poked his head out. He shot a glance at the two men standing outside and said with clear impatience, “Didn’t I tell you? I’ll pay you back in a few days. Why are you so annoying! Is it that serious?”

Seeing that the man had obviously misunderstood something, Plekhanov took his KGB credentials from his coat pocket and said coldly to the drunkard at the door, “I have no interest in who you owe what, but you’d better take a good look at who we are.”

When Viktor Bout saw Plekhanov’s credentials, his eyes widened. The slight buzz from the alcohol vanished in an instant. He waved his hands in a panic and said, “Sir, listen to me, what I just said wasn’t directed at you…”

“Was it directed at me then, Comrade Viktor?” Yanayev suddenly spoke in fluent Chinese. “The man standing next to you is Plekhanov, the leader of the KGB’s Ninth Directorate. Are your disrespectful and offensive words just now enough for the KGB to have you taken away?”

Never mind Viktor’s stunned expression; even Plekhanov was surprised. Yanayev had never claimed to have studied Chinese, so how he could suddenly speak it so fluently was a mystery.

Since the other party had spoken, Viktor had no choice but to reply to Yanayev in Chinese. “I’m very sorry, Sir. I apologize for my rude behavior just now. If he truly is the leader of the KGB’s Ninth Directorate, you must be an important person as well.”

Yanayev smiled slightly. He walked right past Viktor and into the hovel that looked like a garbage dump. This time, he turned back and spoke to him in Russian, “You really should watch the news, Comrade Viktor. Standing before you is the Soviet Union’s new leader. Oh, right, my name is Gennady Yanayev.”

Yanayev glanced around and his expression changed slightly when he saw the MON-50 on the table. To avoid arousing Plekhanov’s suspicions, he casually picked up a piece of clothing and covered the device before Plekhanov entered. Then he said to Viktor, “It seems you’re quite wary of your creditors. But I won’t press you on how you got that little toy on your table. You should know that according to the law, it’s enough to ensure you spend the rest of your life in a much colder, damper prison cell.”

The expression on Viktor’s face instantly became quite a sight. Yanayev nonchalantly changed the subject. “But are you just going to let the supreme leader stand here awkwardly in your little hovel? Oh, honestly, how many days has it been since this place was cleaned?”

As if waking from a dream, Viktor hurried inside to tidy up the room, clearing a space for Yanayev to sit. After sitting down, Yanayev got straight to the point. “I have just one question for you: are you interested in pledging your life to me?”

Plekhanov was a bit dumbfounded. He never thought Yanayev would come all this way to personally recruit an unknown nobody to work for him. It was unbelievable. He wanted to advise the General Secretary against it, but he decided to wait and see.

Yanayev’s directness left Viktor at a loss for words. He coughed awkwardly and asked, “To be honest, Mr. President, I’m not entirely sure what you mean by ‘pledging my life to you’?”

“It means only one thing: selling arms for me,” Yanayev stated his purpose without any pretense. “If you agree, then starting today, you will leave this cramped, narrow hovel and move into a magnificent mansion. You’ll have expensive, tailored suits and won’t have to wear these… tsk, tsk, who knows how many days of grease are stained on these clothes.”

“Yes, I’ll do it,” Viktor’s reply was just as crisp and decisive.

“Aren’t you curious about the price? Never mind, I’m sure you understand it far better than I do. Good. Then I will give you your first assignment, which you can consider a small test. You will sell firearms to the ethnic groups in the three Baltic states who are opposed to their governments.” Yanayev pointed at Viktor, laying out the first step of his plan.

Chapter 18: Operation Revolutionary Fire

“Comrade Plekhanov, could you please step outside for a moment? I have something to say to Viktor alone,” Yanayev said, dismissing Plekhanov. After all, some secrets could only be known by his core personnel.

“But I must ensure the leader’s safety.” Plekhanov frowned. Even though the General Secretary had said so, he still dared not move. If something were to happen to Yanayev in this little dark room, all of Plekhanov’s efforts to become the KGB Chairman would have been in vain.

“I said, please step outside.” Yanayev’s voice suddenly rose several decibels as he reiterated, “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine with you out there. But if you insist on staying… let’s just say that if you hear a single word of what follows, your career is over.”

The moment Yanayev looked up at Plekhanov, his gaze was as condescending as that of a wolf baring its sharp claws, surveying a helpless sheep. In that instant, Plekhanov felt as if the air had been torn from his lungs. A cold sweat broke out on his back. He nodded and said, “Yes, Mr. President. I’ll leave right away.”

As Plekhanov left, he gently closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief as if he had just been pardoned. With lingering fear, he looked back at the world of darkness he had just been sealed off from, wondering what kind of secret it could be that even a trusted KGB confidant could not be privy to. What Plekhanov didn’t know was that Yanayev had never truly trusted anyone.

To him, everyone was just a pawn in his plan. They only needed to know a fraction of it. As for the magnificent full picture of the great dragon lurking beneath the surface, perhaps only the one implementing the plan would ever know.

“Viktor, your mission is simple: use any means necessary to sow discord among the ethnic groups within the three Baltic states and incite them to civil war. Perhaps for someone as eloquent as you, this won’t be too difficult.” Yanayev laid out the plan bluntly. “Of course, the moment I tell you this, it means you cannot refuse. After all, even if you choose to run, your family, friends, and neighbors will not be spared. So you have no choice but to accept, Viktor.”

“Wait, Mr. President, you only told me to sell arms to the Baltic governments, not how to stir up their ethnic relations.” Viktor pondered for a moment, slowly making sense of Yanayev’s words. He looked at Yanayev with an incredulous expression and said hesitantly, “So… we’re not selling weapons to the governments of the three Baltic states, but rather selling armaments to the people who oppose them—the ones against separatism?”

Yanayev exhaled with a sense of relief. It seemed the man’s quick thinking met his standards. “Latvians, Lithuanians, Estonians, and Poles are ethnic groups that are extremely supportive of separatism. Meanwhile, the Belarusians and Russians have always opposed the division of the country. Of course, due to their smaller numbers, they have been constantly persecuted by the separatists. And what you need to do is provide them with weapons. We don’t need these people to cause a huge stir in the Baltic states, just enough to give our country an excuse to intervene. Then the three Baltic states won’t be able to achieve independence. Oh no, I should say, they won’t be able to become one hundred percent independent.”

Even Putin had exploited the crisis of Ukrainian separatism to split Ukraine into the governments of East and West Ukraine. Although Yanayev’s ambitions were greater than Putin’s, even if only half of the Baltic states remained firmly in his grasp, it would be far better than letting them all break away.

“In that case, just supplying firearms won’t be enough.” Viktor, with his businessman’s mind, immediately saw how to profit from the resources of the Baltic states. “We can have this potential opposition trade oil for arms. That way, even if the rebellion ultimately fails, we can still carve a huge chunk of flesh off them before they go down.”

Yanayev had also considered what Viktor was thinking, but his thoughts went much deeper. “Fail? Why would they fail? Oh, right, that’s none of your business, Comrade Viktor. I just need you to do your part. The rest of the plan is beyond your need-to-know.”

“There is one more thing about the future of the Soviet Union that you must know, as it concerns you a little. This is to get you mentally prepared.” Yanayev took a file out of his pocket and placed it in front of Viktor.

Viktor respectfully picked up the folder and began to read. He had only seen the first page when his jaw dropped in astonishment. “This is… the Soviet Union’s great disarmament plan? My God, but… what does this have to do with me?”

“Of course it does. In fact, this is a secret plan called ‘Operation Revolutionary Fire.’ The proposal you’re holding is the most classified secret there is, second only to the codes for the Soviet nuclear briefcase.” Yanayev wasn’t just trying to scare Viktor. Dealing with the massive, bloated Soviet armed forces was something he had been contemplating for the past year.

The strategic thinking of the Soviet military had to change. After the advent of nuclear weapons, all-out war was no longer possible. The Soviet Union’s adherence to the developmental doctrine of a doomsday army would only lead to stagnation. Therefore, obsolete armaments had to be eliminated. The ultimate goal was to build a high-tech military.

“When the time comes, the downsized Soviet units will leave behind a large amount of surplus equipment—armored vehicles, tanks, attack helicopters. And you will be responsible for selling these weapons to third-world countries. What’s that? Third-world allies? To hell with them. As long as they can pay, the oil tycoons of the Middle East and the warlords of Africa are all our clients, our friends. I don’t care what their religious beliefs are. And didn’t Saddam Hussein call himself the world’s fourth-greatest military power? Look at the state he was left in after the Gulf War; he’ll need to rebuild his army. You tell him, as long as he can pay, we’re willing to provide Soman and Sarin. The inventory at the biological weapons storage facility on Vozrozhdeniya Island is nearing its expiry date anyway.”

“Is this a move to prop up Saddam to counter the Arab nations?” Viktor was frightened by Yanayev’s dangerous idea.

Yanayev shook his head and said, “No. In any case, your job is to sell arms and sow chaos. And the discharged military personnel will form a large multinational private military contracting corporation. Hmm, just like Executive Outcomes in South Africa. You will be the vanguard, selling weapons, instigating wars, and even subverting the regimes of those small European countries. Then, the military corporation will be responsible for ‘stabilizing’ the war-torn regions. And as for the profits… we’ll have those cash-strapped governments use their national mineral resources as collateral. Understand?”

“I understand, General Secretary.” Viktor nodded, thinking to himself how truly vicious this plan was.

Destruction and reconstruction, all carried out by the same country. In the end, all the money paid would fall into the pockets of the Evil Empire. He wondered what expressions the heads of state of those nations ravaged by the Soviets would have if they ever learned the truth.

At that moment, Yanayev finally revealed his plan for the military to engage in business. From the beginning, he never intended to let the official Soviet troops engage in business and thus destroy their own fighting capability. What Yanayev was doing was simply to provide for the discharged military personnel while also contributing to the state’s off-the-books revenue.

What the Soviet Union lacked most right now was money; what it lacked least was weapons. Since there was no war, and maintaining these armaments cost a fortune, it was better to streamline personnel and weaponry, develop in a more advanced direction, and recoup the costs of the obsolete, second-hand products from smaller countries. Oh, and Iran was also a very good customer; it was constantly at odds with the Arab world. Besides, Yanayev still vividly remembered his hatred for the Reagan administration’s reverse oil shock strategy. Those bastards in Saudi Arabia played the role of the executioner back then. I’ll make it so you can’t produce a single drop of oil.

Destabilize the Middle East to raise crude oil prices, plunge the people of Africa into even deeper suffering… You damned fascists! Since you call me the red Evil Empire, then I don’t mind one bit playing the role of the world’s spoiler. For every regime the Americans prop up, I, the Red Polar Bear, will destroy it with an arms deal! Let the Yankees get a headache over it!

“This is about inciting hatred across the entire world. Perhaps the theme of this era, ‘peace and development,’ really needs to be changed.” Yanayev muttered to himself, “Let’s call it World in Conflict: Soviet Vengeance.”

Chapter 19: A Nuclear Negotiation

Gennady Yanayev boarded the plane to Estonia. As the Soviet Union was in a delicate period in its relations with the member republics, two Su-27 fighter jets escorted the presidential Il-62—this “flying palace”—from the moment it took off from Moscow, only turning back to the capital once it reached the edge of Estonian airspace.

Despite concerns about the political turmoil in the three Baltic states, Yanayev insisted on setting foot in this territory that opposed both him and the vast Red Empire behind him. Although the Soviet Union was gradually resuming its aggressive strategy, the armies of the three Baltic states did not yet have the nerve to place their fingers on the launch buttons of their surface-to-air missiles.

The presidential Il-62 came to a stop on the tarmac of Lennart Meri Tallinn Airport. As Yanayev descended from the aircraft, he noticed that the Estonians had not laid out a red carpet to welcome a foreign guest. Yanayev merely smiled disdainfully at this discourteous act, paying it no mind. In contrast, his aide, who was traveling with him, took in the entire scene.

As Yanayev stepped onto the last stair, the Estonian President squeezed out a smile and came forward to greet him. He extended a hand in a friendly gesture. “Welcome to Estonia, General Secretary Yanayev.”

“Heh, Tallinn is a fine place,” Yanayev said, shaking his hand—one doesn’t hit a smiling man. “Back in 1940, my grandfather was a Red Army soldier. He once entered this beautiful city, the capital of Estonia, in a tank. I never expected that today I would have the honor, like my forefathers, to set foot on this land for which they once fought.”

The Estonian President’s smile froze on his face. Yanayev’s words clearly contained a threatening subtext. For a moment, he had no idea how to respond. In the end, it was Yanayev who broke the awkward silence. “Of course, I come today in peace, to discuss the issue of independence for the three Baltic states. I presume Anatoly Valerianovich Gorbunov and Vytautas Landsbergis are already waiting for me in the conference room. Let’s head over.”

As if waking from a dream, Arnold Rüütel quickly escorted Yanayev to the City Hall. He might not be a match for Yanayev alone, but his allies were in the conference room, sharpening their knives and waiting for his arrival.

On the way to City Hall, Yanayev could see the streets outside his window filled with protesters. They held up signs scrawled with slogans of various lengths, all variations on the same themes: “Tyrant get out of Estonia,” “We don’t welcome dictators,” and “We want democracy, we want freedom.” Not a single positive slogan was in sight. If it weren’t for the heavy police presence lining the route, the indignant crowd would have likely charged Yanayev’s motorcade.

Arnold gave Yanayev an embarrassed smile and explained, “There’s nothing to be done. Estonia is a democratic country; we cannot deny the people their right to peaceful protest and demonstration. Otherwise, how would we be any different from a dictator?”

Yanayev only met Arnold’s thinly veiled mockery with a noncommittal smile. You old fox, he thought, don’t you know perfectly well who arranged for all these people? Just wait until we’re at the negotiating table. That’s when you leaders of the three Baltic states will be crying.

Soon, the car pulled up in front of City Hall. Reporters who had been waiting for some time swarmed forward. The moment Yanayev opened the door, the flash of cameras blinded him. The sharp-tongued reporters seized the opportunity to hurl pointed questions at him.

“Mr. President, have you come to prevent the three Baltic states from breaking away? If so, is Gorbachev’s New Union Treaty still considered valid?”

“If you are unsuccessful, will the Soviet Union dispatch troops to conquer the three Baltic states by force? Will the events of the Prague Spring be repeated in Estonia? Are you truly the cold-blooded tyrant they describe you as?”

“Do human rights still exist in the Soviet Union now that it is under martial law? Do the people have freedom of speech…”

Yanayev, who had originally intended to ignore the reporters, stopped in his tracks when he heard the question about human rights in the Soviet Union. He raised his hands, gesturing for everyone to be quiet. The bustling crowd of reporters gradually fell silent. Once everyone was quiet, Yanayev spoke. “No human rights in the Soviet Union? Well, I think the Estonian press still has a lot to learn. The media always likes to make a mountain out of a molehill. When you receive unverified information like this, you must use your own judgment. No investigation, no right to speak. Do you understand what that means? You are all very familiar with that set of theories from Western European countries, always using human rights to question the authorities. But you are, after all, still too young, and the questions you keep asking are exceptionally childish. A journalist’s job is not to become someone else’s political tool, but to speak for the people and for the country, according to their conscience. Of course, I am saying this to you today as an elder teaching the younger generation, not as the tyrant of iron and blood you are all preparing to slander in your newspapers.”

Yanayev’s words left the reporters, who had been hoping to see him make a fool of himself, staring at each other in stunned silence. He then turned and entered the building, leaving them with the sight of his inscrutable back.

“This national leader really doesn’t mince his words,” one reporter remarked, scratching his head thoughtfully.

After this brief interlude, Yanayev officially met with the leaders of the other two nations in the conference room. Anatoly, the acting president of Latvia, put on a show of being quite concerned for Yanayev. Only Vytautas, the Chairman of the Supreme Council of Lithuania, sat silently in the corner, waiting for the meeting to begin.

Yanayev first apologized to the other two leaders. “My apologies for being slightly late. I was held up by the reporters at the door, which caused a bit of a delay. Ah, you know how it is with some of those foreigners who have nothing better to do, always egging on despicable little people to meddle in our country’s internal affairs.”

Vytautas’s mouth twitched at Yanayev’s veiled accusation, but his expression quickly returned to normal. “Then let us begin the meeting,” he said. “The topic of this meeting is still the New Union Treaty that our three nations previously signed with the Soviet Union. The three Baltic states can accept a loose confederal state, but we cannot accept Soviet control over us. Furthermore, the supreme constitution of the Soviet Union states that we have the right to freely choose whether to withdraw from the Soviet Union. This entire negotiation is predicated on these conditions.”

“That’s right,” said Estonian President Arnold, following the lead of the first speaker. “Our proposal is to have the New Union Treaty take effect immediately, allowing the member republics to break free from Soviet control and develop independently. Otherwise, we will call upon the people of the three Baltic states to rise up and resist Soviet oppression.”

Yanayev suddenly burst out laughing. Seeing the three presidents’ bewildered expressions, he explained, “Forgive me, I’m not targeting you, Mr. President of Estonia. What I actually mean to say is that the three of you sitting here are all pieces of trash who are incapable of grasping the situation.”

Being called trash by a national leader, the faces of the three Baltic leaders instantly darkened. Yanayev paid them no heed and continued, “Don’t forget that in the national referendum held this past March, seventy percent of Soviet citizens and more than nine member republics voted against splitting into a loose confederation and supported a highly unified Soviet Union. That is why I laugh at you—a bunch of pitiful fools who can’t see the reality of the situation.”

“Oh, and by the way,” Yanayev added, crossing his legs and rolling up a sleeve to glance at his watch. “I only said I came from Moscow with ‘Love and Peace.’ I never said whether or not ‘Love and Peace’ was the name of a Soviet tactical nuclear warhead. It should be about time. If you turn on your televisions, I think you’ll see some news that will make things much worse for the three Baltic states.”

“What news?” Anatoly asked. He had nearly had a heart attack when he heard the words “tactical nuclear” and now, with more news that would make a bad situation worse, he might very well faint on the spot.

Before Yanayev could answer, the Estonian presidential assistant rushed to Arnold’s side and whispered a few words in his ear. Arnold’s expression, which had merely been grim, instantly turned deathly pale.

“Quick, turn on the television!” Arnold yelled, his voice laced with panic.

Chapter 20: Hoisted by Their Own Petard

If there was one thing a head of state would find most humiliating, it would surely be having a coup erupt in his own country while he was engaged in peace talks with another leader. This was especially true for Arnold, whose already sour mood at the conference finally boiled over when he heard Estonian television broadcasting news of large-scale attacks on Estonia’s military bases by unidentified armed militants. He could no longer hold back and lashed out at Gennady Yanayev.

“Yanayev, is this what you call a peace negotiation? You haven’t even been at the table for five minutes, and all of Estonia has fallen into chaos? Is this what you meant by coming from Russia with love and peace?”

In order to counter the threat from the Soviets, the Estonian President had focused his forces on the border between Estonia and Russia. He had never anticipated that the Russian population within his country would suddenly acquire a massive cache of weapons, instantly transforming from marginalized, meek lambs into monsters armed to the teeth. Of course, Viktor, the man responsible for smuggling the arms, had played a crucial role in this.

Estonian intelligence had previously received a tip that a shipment of weapons and supplies intended to support the opposition would be smuggled across the Soviet border into Estonia in the near future. However, that intelligence report never reached the president’s desk. It was intercepted by a department head who was also a secret KGB agent. That very night, the personnel who were the source of the intelligence died from severe injuries sustained in a car accident.

A few days later, those same weapons appeared openly in the opposition’s stronghold. It was said that a Russian fluent in Estonian had even helped devise the plan for the riots during the strategy meeting.

Perhaps due to his extreme agitation, Estonian President Arnold Rüütel’s words were becoming incoherent. Vytautas, the Chairman of the Supreme Council of Lithuania, discreetly tugged at his sleeve, signaling for Arnold to sit down first. Anatoly, who had been relatively mild-mannered until now, also ripped off his mask of hypocrisy at this moment. “President Yanayev,” he said in a cold voice, “this isn’t the script we agreed on, is it? Are you truly trying to incite a war between the member republics?”

“No, no, no, Acting President Anatoly. That’s merely what you think. In fact, judging by the current situation, everything is proceeding according to my script.” Yanayev wagged a finger in a ‘no’ gesture. He turned to his aide beside him and said, “Comrade, could you please hand me the newspaper we prepared this morning? Thank you.”

The aide efficiently retrieved a newspaper from his briefcase, placed it before Yanayev, and neatly unfolded it before stepping back. Yanayev pointed to the headline of the Russian newspaper. “You see, the Supreme Constitution of the Soviet Union has been amended. Without a one-hundred percent vote from all Soviet citizens, no member republic may unilaterally withdraw from the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”

By chronological estimation, this news had been released no more than two minutes ago. Yanayev had simply had a special edition printed in advance to humiliate the leaders of the three Baltic states at the meeting.

In other words, if even a single Soviet citizen cast a vote in opposition, the Baltic states’ plan for independence would turn to dust. Yanayev loved using dark humor to mock his opponents. You champion freedom and the vote, don’t you? Fine, I’ll give you the right to choose. Failing to pass it will only prove that the governments you represent are garbage unsupported by the people.

Rage! At this moment, Arnold was so furious that his pale face had turned a deep, livid purple. He clenched his fists, desperately wanting to smash one into the face of the nonchalant leader of the Soviet Communist Party. They had originally intended to use this conference to humiliate the supreme leader, but they never imagined that the mastermind himself had orchestrated an even grander, more enormous conspiracy.

The Soviet red spider, having laid an inescapable trap, eyed the three smug, darting flies with disdain, simply waiting for them to fly into its web. Only at the very end did these men realize they weren’t even worthy of being called buffoons.

Take their president hostage and declare war on the Evil Empire! Arnold felt a voice in his head endlessly tempting him. Activate the propaganda machine, resist the Soviet tyranny!

“Gentlemen, hear me out,” Yanayev said, noticing the shifting expressions on the three leaders’ faces. “Don’t you think the problems you should be considering right now are how to achieve a one-hundred percent referendum vote, how to quell the rebellion in your countries, and how to deal with the Soviet army, which is watching you like a tiger?”

“And if you’re thinking of taking me hostage at this conference to threaten the Soviet Union, you’d best forget it.” Yanayev stood up. The special agents protecting the three Baltic leaders also took a step forward, warily watching Yanayev’s every move.

“Has it never occurred to you why I would dare to announce this news at this conference, to declare it to your faces? Did you never suspect that the real Soviet President is, at this very moment, sitting at his desk in the Kremlin, watching your every ridiculous move? If the person attending this painstakingly arranged meeting is merely a presidential double, what good would capturing me do? The only result would be to give the Soviet Union an excuse to send in its troops, and you would suffer a catastrophic disaster.”

“Bastard!” Arnold slammed his fist on the table. It was the first time he had ever lost his composure in a conference. Anatoly and Vytautas looked at Arnold with some embarrassment. The three of them, who had come to watch the Soviet Union make a fool of itself, had instead become the butt of the joke. Even if Yanayev let Arnold press a gun to his forehead now, he wouldn’t dare pull the trigger. Regardless of whether the Soviet President before him was real or fake, if anything happened to him in Estonia, the three Baltic states would be reduced to rubble.

“I’ve said my piece. Whether you sign or not is your choice.” By now, Yanayev was in complete control of the situation. Independence had become an impossibility. Vytautas chose to endure for the time being. As long as the idea of independence was still taking root among the people, he was not worried about a lack of future opportunities.

Of course, Yanayev would never give him that opportunity. He pointed to the document he had produced and said, “After signing this treaty, command authority over your three nations’ armies will be completely transferred to Moscow. We will, of course, also station troops in the three Baltic states to maintain stability. Oh, you can choose to disagree. The consequence will simply be a situation of internal troubles and external threats. When that happens, it’s hard to say whether public opinion will still support your governments’ independence.”

The pen in Vytautas’s hand, which had been about to move, froze instantly. He looked up at Yanayev, and with what seemed to be a Herculean effort, he forced two words through his clenched teeth, “Despicable.”

“It’s not despicable, my friends. And you only have half a day to consider this.” Yanayev glanced at his watch. “From this moment, you have five hours until the treaty must be signed. Five hours from now, Soviet armored divisions will move into your three countries to maintain stability. Of course, I don’t mind if you mobilize your armies to resist or anything of that sort, but don’t forget you still have loosely organized armed groups of all sizes within your borders. Oh, and by the way, the Baltic Fleet will blockade the entire sea, so you really will be fighting all alone.”

“I propose we take a temporary recess,” Vytautas said, giving Arnold and Anatoly a look. “The three of us need to confer in private before we can give you an answer, President Yanayev.”

Yanayev made a “be my guest” gesture. “As you wish. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll await your reply right here in this conference room. And please be quick about it. The Soviet iron torrent has always been very punctual.”

The moment the three men stepped out of the conference room, Arnold, who had been feigning composure, erupted with rage, practically jumping up and down. He waved his fists and shouted, “He’s insane! Who does he think he is! How dare he make such an outrageous demand!”

“There’s no use saying more.” Vytautas, the most level-headed of the three, let out a sigh. He took off his glasses and said slowly, “We need to call the West, led by the United States, for help immediately. Let’s pray that those politicians can get NATO to come up with a plan to save us from the Soviets within five hours. This situation is now beyond our control.”

“And what if they can’t?” Anatoly asked weakly. “What will our fate be?”

Vytautas glanced at him, his voice icy and devoid of all emotion. “Our fate? At best, we’ll spend the rest of our lives in a Siberian prison. And the three Baltic states might not see another chance at independence for another forty years.”

Chapter 21: NATO’s Reaction

US President Bush was not in a good mood. He had just been about to drift off to sleep late at night when an urgent phone call summoned him to the Pentagon. Of course, others whose day had also been ruined included British Prime Minister and Conservative Party leader John Major, French President François Mitterrand, and German Chancellor Helmut Kohl. The storm gathering in the Baltic states thousands of kilometers away had brought them all together for a special telephone conference of NATO’s senior leaders.

“We have all received calls for help from the presidents of the three Baltic states. Let’s discuss any thoughts you all have. Let’s keep it brief—they don’t have much time left.” Bush wasn’t sitting down; instead, he paced back and forth, contemplating how to steer the current situation in a direction favorable to him.

“It will be difficult. Right now, the Soviet Union is acting like a desperate madman. No one knows what a crazed leader might do.” On the other end of the line, German Chancellor Helmut Kohl looked as if he were about to cry. It had been less than a year since the reunification of East and West Germany. Who could endure the terror of another Baltic crisis? No matter how turbulent Eastern Europe became, it was none of Helmut’s concern, as long as it didn’t affect Germany. But now, with the Soviet Union’s heavy-handed interference, Germany’s fate was no longer certain.

“They seem to have given up on conquering others through indirect means. Just like when they entered Prague, they’re using the most hardline tactics directly,” said British Prime Minister John Major. The NATO leaders seemed to be collectively ignoring the humanitarian crisis that Yanayev had manufactured within the three Baltic states.

“The most important question now is whether we should dispatch troops to the three Baltic states to maintain stability,” suggested François Mitterrand, known as a hawk in French politics. “I feel it would be best for NATO forces to remain in Germany and observe the situation. Even if we were to truly help the three Baltic states, we could only do so from Germany, Finland, or Sweden.”

France was not part of NATO’s integrated military command, so he was opposed to Western Europe interfering in this Eastern European political storm.

“What do you mean, François?” Helmut’s voice rose several decibels. “Are you saying we should just stand by and watch the three Baltic states be drawn back into the Soviet sphere of influence, reinforcing the Eastern European barrier and even putting Germany under the direct military threat of the Warsaw Pact?”

Mitterrand had been one of the Western European presidents who vehemently opposed German reunification, and now the old Franco-German animosity was being stirred up again by the Baltic crisis.

“Alright, that’s enough arguing, gentlemen. Our top priority now is to resolve this crisis and teach the Soviet Union a lesson.” The British Prime Minister, still smarting from the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of the Soviets, had not forgotten how to get back at the Red Polar Bear. In particular, the day his foreign ministry spokesman, Boris Dmitrievich Pankin, had threatened Britain with the Irish Republican Army, John Major’s expression had been grim all day.

Of course, Bush and the United States had other ideas. He wanted to probe the Soviet Union’s bottom line and military situation but was unwilling to risk America’s own skin. Using the European allies as a testing ground was a good option—after all, it was a mutually agreeable arrangement.

Standing beside Bush was his advisor, Brent Scowcroft. The advice he had given Bush before the call was to let the European nations act as the vanguard to test the Soviet Union’s limits, while the US remained on the sidelines. If the Red Polar Bear’s bottom line was truly crossed, he could step in to mediate.

This time, America was playing the political role of an offshore balancer, a part usually played by the British. Just as Brent Scowcroft had said, his words were designed to kill both body and spirit. “We need to know how much fight the mighty Red Polar Bear has left in it. From the moment Yeltsin and Gorbachev died, a new war began, Mr. President. But I believe these seemingly hardline tactics are nothing more than a final flash of life before Russia dies. The traps we laid over a decade ago haven’t completely failed. And taking a step back, even if we can use this to find the Russians’ weakness, the price of sending our European friends to their deaths is a mutually destructive outcome that is still the best for us. The world can only accommodate one powerful America. Those so-called old European powers are a thing of the past and shouldn’t entertain fantasies of restoring a union with strong leadership.”

“Allies, quiet down and listen to me.” Bush silenced their bickering and picked up his carefully prepared speech. “We once stood together to halt the advance of Fascism, and now we stand together again against a vast Evil Empire. Yes, the people of Europe are facing a moment of supreme crisis. Those fanatical Russian communists are preparing to spread the flames of war to free lands. We cannot retreat, we cannot be timid. Every step back we take is a concession to a dictator. So regardless of what you think, the United States of America will choose to defend the Baltic states, to defend those people who love freedom and resist oppression. This is our responsibility!”

After the American President finished reading his speech, François Mitterrand was not pleased.

“Damn Americans! Always trying to drag Europe into their messes,” Mitterrand cursed under his breath. France was desperately trying to stay out of it, but America was aggressively pulling the European nations into the muddy waters. The most unfortunate part was that Britain had recently had some diplomatic unpleasantness with the Soviet Union, and Germany was already worried about its position on the front line against the spread of Communism. Normally, both Britain and France could have opposed this, but now Britain was jumping on the American bandwagon to join the opposition.

A group of people, each with their own agenda, had come together. As for how reliable the American call to action was, Mitterrand sensed a faint, unsettling feeling. If their so-called ally across the Atlantic chose to betray them, America could remain unscathed, but the nations of Europe would have to face the wrath of the Soviets directly.

“I agree to aid the three Baltic states, just as we were aided during the Berlin Crisis. Let the people of Eastern Europe know that the free world has not forgotten them,” Helmut said. To win over another nation, he asked, “Prime Minister Major, what do you think?”

“We have always vehemently opposed the Iron Curtain, and now is the time for Great Britain to act. I agree to dispatching troops to the Baltic states. Let’s give that dying Red Polar Bear a taste of our strength,” John Major said.

“Since you all put it that way, what choice do I have?” the French President, François Mitterrand, said with a sigh of resignation. “But we will only send a token force. I won’t do something as foolish as provoking the Soviet Union.”

A symbolic gesture was enough; no one was actually planning a bloody war with the Soviet Union. The deployment of NATO troops was more of a reminder to this dangerous neighbor that the lands it had once occupied would soon no longer belong to it. While France was at a loss and Britain and Germany were celebrating with a high-five, Uncle Sam, who had quietly taken a step back to stay out of the fray, revealed a cunning smile.

The telephone conference between the four major Western leaders lasted only one hour from start to finish. Almost as soon as the leaders hung up, their government spokesmen began busily drafting statements on the Baltic situation to be delivered on television, expressing their commitment to do everything in their power to support the people resisting tyranny.

Bush even personally called back the presidents of the three Baltic states, assuring them that NATO countries would send armed forces to help them. He urged them not to compromise under any circumstances and to maintain their hardline stance to the very end. The leaders, who were being sold out while gratefully counting the money, were naturally deeply thankful for President Bush’s generosity.

In any case, it was a demonstration of all thunder and no rain. Germany’s mobilization of armored forces was almost theatrical. They ordered television stations to provide detailed coverage of the tanks’ route as they advanced toward the German-Polish border. The media frantically hyped the situation, creating an atmosphere as if Germany were about to launch another Operation Barbarossa. But anyone with a shred of sense knew this was just for show; a real war would never be stage-managed with such grandiosity.

At the same time, British warships set out from their home ports, sailing majestically towards the Baltic Sea. John Major hoped that this operation would showcase the sagging muscles of the empire on which the sun never sets. In addition to offering vocal support, the United States also announced that it would cover one-third of the costs of this NATO operation.

A military operation codenamed “Defending Freedom” was thus launched. This hastily organized operation was as ridiculous as children playing house. Since the Americans were willing to pay, everyone treated it as an all-expenses-paid trip to the Baltic Sea. However, the sailors of the British Navy would soon discover how gravely mistaken they were.

These young sailors would, for the first time, witness the true horror of the Evil Empire in the Baltic Sea.

Chapter 22: The Soviet Union Punishes the World (Part 1)

Back at the negotiating table, the presidents of the three Baltic states were far more defiant than before. They flatly rejected Gennady Yanayev’s proposal, declaring they could not accept his terms, as it would brand them as traitors on the pillar of shame in their nations’ histories.

Vytautas diplomatically suggested that the Soviet Union should consult with them and use more subtle means to prevent the union republics from seceding, rather than relying on naked force to make them submit. This, he argued, would also give their governments something to tell their people. Yanayev watched the amusing, gesticulating performance of the three leaders with a smile. The deeper the discussion went, the more he sensed something was amiss. These men seemed to be stalling for time. After three hours of pointless discussion, Yanayev was finally certain: they were indeed dragging things out, waiting for reinforcements.

Just as he was about to end the pointless discussion, a grim-faced aide came forward and whispered some bad news in his ear, “NATO is mobilizing its forces. We’ve detected armored formations and fleets approaching from eastern Germany, southern Finland, and the Baltic border. Although Poland separates Germany from Lithuania, the British and French fleets and Finland’s armored units are directly facing Estonian territory.”

This turn of events was completely unexpected for Yanayev. In his calculations, NATO was supposed to do nothing more than issue a statement condemning the incident. He never thought Europe would actually entertain the idea of a direct confrontation with the Soviet Union. Then, Yanayev’s thoughts immediately turned to the supreme leader of the country across the Bering Strait.

Yanayev nodded to his aide. When he turned his head back to the three national leaders, he saw without exception that they were all secretly gloating. They believed they had finally found a secret weapon that would make the Soviet Union hesitate. To their disappointment, Yanayev showed none of the anger they had been hoping for. Arnold even began to wonder if the news Yanayev had just received wasn’t about NATO forces massing on the border, but merely some trivial matter.

Yanayev let out a small laugh, then shook his head and pointed a finger at the three men across the table. “Honestly, I must say I’m rather impressed with you all. To get NATO to mobilize its forces with such fanfare in just six hours to pressure the Soviet Union… Knowing those capitalists, they never do anything for free. You must have mortgaged some of your resources again, haven’t you?”

Vytautas started to interject, but Yanayev stopped him with a gesture. He waved his hand dismissively. “Forget it. I don’t want to hear whatever you have to say. We Soviets have always been direct. Since NATO intends to confront us head-on, I don’t mind turning the three Baltic states into another Cuban Missile Crisis.”

At the mention of the Cuban Missile Crisis, the color drained from everyone’s faces. Yanayev, completely unruffled, stood up and gave an order to his aide. “The vast red war machine awaits my command. Now, I will show you the true iron torrent of the Soviet Union.”

The situation in the Baltic Sea was now every bit as volatile as the one at the negotiating table, if not more so. A fleet had appeared quietly, weaving through the waters with the carefree swagger of a school of fish.

The waters of the Baltic Sea were calm, and the British and French sailors had no will to fight. They were lazing about on deck, sunbathing and stretching, looking nothing like a fleet on combat alert. Even their captain knew this operation was merely a show of force. Besides, no one wanted to get into a real, pitched battle with the madmen of the Evil Empire. Decades of exaggerated Western propaganda had branded the most sinister image of the Soviet Union into the minds of these poor soldiers, turning it into an instinctual fear.

A lone destroyer and a few frigates—a sparse formation—wandered aimlessly through the Baltic, like headless flies buzzing back and forth, trying to find a target that might hold their interest.

Suddenly, a torrential, tsunami-like roar of water filled everyone’s ears. The captain and sailors alike felt an earthquake-like rumble coming from beyond the horizon. It felt as if a giant monster was hurtling toward them from the distant depths, yet the radar screens remained blank.

“Find out what’s going on, now!” the captain ordered, frowning with anxiety. He commanded all hands to battle stations. The sailors, accustomed to a lax routine, scrambled to their posts, readying for combat in the shortest possible time. All eyes were fixed on the white mist churning up on the horizon, and on the small black dot that grew larger as it approached.

When the soldiers finally made out the monster’s true form, their captain was so stunned he momentarily forgot to sound the alarm. His mind went blank, filled only with the image of a steel behemoth, fangs and claws bared, and a strange rumor he had heard a few years ago near the Caspian Sea.

Legend had it that the Soviets had developed a vehicle that was part transport plane, part warship. Its terrifying form could occasionally be glimpsed on the Caspian Sea, kicking up monstrous waves. Given its mysterious nature, a wary NATO had nicknamed it the “Caspian Sea Monster.” Captain Braidon had initially dismissed it as a fabricated tale. He never imagined his first encounter with the Caspian Sea Monster would be so visceral.

As for how this thing had suddenly appeared in the Baltic, thousands of kilometers away, perhaps only the Commander-in-Chief of the Soviet Armed Forces knew the answer.

The giant steel monster seemed to have no interest in this small flotilla. Maintaining a safe distance, the Caspian Sea Monster roared past them. Its Moskit supersonic anti-ship missiles, which armed it to the teeth, showed no interest in the group either. Was its target somewhere in the sea beyond the fleet, or did it simply disdain to engage the British? The impact the Caspian Sea Monster had on the British Navy, however, was immense. It was a resounding slap in the face to those naval commanders who had been mocking the Soviets for not daring to make a move.

Just when everyone thought it was over and began to breathe a sigh of relief, the real main event began. No sooner had the pathetic Anglo-French fleet seen off the intimidating steel monster than they came face to face with the entire Baltic Fleet, which had sortied in full force. The number of destroyers alone was enough to crush them. Dwarfed and outgunned, British Captain Braidon felt the sharp edge of fear against his spine. Steeling himself, he hailed the Baltic Fleet. “This is the British fleet. To avoid any unpleasant conflict, please alter your course to the east. Over.”

The Anglo-French fleet had not trespassed into Soviet territory, so he could still speak with righteousness on the high seas. But Captain Braidon seemed to have forgotten that the Soviets didn’t play by the rules. In their view, maritime borders were defined only by the maximum range of their cannons and missiles.

He was cut off abruptly by the commander of the Baltic Fleet. “The hell? Who are you? A bunch of trash from who-knows-where? Are you the Mongolian Navy? The Baltic Fleet doesn’t deign to deal with pathetic weaklings. We have no tradition of yielding to others. If you won’t change your course, we’ll ram right through you!”

This fleet from hell was true to its word. It charged straight at the Anglo-French fleet, showing not the slightest intention of altering its course.

Braidon, knowing he was hopelessly outmatched, was left with no choice by this brutish and aggressive response. He had to order his ships to change course and avoid provoking these madmen. After altering their heading, the Anglo-French fleet passed the terrifying, leviathan-like Soviet fleet at a dangerously close distance. While the eyes of the sailors on the Anglo-French decks were glued to the immense Soviet armada, the Soviet sailors didn’t even bat an eye, ignoring them completely, as if these NATO ships weren’t even worthy of being considered their opponents.

A hundred years ago, the grand navy of the empire on which the sun never sets. A hundred years later, the Red Soviet’s navy at its zenith. History truly has a penchant for black humor. As Braidon gazed at the massive fleet, it was as if he were seeing a reflection of Great Britain in its prime.

But now, the Red Soviet bear, angered by the West, held vodka in its left hand and a hammer and sickle in its right. It would punish the entire free world in its own way!

Chapter 23: The Soviet Union Chastises the World (Part 2)

The situation remained a stalemate. With the sternest possible attitude, Gennady Yanayev warned the three leaders attempting to fracture the union that they shouldn’t even think of taking a single piece of Soviet land from his grasp. But the Baltic states, with the backing of the NATO countries, were holding on for dear life. It gave Yanayev the strange feeling of having returned to the historical timeline of 1962. Khrushchev had been locked in a similarly terrifying standoff with Kennedy, only that time, Khrushchev’s concession had saved humanity from a potential doomsday.

But times were different now. Just as Cuba was a perennial thorn in America’s side, the political instability in the Baltic states was a sharp nail driven directly into Moscow’s heart. If Yanayev chose to compromise, the ensuing domino effect would cause the Soviet Union to lose the vast majority of its constituent republics.

Yanayev wasn’t just contending with the three clowns before him; he was in a contest with the massive Free World at their backs.

Having already played the Baltic Fleet card, and even bringing some more covert, unconventional weapons to the table as his trump cards, Yanayev was running out of aces to play. His seemingly aggressive, step-by-step approach was, in fact, born of desperation. No nation with a strong hand would squander its trump cards so carelessly. If NATO held out just a little longer, he would truly be left with only his last resort, the R-36M Satan intercontinental ballistic missile.

But Yanayev knew in his heart that doing so would be tantamount to sending humanity back to a new Stone Age.

And now, Yanayev was about to play his second-to-last trump card. Like piling straws onto a camel’s back, Yanayev continuously applied military pressure on NATO, adding one card after another until he placed the final straw that would break their psychological defenses.

Three Tu-160 bombers, specially escorted by Su-27 fighter jets, took off from an airbase deep within the Soviet Union and headed toward the Baltic Sea. The Tu-160s, dubbed “Blackjack” by the West, spread their enormous wings, soaring through the azure sky like graceful, noble swans. They were like floating white islands, making their way toward the airspace of the three Baltic states.

These three Tu-160 bombers were fully loaded with nuclear warheads, turning them into mobile nuclear arsenals in mid-air. With a single command from Yanayev, the pilots would press their red buttons, and the angels of death would rain down in clusters upon Baltic territory, instantly turning the three nations into carbon copies of Chernobyl.

Upon receiving the radar alert, the three Baltic states scrambled MiG-27 fighter jets to intercept them. However, no pilot dared to open fire. Firstly, the Su-27s shadowing the Tu-160s were watching the MiG-27s’ every move like hawks. If they dared to make an untoward move, the MiG-27 pilots had to consider whether they were any match for the Su-27 “Airborne Scalpel.” Secondly, the Tu-160s were bristling with nuclear warheads. Even as they flew over the Baltic states, no one dared to attack. If those bombs were to detonate, Estonia would not escape the fate of becoming another Chernobyl.

The MiG-27 pilots’ orders were to monitor the Tu-160 bombers’ movements at all times and only intercept them if they passed over the capital. The Estonian Air Force was helpless. It felt as if a robber had brazenly walked into your home to take your things, but because you weren’t strong enough, you could only watch as he did whatever he pleased.

So when Estonian President Arnold received the news, his expression was anything but pleasant. He even wanted to rush out of the conference room to see if that very bomber was aligning its bomb bay doors right over his head.

“Yanayev, what is the meaning of this? Are you threatening us with nuclear weapons?” Arnold gritted his teeth so hard they audibly ground together. In the face of the mighty Soviet armed forces, all of Estonia was like a lamb to the slaughter.

“A threat? President Arnold, you think too highly of yourself.” Yanayev shook his head. He held a fountain pen in his hand, trying to stand it on its end on the table. “Nations like the three Baltic states don’t warrant the deployment of the Soviet Union’s ultimate weapon. To put it in terms you can understand, how many of Moscow’s divisions are the entire armed forces of the three Baltic states combined equal to? Don’t overestimate yourselves. The Soviet Union has never feared small fries like you. The ones I truly intend to strike are the instigators pulling the strings behind you.”

“And right now, those fellows are probably getting restless. All I need to do is add a little more fuel to the fire.” Yanayev gently pushed over the pen he had stood on the table. Its nib landed pointing directly at Estonian President Arnold, like a sharp sword piercing a man’s heart. This pen represented the final card he would play: the Soviet armored divisions. The Estonian armed forces, the army of an entire nation, including logistics personnel, wouldn’t be enough to give two Soviet armored divisions a decent fight.

At this point, aside from the Satan ICBMs he kept for self-preservation, Yanayev had played all his cards. Now it was up to the NATO countries to see if they would back down in the face of his hardline stance.

T-72 tanks, like a long steel dragon, crowded the highway leading to the border. This fully prepared armored division had its cannons aimed in unison at Tallinn, the capital of Estonia. The tank treads began to turn; the unstoppable iron torrent would crush any obstacle in its path.

Soldiers marched in perfect step, their gazes fixed firmly on the horizon. Their AK-74 rifles were ready. They sang the “Soviet March,” which spread rapidly through their ranks as they advanced toward the distant battlefield. The Political Commissar stood among them, joining in as this majestic military anthem, personally penned by Yanayev, resounded across the front lines.

Hind helicopters swept over the soldiers’ heads, the roar from their spinning rotors carrying the rousing, impassioned song far into the distance, instilling a primal fear deep in the hearts of those who dared to offend the Soviet state for the first time.

“We, the Soviets, shall chastise the world!”

The rumble of tanks crushing the road startled birds nesting in the trees by the roadside. Fields of golden wheat bent in the direction the cogs of war turned. In an Orthodox church in a small Estonian border town, stained glass windows shattered into a thousand pieces from stray bullets. The people looked on in panic at the sudden appearance of these invaders, their eyes filled with the same terror as the citizens of Budapest in 1956.

“From the Baltic Sea to the Pacific!”

At a border post in Estonia, a soldier with a cigarette dangling from his lips forgot to even light it, watching dumbfounded as the seemingly endless iron torrent streamed past him. Then he was forced to the ground and disarmed. Until the very last moment, he couldn’t believe that the so-called iron torrent was truly a boundless ocean of war.

“The song of October resounds across the land!”

The Estonian armored forces were utterly powerless against the iron torrent. Their so-called “Maginot” strategic defense line, which was supposed to withstand a Soviet tank assault, was torn apart with ease. A ceaseless flow of Soviet tanks drove deep into their territory, encountering little resistance and suffering minimal losses.

“The Soviet Red Bear is about to arrive!”

The Estonian Army finally despaired. Their earlier pride was shattered in an instant. They now understood that the armored forces they had prided themselves on were no match for a Soviet tank division. Soon, entire units began to rout and surrender, just as they had during the Hungarian October Incident and the Prague Spring. The Soviet forces had taken complete control of the situation. From the beginning of the offensive to its end, it took less than four hours. And the Estonian Commander-in-Chief of the Ground Forces had promised Arnold they could hold off the Soviet troops for a week, long enough for a joint NATO force to arrive.

“Ura!”

Chapter 24: A Narrow Victory

In stark contrast to the theatrical posturing of the German troops, the Soviet military’s operation was a swift and secret blitz. The unannounced advance of massive armored columns into Estonia even caused the East German border forces, a whole Poland and Belarus away, to pale in alarm. Deep in their memories, they still held a primal fear of the Soviet army that had conquered the Reichstag, shouting “Ura!” in unison. The West German forces began to hesitate at the border, while the former soldiers of the East German People’s Army applauded the Soviet Union’s hardline stance.

Yanayev had named this military operation “Operation Thunderstorm,” the same name as the unimplemented Soviet plan from World War II. The only difference was that the target was not Berlin, but Tallinn.

In the Estonian capital of Tallinn, President Arnold, not yet ready to give up his last stand, was locked in a final stalemate with Yanayev at the negotiating table. Although he was constantly being informed of the fall of Estonian garrisons across the country, Arnold never moved to leave.

“Congratulations, Yanayev. You’ve won. What a brilliant plan of attack. Civilian airliners carrying soldiers to raid the airport, disguised cruise ships carrying armored vehicles to capture the docks—it’s practically a carbon copy of the Prague action. The only small difference is that you have far more nerve than Khrushchev. You sit at the negotiating table, pushing your opponent step by step, while watching them become downcast and distraught, routed and fleeing. Satisfied? Happy? Congratulations on destroying another country that could have escaped the clutches of the Evil Empire.” Estonian President Arnold was the only one who had not yet left the negotiating table. Vytautas and Anatoly had been sent out of Tallinn as soon as the Soviet offensive began. Arnold was also supposed to have been one of the officials to leave, but he had staunchly refused.

“The people who support me are still on this land. If I leave, what will they think of me? I would rather become a victim of tyranny to awaken more people than be a coward who runs away.” Arnold’s ironclad resolve to fight to the death this time was far more courageous than his previous plan to establish a government-in-exile. Perhaps he knew that even if he established a government-in-exile, it would be a futile effort, because the Soviet Union held absolute control over this land.

So when the Soviet paratroopers who had seized Tallinn International Airport surrounded the conference room, Arnold had his men lay down their arms and surrender. Yanayev, in turn, waved his hand, signaling the paratroopers not to give President Arnold a hard time. Yanayev had not left this room for over thirteen hours. He glanced at the Estonian coat of arms, with its three blue lions surrounded by branches of a Nordic oak, and said slowly, “I gave you a chance before. It was your excessive faith in NATO that led to the current situation. It is a foolish thing to entrust your fate to others without having strength of your own. Unfortunately, NATO seems to have treated you as a disposable pawn. The fleet that was circling the Baltic Sea has withdrawn, and the German armored forces are scared out of their wits. Your only hope now is mediation from NATO. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

If he could force those old foxes in NATO to the negotiating table, Yanayev felt he would have already won half the Baltic crisis. The other half depended on NATO’s subsequent attitude toward the other Eastern European countries.

“What good is there in remaining a member republic of your Evil Empire, Mr. Great Dictator President?” Since he was already a prisoner, Arnold didn’t mind acting recklessly out of desperation. He berated him directly, “Look at the great suffering our people endured when you aggressors ruled Estonia. We were successively occupied and ruled by Prussia, Denmark, Sweden, Poland, and Germany. Starting in 1710, Estonia was under Tsarist Russian rule for over two hundred years. The Republic of Estonia was declared independent on February 24, 1918. A mere day later, German troops occupied Tallinn, and then in November, you, Soviet Russia, declared sovereignty over Estonia.”

“Under your terrible rule, Tallinn has no future. The Great Purge, the gulags, the people who died under Soviet tyranny—they will never receive the justice and judgment they deserve. You thugs of the Kremlin! One day, you will be nailed to the pillar of shame in history, never to be vindicated!”

Arnold practically roared out the last sentence, but to Yanayev, these heart-piercing accusations were as unreasonable as a crying child complaining to an adult. If you have grievances, go find Stalin, find Khrushchev, or even find Lenin to vent. Why question me? The only thing I can do is send you to meet them.

“I have no interest in Estonia’s past fate.” Yanayev tossed a document in front of Arnold. “But you should have finished reading this document at the negotiating table before you came to me to talk about independence.”

With a puzzled look, Arnold took the document and opened the cover. The contents inside made him more and more excited as he read. Ignoring the danger he was in, he read the document in detail right in front of Yanayev. After a long while, he finally looked up and sighed, “One country, two different systems? Why didn’t you throw this excellent plan out as a bargaining chip before the negotiations began?”

“You didn’t give me a chance at the beginning. In fact, this is the best choice for you union republics. Apart from not enjoying external sovereignty in foreign affairs, not having the right to maintain your own army—which must be garrisoned by Moscow—and not being able to sign treaties concerning sovereignty with sovereign states, other economic treaties are exempt. Economically, you will enjoy great autonomy, even the ability to reform political parties, change your own political system, and democratically elect a Chief Executive of the union republic. However, on the issue of national unity, you must be responsible to the Central Government in Moscow. The Moscow Central Government has the right to remove any Chief Executive with separatist tendencies, after which the public will elect a new one. Oh, and one more thing: you must pay your taxes on time. You cannot contract out industries that are the lifeblood of the national economy, such as electricity and heavy industrial manufacturing, to private individuals, especially foreign businessmen. Also, you cannot declare the Communist Party an illegal party in your country.”

This was Yanayev’s stick-and-carrot policy: first, use military might to intimidate the restless ambitions of the Eastern European nations, and then use economic benefits to make them compromise. In truth, the Moscow authorities were also making considerable sacrifices and compromises. If they continued to use high-pressure policies, even if they temporarily pacified the union republics by military means, it would only be a matter of time before the next storm brewed.

And the next backlash would grow from a single spark into a prairie fire.

To a large extent, Yanayev had copied the political systems of other countries, merely holding a tight grip on issues of political sovereignty while being more lenient on economic matters. The people of the three Baltic states wanted independence because of poverty, didn’t they? Fine, I’ll give you the chance to develop yourselves, but on the issue of sovereignty, you are still an inalienable and inherent part of the Soviet Union since ancient times.

In summary, this document was a more radical version of the Action Programme of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia. As long as the union republic’s sovereignty was in Moscow’s hands and they paid their taxes on time, the Red Polar Bear would simply turn a blind eye to the development of a mixed-ownership economy. This document was the result of many days of repeated discussions between Yanayev and Ryzhkov.

“It seems God has not abandoned Estonia!” President Arnold shed tears of excitement. Wasn’t the right for his country to develop on its own what he had been fighting so hard for all these years? Although he hadn’t secured the full sovereignty his country deserved for the time being, compared to the previous level of control, the Soviet Union was already being exceptionally lenient.

But Yanayev immediately delivered the bad news to Arnold. “Of course, I’m afraid you won’t be a part of Estonia’s democratic elections, Arnold. Given that you incited Estonian citizens to oppose Soviet rule, it’s basically treason, without a doubt. You’ll spend the next few weeks in court, and the next few years will be spent whiling away the time in a Siberian prison where it’s all ice and snow eight months out of the year.”

Chapter 25: Panic in the Free World

The first to lose their composure was the German government. German Chancellor Helmut Kohl was nearly a bird startled by the twang of a bowstring. Not only had his plan to make the Soviet Union yield failed, but his army was now gripped by an inexplicable fear of the Red Empire. They were especially terrified upon hearing that the massive imperial armored corps had completely dismantled a nation’s military in less than four hours, a fact that was more than enough to strike fear into the hearts of the soldiers stationed on the Polish and East German borders.

Moreover, Moscow had issued a harsh warning: if the NATO bloc continued its reckless behavior on sovereign Soviet territory, they wouldn’t mind one bit turning the Baltic crisis into another version of the Cuban Missile Crisis. Only then did the chastened Helmut Kohl understand that the Soviet Union was still a mighty super empire. It wouldn’t be reduced to a second-rate nation just because of Gorbachev’s decade of weak leadership. As long as a strong leader took over, it could continue to suppress the West for another ten years, even while riddled with internal crises.

Without consulting its NATO allies, the German government was the first to issue a statement, claiming that Germany’s actions on the border were merely a large-scale exercise that fully complied with international regulations. They hoped the Soviet side would exercise restraint. Regarding the Baltic issue, Germany expressed its deep regret and, at the same time, looked forward to the development of friendly and cooperative relations between Moscow and the three Baltic states.

The German government’s official statement felt superfluous, like a clumsy denial that only revealed the truth. The Foreign Ministry spokesman, Boris Dmitrievich Pankin, had already drafted his own speech, declaring the Baltic crisis to be an internal Soviet affair. No country had the right to use the crisis to interfere in the Soviet Union’s internal matters. Anyone who tried would face the chastisement of Communism—especially those bandits who entered through the Skagerrak and then scurried back with their tails between their legs.

“These Siberian bandits are terrifying monsters. Quickly, get me on the phone! I need to contact the White House,” Helmut Kohl said, his expression tense. He had no intention of letting Germany become the front-line battlefield in a clash between NATO and the Warsaw Pact.

Also gathered to discuss their strategy were British Secretary of Defence Tom King and Prime Minister John Major. In truth, they hadn’t anticipated that the Royal Navy, after going to such great lengths to project its power in European waters, would be so ruthlessly mocked and publicly humiliated.

The British public met the government with a chorus of boos. The BBC derisively commented, “Our government’s navy originally intended to drive those damned bandits out of the Baltic Sea like arrogant victors, but instead, they were driven out of the Gulf of Finland like beaten dogs. Heaven knows where the government is spending all the taxpayers’ money each year.”

“Great Britain has been humiliated before the entire world twice now! If the first time was due to the Soviet’s unreasonable brutality, the second time we stuck our own faces out for them to slap hard!” Prime Minister John Major was fuming. This incident was more than enough for his political rivals, who were eyeing his position covetously, to seize upon. Furthermore, such a disastrous foreign policy performance had caused his approval ratings to drop by several percentage points.

“But isn’t this a good thing, my dear Prime Minister?” Secretary of Defence Tom King openly contradicted John Major.

“A good thing?” John Major was about to erupt in anger, but seeing the calm expression on the Defence Secretary’s face, he instantly cooled down. As one of the key foreign policy minds in the current administration, Tom King indeed had a unique way of looking at things. “Tell me, how has this terrible situation turned into a good thing?”

“It’s time to ask Parliament for more money and rebuild the navy. The Prime Minister can use this incident to hold a press conference and publicize the importance of a strong navy. Under the pressure of public opinion, Parliament will have no way to slash the military budget. A larger budget means we can build several more destroyers.” Tom King tapped his fingers rhythmically on the tabletop, pausing after each sentence as if to summarize his points.

Tom King was a well-known Hawk within the government. In his view, a Britain without a strong navy was as incomplete as an eagle with broken wings. Unfortunately, since the Second World War, the British military had been relegated from its position as the master of the seas, and recent financial constraints had caused plans for fleet construction to be delayed time and again.

“Alright, I suppose it’s a move born of necessity,” John Major said with a sigh. He held his forehead and muttered to himself, “I just wonder what our NATO allies, the French, are feeling right now. I truly hope they can maintain their close ties with NATO after this.”

“Rest assured, Prime Minister,” Tom King said with full confidence. “Although the French have always maintained a lukewarm attitude toward America’s rise to power, on the Soviet issue, they are definitely our allies, standing in the same line. No one wants an unsettling neighbor living next door.”

The French, however, weren’t taking it to heart like the British. In fact, they were secretly laughing at the humbled expressions on the faces of the Germans and the British. As a French leader who had always dreamed of restoring the glory of Napoleon and leading the nations of Europe, François Mitterrand, following in the tradition of the de Gaulle era, was constantly searching for a path forward on the thorny road to restoration. Unfortunately, France had nothing to show for it but slogans. The British, whom they had always disliked, were tightly allied with the Americans. And although they had made peace with their arch-enemy, Germany, decades ago, the French, who had always considered themselves the true heirs of Europe, held a deep-seated prejudice against Germany in their hearts.

Perhaps because France’s involvement was merely symbolic, the Soviet Union was more merciful in its words. They didn’t directly state that the Paris Commune was Communism’s first great attempt, but merely expressed their hope that the French government could see the situation clearly on foreign policy matters and refrain from irrational actions. They also hoped to engage in a deeper level of communication with France, one not merely limited to ideological confrontation.

In the language of diplomacy, the first two sentences were not the point. The point was the last sentence: a deeper level of communication, not merely limited to ideological confrontation. The Americans clearly smelled a dangerous signal.

“Are you saying the Soviets intend to win over the French? How is that possible? According to their foreign policy, they won’t rest until the light of Communism shines over all of Europe. Wooing France is a complete fantasy. Besides, since the de Gaulle era, opposing Communism has practically been one of their national policies,” Bush said, clearly dissatisfied with the report submitted by his think tank.

“You can’t say that, Mr. President. François Mitterrand’s political leanings are anti-Gaullist and anti-nationalist. It’s not entirely impossible for him to grow closer to the Soviet Union. That’s why we must nip this in the bud.” Brandt grew anxious and spoke more directly. “In fact, we shouldn’t let the European countries back down. We need our allies to pressure the Soviet Union one more time. If I’m not mistaken, the seemingly powerful Soviet state has actually used up all its trump cards. The tough act they’re putting on now is merely a spent force.”

“Enough, Brandt!” Bush, who had been holding back, suddenly lashed out at him. “You don’t need to teach me about foreign policy! And let me tell you what information the intelligence agency sent back right after you made that absurd suggestion to pressure the Soviet Union with force. They detected via satellite that the Soviet Union’s land-based long-range ballistic missile silos were activating! In other words, if our allies had gone head-to-head with the Soviets at that moment, the entire world would have paid the price!”

Gennady Yanayev had indeed ordered the missile silos to be activated, but it was all part of a dangerous play staged for the Western nations to make Bush retreat in the face of difficulty. When the American President learned of this intelligence, he immediately chose to pull back. He knew things had escalated, that they had touched the Soviet Union’s bottom line, and that the situation could devolve into a third world war at any moment.

“Get me Moscow on the line. And our European allies. I think we need to sit down at the negotiating table together and resolve these problems,” Bush sighed. His face was pale and haggard, as if he had aged a great deal overnight.

Chapter 26: Sitting Down to Negotiate (Part 1)

Just as Gennady Yanayev was anout to lose his patience, the signal he had been waiting for finally arrived: a statement from the Americans announcing negotiations. The Bush administration held a press conference, calling for restraint from all parties, stating that force was not the only way to resolve disputes, and expressing hope that everyone could come to the negotiating table for friendly talks. Of course, Bush’s statement made Yanayev feel as if the United States of America had read from the wrong script.

As fellow NATO allies, the United Kingdom and Germany felt quite awkward hearing this. It was you, America, who suggested charging into the fray, so how is it that when a crisis erupts, it’s also you, the United States of America, who steps up to play the mediator?

He felt like he’d been sold out and was now helping the other side count their money. This was German Prime Minister Helmut Kohl’s only feeling at this moment. It was also the first time a crack had appeared in his trust for his reliable ally, the United States. The face of his counterpart seemed somewhat unfamiliar, no longer the respected international friend who had selflessly provided aid during the Berlin Crisis.

Yanayev, of course, was happy to accept America’s mediation this time. He expressed his willingness to engage in friendly consultations and dialogue with the Western European countries regarding the conflict in the Baltic states. One moment, he was the Red Polar Bear, brandishing a Kalashnikov rifle with a murderous glint in his eyes; the next, he was an elegant aristocrat in a gentleman’s suit, sitting at the negotiating table, chatting and laughing with the Western European nations. This sudden shift in style left those guys a bit at a loss.

Yanayev, however, was not at all surprised. The Slavic people were not crude bandits; they excelled in the aesthetics of armed violence and warfare, but they were equally adept at the elegant arts of music and painting. Yanayev’s most profound impression was of a Soviet soldier playing the piano amidst the ruins of a city during the Great Patriotic War. And this time, the elegant Russian nobleman would travel from Moscow to Munich to negotiate in good faith.

It was said that the two leaders who had fled, Vytautas and Anatoly, would also be present at the meeting.

“Comrade Vladimir, did you know? From the moment nuclear weapons were created, communism practically lost its chance to unite the world. No matter how powerful the Soviet Union appeared to others later on, it was a nation with a fatal flaw.” Vladimir, who was in the car with Yanayev, heard the President’s lament and was momentarily at a loss for words.

But Yanayev didn’t give Vladimir a chance to respond, continuing to muse aloud, “Karl Marx once said that the proletariat must liberate the world through struggle, to break the chains that bind them. But the invention of the atomic bomb made a world war an impossibility. Because once a thermonuclear war breaks out, the Earth will enter a most terrible winter, and no nation would be able to rise from the ashes. This means the proletariat cannot break free from the shackles of the old era to be reborn. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“The inability to centrally distribute global resources, coupled with the distorted development of the state-planned economy in its later stages, finally brought the Soviet Communist Party to the brink of collapse. To achieve our great ideals, we need to change our course. From now on, economic development is more important than ideological struggle. Of course, I’m only telling you this, Comrade Vladimir. Don’t let a word of this get out, or it will cause quite a stir.”

Yanayev lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and gazed into the distance with a hint of melancholy. “I’m getting old. I probably don’t have much time left to squander. But you, you are full of youth and spirit. You shouldn’t grow old along with this moribund Red Empire. Once the Soviet Union gets through this most difficult period, a new, stable, and vast empire will be delivered into your hands. At that time, I hope you will be able to lead the people to victory.”

How long would this most difficult period last? Yanayev didn’t know, but he knew the Soviet Union could never return to the peak of its power during the Brezhnev era. He had previously discussed the effectiveness of economic reforms with Ryzhkov, who had also said that even with a steady reform plan, a new, stable economic situation would not emerge until at least 1999. And that was without factoring in the risk of failure due to interference from the United States and other Western European countries.

1999 it is, then. The rule of lifetime tenure for the top leader ought to be changed. If the predecessors always suppress the next generation, how can the younger generation ever rise up? Should they let the Western world criticize them by saying that leadership transitions in the Soviet Union all depend on coups?

These words effectively sealed Comrade Vladimir’s political future. The sudden, pleasant surprise left the young Vladimir stunned. After staring blankly for a moment, he cautiously asked the question he had always wanted to ask, “Why me?”

Why you? Faced with this question, Yanayev was at a loss for words for a moment. Right, if this damn transmigration hadn’t given me such a terrible body, I probably wouldn’t be in such a hurry to step down from the top leader’s seat. But Yanayev was now the paramount leader of the Soviet Communist Party, and his every word and action represented the entire nation. He could only put on a profound expression and say, “In the entire political scene of Moscow, you are the only seedling I’ve found worth cultivating. I have always firmly believed that you are the best person to lead the Soviet Union to glory. For the next few years, you’ll stay by my side and see the outside world. Although you were exposed to much as a KGB agent, seeing things from the leadership level is a completely different perspective.”

There had been speculation from the outside world about the relationship between Vladimir and Yanayev. Some even thought Vladimir was Yanayev’s illegitimate son. In reality, Yanayev’s appreciation of Vladimir’s abilities was simply a product of his ingrained thinking as a historical transmigrator. If he had arrived a few years earlier, he could have prevented the Chernobyl disaster and America’s plan to use oil prices to cripple the Soviet Union. These two events could be called the biggest indirect factors leading to the Soviet Union’s collapse. But all that had already happened. All Yanayev could do now was prevent certain future events from occurring.

Vladimir was so moved by Yanayev’s words that he was speechless. He gave Yanayev a deep bow. “I will never forget the General Secretary’s guidance.”

“Heh, I’ve merely played the role of a guide. It is your ability, like a light that cannot be hidden, that has attracted so many admirers. I also hope you can learn something new from this Baltic crisis. For example, diplomacy, political maneuvering… As you have seen, if the Western European countries hadn’t chosen the negotiating table in the end, we would have suffered a crushing defeat. There will only be more political gambles like this in the future, not fewer, so I hope you can prepare yourself mentally.”

Vladimir nodded. Just as he was about to speak, the car came to a stop. They had finally reached their destination: the conference hall in Munich. Decades ago, Britain and France chose appeasement here. Decades later, the nations of Western Europe also chose compromise in this very place.

“Now, my assistant from the General Secretary’s office, come with me and let us shatter the last line of defense of the Soviet’s enemies.” Yanayev gave Vladimir a slight smile.

The door of the presidential car was opened, and the dazzling flashes of camera lights flooded in from outside the window. Yanayev stepped out of the car and waved to the eager reporters behind the police cordon. Vladimir followed closely behind him, his expression for the first time showing the resolute look of someone in power. Behind Yanayev, he walked with steady steps toward the entrance of the Munich conference hall.

Hello, enemies of the Soviet Union. The Red Polar Bear has arrived.

Chapter 27: Sit Down and Negotiate (Part 2)

The choice of Munich as the negotiation venue was significant. On September 29, 1938, the leaders of four nations—British Prime Minister Chamberlain, French Prime Minister Daladier, Nazi Germany’s Hitler, and Italy’s Mussolini—signed the Munich Agreement at a conference in this very city. To avoid war, the United Kingdom and France had pursued a policy of appeasement, sacrificing the interests of Czechoslovakia by ceding the Sudetenland to Nazi Germany.

And now, in 1991, the leaders of six nations—the United Kingdom, the United States, Germany, the Soviet Union, Lithuania, and Latvia—were gathered in the same place to discuss the issue of the three Baltic states. The venue itself was a clear message to the Soviets: this meeting was merely a formality. It was a sham negotiation to give the Western European countries an easy way out, a proper explanation to offer their citizens. As for how the Soviets chose to deal with the regimes in the Baltic states, that was their own internal affair.

The Soviet Union, of course, would respect the decision of the Western European countries. Thus, the only ones who had likely failed to grasp the situation were the leaders of the two small nations, Vytautas and Anatoly. They still deluded themselves into thinking they had found powerful backing against the Soviet Union, unaware that they had long since been sold out, thrown away as bargaining chips.

The Western world feared the Soviet Union’s simple and brutal methods. After their attempts at deterrence failed, they chose to compromise.

Brent was also in attendance at this meeting. His goal was not to participate in the discussion but to secretly observe Gennady Yanayev’s every move, analyzing his personality through his actions to better understand his opponent. However, Brent made an unexpected discovery. He noticed that the young man accompanying Yanayev was constantly sizing him up with a less-than-friendly gaze. It was the kind of look he had only ever encountered when dealing with CIA field agents abroad—a gaze that seemed to pierce through a person’s soul, laying bare the darkest secrets of their heart.

“What an interesting young man,” Brent murmured. He subconsciously rubbed his chin out of nervousness and decided to stop observing the man beside Yanayev. Instead, he focused his attention on the negotiating table, quietly waiting for the meeting to begin.

As with the start of any summit, there was a summary speech that contained virtually no substance. This honor was naturally given to U.S. President Bush, who said nothing more than how pleased he was that everyone could resolve their disputes at the negotiating table and how honored he was to chair this meeting. After listening to these dull and hypocritical remarks, Yanayev was about to doze off. He glanced at the other national leaders and saw the same impatient expressions on their faces.

For a moment, Yanayev felt that activating the Dead Hand system would be far less stressful than engaging in all this political maneuvering. Since when did Americans have the right to meddle in the internal affairs of the Soviet people?

“Enough, Mr. Bush,” Yanayev said bluntly. “Your speech is brilliant, but my time is limited. Could you please cut the nonsense and get straight to the point? Can’t you see the impatient looks on everyone’s faces?” His words were simple and crude, even rude, and they brought Bush’s intended speech to an abrupt halt.

“Impulsive, short-tempered… Hmm, a common flaw among Soviet leaders, it seems. From Stalin to Khrushchev, and then to Brezhnev, it’s like an unbreakable vicious cycle,” Brent carefully noted on his paper, cataloging the data he observed. He was completely unaware that Yanayev, sitting directly opposite him, was also casually observing his every move.

Yanayev had noticed Brent’s name on the list of attendees provided by the KGB. After reviewing the intelligence gathered from various sources, he discovered that this think-tank figure had once been a profiler for the CIA. That was why Yanayev deliberately displayed an impulsive personality inconsistent with his true nature at the meeting—to skew their analysis with flawed personality data. They just loved an impatient Soviet leader.

“I apologize, President Yanayev. It seems my heartfelt speech failed to move you,” Bush said, his words laced with hidden meaning. “Since none of you appreciate a well-intentioned speech, I’ll get straight to the point. Regarding the recent tyranny in the Baltic states, the world is watching with great concern. We also hope that both the Prime Ministers of the three Baltic states and the President of the Soviet Union can exercise restraint. We are also greatly concerned about the unfair verdict against the President of Estonia and will continue to follow the situation…”

As Bush said this, Vytautas and Anatoly exchanged a smile. Bush’s words had made NATO’s attitude and position clear. Even Yanayev, across the table, frowned slightly. Bush’s statements were slightly different from what he had expected. Could this meeting really be more complicated than he had imagined?

Bush’s next words were a complete reversal, instantly freezing the smiles on Vytautas’s and Anatoly’s faces. “Of course, we fully respect the Soviet Union’s opinion. The Baltic states are an inherent, sacred, and inalienable part of Soviet territory, and we hope the Soviet leader can provide a satisfactory resolution for everyone at this meeting.”

“President Bush, this isn’t what you promised me!” Anatoly blurted out, frantic and reckless. “You promised that NATO would strongly support the three Baltic states and pay close attention to the threat from the East. How could you change everything just like that?”

“And you promised us economic and military aid once we successfully achieved independence. Are you going back on your word?” Vytautas demanded, standing up to confront Bush. The expressions on the other leaders’ faces suddenly became far more interesting.

“Ahem.” Bush coughed and continued, “Yes, I did say that. But any investigation into domestic human rights issues is predicated on the Soviet Union’s indisputable sovereignty over the three Baltic states.”

Yanayev watched impassively as they acted out the drama of “sovereignty over human rights.” Just as Anatoly was about to argue further, Yanayev cut him off. “President Anatoly, are you deaf? Or is your thinking muddled? President Bush has made it very clear: human rights cannot override sovereignty. Besides, this meeting is a negotiation between me and NATO. Lithuania and Latvia have no right to interject. The only reason you have a seat at this table is not because you earned it, but because we are using you as bargaining chips. Do you understand?”

“Bastard!” Vytautas cursed at Yanayev, but for a man accustomed to the pressure of NATO’s military threats, the insult was as weak and ineffective as punching cotton. He continued relentlessly, “The fate of small nations is to be played like cards by great powers. Don’t talk about international morality and justice. Truth is only found within the range of artillery fire. And unfortunately for you, the range of Soviet artillery in the Baltic states is a bit longer than that of other great powers who claim to be just. Am I right, President Bush?”

Hearing Yanayev’s question, Bush managed an awkward laugh. The other leaders looked down and said nothing, feigning ignorance. These were the unspoken “truths” everyone knew. It was incredibly awkward for the Soviet leader to state them so bluntly. If NATO hadn’t chosen to back down under the Russian Bear’s military pressure, the others might have exploded on the spot.

“You cowards! The people of the three Baltic states and international justice will never forget your history of condoning violent tyranny.” Vytautas stormed out, slamming the door in anger. With Lithuania and Latvia now occupied by the Soviet army, and facing a besieged and isolated tyranny at home, Vytautas and Anatoly could no longer return to their homelands. They were destined to wander as exiles. Before leaving, Vytautas threatened Yanayev, “Don’t think you can intimidate the people of Lithuania by propping up a brutal puppet regime. We will establish a government-in-exile and continue to fight you!”

Yanayev curled his lip and said nonchalantly, “Fine, I’ll be waiting. The last person who threatened us was named Hitler. He later committed suicide in this country’s Reich Chancellery. So I have to admit, Vytautas, you certainly have the courage to face death.”

Chapter 28: Sowing the Seeds of a New War

The Soviet Union’s brutal resolution of the Baltic crisis, along with the compromising retreat by Western European countries, sparked anxiety among the other member republics. For Georgia, Armenia, and Moldova—the other three nations bent on shedding their Soviet Socialist Republic status—it was undoubtedly a heavy blow. Moldova and Armenia immediately fell silent, no longer shouting slogans of secession.

Other member republics with less severe separatist inclinations protested the Soviet Union’s unilateral amendment of the supreme constitution. However, because they had been granted significant economic autonomy, the complaints were not too loud. Previously, national autonomy meant immense political rights but limited economic freedom. Yanayev’s current approach was the reverse. The member republics had finally obtained the long-coveted autonomy to develop their economies, so independence no longer seemed as important.

However, one of the most radical leaders among the member republics, Georgian President Zviad Gamsakhurdia, who had once famously proclaimed, “Georgia for the Georgians!”, also became more restrained after witnessing the tragic fate of the three Baltic states. As an extreme nationalist, he had banked on Gorbachev’s weakness. But after seeing Yanayev’s iron torrent, Zviad began to consider another way to break free from Soviet rule. As the member republic most eager to escape Soviet domination, even Stalin, who was born in Georgia, had imposed a high-pressure nationalist policy on the country.

Zviad thus turned his sights to the Americans. He believed the reason the three Baltic states failed to achieve independence was their lack of a strong armed force and their excessive reliance on foreign aid. Therefore, he needed to purchase the most advanced tanks and fighter jets from the United States, especially before Yanayev’s amended constitution took effect, in order to possess a military capable of contending with the Soviet army. Zviad never intended to confront the Soviet offensive head-on; he only hoped to bog them down in a quagmire like the one in Afghanistan. Even if most of Georgia fell, he could continue to fight a guerrilla war against the Soviets.

So when Bush received the request for help sent by Georgian President Zviad, he immediately summoned his Secretary of Defense, Dick Cheney, known as an expert in intelligence affairs. As a former White House Chief of Staff who had masterminded Desert Storm, he was undoubtedly the best person to analyze this message for Bush.

“I’m sorry to have you rush over here so late, Dick.” As soon as Dick entered the President’s office, Bush stood up and said apologetically. This small gesture from Bush left Dick feeling a bit overwhelmed, especially when he saw National Security Advisor Brent standing beside the President. He knew tonight’s business would be anything but simple.

“What’s going on, Mr. President?” Dick asked with concern.

“Take a look at this first.” Bush, who had been discussing the matter with Brent for a long time, handed a piece of paper to Dick Cheney.

What Bush presented to Secretary of Defense Dick Cheney was a private message from the President of Georgia. The few, incredibly concise sentences held Dick Cheney’s gaze for a long time. After a while, he finally looked up and said slowly, “The President is asking whether we should sell arms to support Georgia?”

“Exactly,” Brent said. “I believe we should secretly sell our advanced tanks and fighter jets to Georgia, helping them build an army capable of resisting the Soviets.”

“Then, given Georgia’s financial strength, what of ours can they afford?” Secretary of Defense Dick Cheney asked bluntly. “The most advanced M1 series tanks? Or F-15 or F-16 fighters? Of course, I’m sure that with Georgia’s current finances, they could probably afford to buy six or seven such fighters at once. But what difference would that make against the Soviet Union’s vast air force? None at all. Even if they could shoot down a hundred Soviet Su-27s or MiG-29s, the Soviets still have thousands more fighters, like a plague of locusts, that could blot out the entire Georgian sky. You might as well sell them our intercontinental missiles; that would be more reliable. At least then the Soviets would have to consider their feelings before making a move.”

Dick Cheney was speaking the unvarnished truth. He and Brent were thinking in different directions. The former was focused on how to drain Georgia’s treasury in a single arms deal, while the latter was contemplating how to bleed Georgia dry slowly, a little at a time.

“And to take it a step further, what if Georgia does receive a large amount of military aid? An astonishingly effective fighting force isn’t built by just piling up weapons; it’s forged through long-term training and coordination. Can they achieve infantry-tank coordination? Can they execute a creeping barrage? Can they airdrop tanks like the Soviets? They can’t do any of that, right? This is the same reason Saddam Hussein could claim to have the fourth-strongest military in the world but was nothing more than target practice for the Coalition forces.”

“Alright, stop arguing. Both of you, quiet down.” Bush put a stop to the argument between Dick Cheney and Brent. “In your opinion, what should we do to both reassure Georgia and successfully complete a secret arms sale?”

“Selling high-tech, cutting-edge weapons is almost impossible. However,” Dick Cheney’s tone shifted, “exporting Humvees to Georgia as civilian vehicles would be a feasible method. Also, the UH-1 helicopters. After removing the weapons systems, they can be exported to Georgia as humanitarian rescue vehicles. As for tanks, it’s not impossible to disassemble and transport them into Georgian territory, though it would be a bit more complicated. Oh, and we could also import some 107mm rocket launchers from one of the Soviet Union’s neighbors and import them into Georgia under the guise of agricultural equipment. By doing this, Georgia could also modify them into indigenous weapon systems, saving them the trouble of importing equipment from us.”

“Even if the Soviet Union demands an explanation, it would all be in accordance with international law. They would have no other reason to interfere, unless the amended Soviet constitution takes effect immediately and strips all member republics of their sovereign status. But constitutional changes and policy adjustments will trigger a series of chain crises; the Soviet Union can’t transition that quickly. It will take at least three to five months, which is enough time to provide Zviad with a huge amount of arms. Of course, it would also bring a substantial and considerable income to our government.”

“Moreover, as our ally, Turkey can be used to transport arms across its border into Georgia and Armenia. If possible, it would be best to turn Azerbaijan’s leader, which would create a crisis in the Soviet Union’s south that would keep them constantly occupied. Of course, we must also keep a firm grip on the issue of the three Baltic states. Aren’t the leaders of the other two countries planning to establish governments-in-exile? We’ll give them weapons and financial support to create trouble for the Soviet Union.”

“As long as the Soviet Union doesn’t go to war with its member republics, our plan will be a success. The Soviet Union must first secure its internal stability before dealing with external threats, but the external crises we’re fanning will prevent it from focusing one hundred percent on domestic issues.”

This was Dick Cheney’s policy of encirclement. The trouble stirred up in the member republics would act as a barrier, halting the Soviet Union’s westward advance and leaving it with no time to attend to other strategic fronts. Meanwhile, the United States and its allies would use this time to remove the chess pieces the Soviet Union had placed on the board, one by one. From the Middle East to Africa, the seeds of communist revolution had long been targets for eradication.

“Brilliant. This way, the Soviet Union will be locked behind a dividing line. By the time it breaks through the barrier, it will find that it has no allies left in the world to cooperate with.” Bush smiled slightly and said to Dick Cheney, “Then let’s hand this matter over to the CIA. After all, these kinds of dirty deals are what agents do best.”

“And there’s another place we need to add to our list of targets to win over,” Brent said. “Chechnya has also always been a region that opposes Soviet rule. If we can turn them, we can incite the flames of revolution on Soviet soil itself.”

Chapter 29: Taking the First Step

While clouds of conspiracy gradually gathered over the White House, the Kremlin, in contrast, appeared calm and peaceful. Having resolved the Baltic crisis with a firm hand, Gennady Yanayev was welcomed by cheering crowds upon his return. The vast majority of Soviet citizens did not want the member republics to break away from the unified Soviet Federation, so Yanayev, who had successfully prevented the secession of the three Baltic states, undoubtedly became a hero in the people’s eyes. Although the domestic economic situation was as dire as ever, this good news was a shot in the arm for a populace shrouded in gloom and negativity.

When Yanayev disembarked from the plane, the Soviet authorities had even arranged a grand welcoming ceremony. A Young Pioneer wearing a red neckerchief presented him with a wreath of flowers, giving Yanayev the illusion that he was a hero of the Great Patriotic War returning from Berlin in 1945. For this occasion, Yanayev held a special speech, deliberately choosing a gloomy, drizzly day. His passionate and stirring speech recounted the crisis of the past days’ meetings, evoking a tragic and somber atmosphere among the Moscow citizens who had come with umbrellas to listen.

“Having resolved this crisis, we will still face numerous difficulties in the days to come, as daunting as the thorns on the path to Communism. Many people do not understand our ideals and beliefs, and likewise, many have lost hope and no longer support the goal we strive for. The proletariat was enslaved for centuries, yet many now wish to regress, to continue sleeping in ignorance. Then I am willing to be the first warrior to break through the blockade of darkness and walk toward the light. Even if the capitalists sneer, even if the enemy holds a knife to my back, even if the road ahead is full of traps, I say to those great communist warriors also slumbering in Berlin, in the Far East—the motherland has not forgotten you.”

Thunderous applause drowned out Yanayev’s speech. He bowed deeply to the crowd in gratitude, and only straightened up after the applause subsided, slowly saying, “And to the great Soviet people, thank you.”

When the applause erupted again, it was sustained and unceasing. Many clapped their hands red, and many had tears in their eyes. This strong leader had restored, from the bottom of their hearts, a bit of their goodwill toward Communism. Of course, the intellectuals would only scornfully dismiss Yanayev’s actions as a tedious publicity stunt. In their eyes, only the speeches of leaders from democratic nations were genuinely moving and heartfelt. With the press ban not yet over, these people could only count the days until the end of martial law in two months.

While Yanayev cut a glorious figure on the stage, Director Plekhanov was worried sick. Few leaders he had dealt with had ever given such an unorthodox speech. Previously, the audience was typically composed of a hand-picked crowd, and the President would deliver his speech in a location where the KGB could maintain complete control. But Yanayev had chosen the most open of places, Red Square, with no cover whatsoever. If even one person were to hide behind a window and pull the trigger, the supreme leader of the Soviet Union would certainly be killed.

Of course, Plekhanov could not understand how important it was to win the people’s affection. The prestige the Communist Party of the Soviet Union had painstakingly accumulated during the October Revolution had been slowly squandered by one administration after another since Lenin’s death, turning it into a socialist state ruled by a colossal bureaucracy.

“A brilliant speech, Mr. President.” As soon as Yanayev came down from the stage, his aide handed him an umbrella and a towel. To enhance the dramatic effect, Yanayev had stood in the rain to be close to the people of Moscow.

“Thank you. But I have to say, the August rain is quite cold,” Yanayev said, wiping the rainwater from his face before handing the towel back to his aide. “Is there any movement at the Kremlin?”

The “movement” Yanayev referred to was the new economic salvation plan that Ryzhkov had been engrossed in studying for the past few days. Since the August 19th coup, the conservative forces in the Soviet Union had been growing stronger by the day, so there were some things Yanayev could not say openly. One day, those conservatives, just like the radicals, would be swept away by a correct and great path.

His aide glanced around and, after confirming no one could overhear their conversation, said in a low voice, “Minister Ryzhkov hopes you can go to his office. He said he has an important document to discuss with you.”

Yanayev nodded, opened his umbrella, and walked out of the temporary tent set up for the speech. Standing in the wind and rain on Red Square, he said to his aide, “Get a car ready. I’m going to Ryzhkov’s office now.”

Then he added, “Moscow is just like this damned gloomy weather. When will the sun truly shine again?”

Ryzhkov was surprised by the appearance of the drenched President Yanayev outside his office, especially the disheveled state of his hair, with water still dripping from the tips. He thought the President must have encountered some emergency. He quickly grabbed a towel from the washroom and handed it to Yanayev, but the latter pushed it aside and said directly, “I hear you have an important document to discuss with me?”

“Oh, yes.” Ryzhkov, as if waking from a dream, quickly picked up a thick document from his desk and handed it to Yanayev. “This is a relatively feasible plan we’ve developed after several days of analysis and investigation. It references Lenin’s New Economic Policy and the reform plans of other countries, adapted to our own country’s specific situation.”

“You’ve worked hard, Comrade Ryzhkov.” Yanayev began to flip through Ryzhkov’s document, while the other man stood beside him, explaining every policy inside in great detail.

“We will first liberalize the prices of some goods closely related to the people’s livelihood, such as potatoes and wheat, as a market-oriented experiment, letting the market itself regulate and adjust them. However, judging from the problems that have arisen in other countries’ previous economic market reforms, overly rapid marketization can lead to hyperinflation. So, state-run stores must also continue to sell goods at fair prices to curb inflation. We will even introduce supporting laws stipulating that anyone who hoards goods to drive up prices will be sentenced to several years in prison.”

“Sentence them directly to death,” Yanayev said. Historically, Boris Yeltsin’s immediate price liberalization led to rampant collusion between state enterprises and private individuals to resell goods, causing malicious inflation. So Yanayev would be more direct—use 7.62 caliber bullets to shut them up.

Hearing Yanayev casually mention the death penalty, Ryzhkov’s heart skipped a beat. He advised, “Wait, General Secretary. It’s just price gouging. Surely it doesn’t warrant the death penalty? Isn’t that too harsh?”

“In an age of tyranny, talking about democracy and freedom with lawless people is utterly laughable. Only harsh laws will make those risk-takers who rely on luck keep their hands to themselves.” Yanayev explained his governing philosophy to Ryzhkov, applying the principle of “harsh laws for troubled times” to its fullest. He also knew in his heart that if harsh laws were not implemented, Soviet society would continue to collapse in an even more disastrous direction.

“In fact, a government-wide conference notice must be issued, prohibiting the relatives of any official from participating in speculation and resale activities. If an official’s immediate family member is found to have violated this, the official will be dismissed from their post.” If his previous stance was harsh laws for troubled times, Yanayev was now showing no mercy to officials.

He was the supreme leader in control of the machinery of violence, and he had no need to compromise with any corrupt or law-breaking official. Anyone who dared to become a stumbling block to his goal of establishing the rule of law would be utterly crushed by the gears of that violent machine.

Ryzhkov, however, heard something unsettling in Yanayev’s words. He thought to himself with trepidation, “Is the General Secretary planning to move against the massive bureaucracy? Could this be another Stalin-style great political purge?”

What Ryzhkov was thinking was not far from what Yanayev was planning. Having gained initial control of the military, his next step was to dismantle the massive and bloated imperial bureaucracy, especially those who championed Western democracy and freedom, hand-picked and promoted by Gorbachev. These parasites, these borers that have clung to the red regime and sucked its blood for years—it’s time to send you to meet God.

Chapter 30: A Glimpse of the Plan

“The Soviet Union’s focus will shift from the class struggle to liberate the world to centering on economic development? And we’ll establish an economic system with public ownership as the mainstay, where various other forms of ownership can develop alongside it? Comrade Yanayev, what are you thinking? Is this revisionism? This is a betrayal of the communist cause!”

After hearing Yanayev’s work plan, Pavlov’s astonishment was no less than when they had decided on the August 19th coup. He could accept an economic transition and tolerate the existence of a market economy. But he could not accept completely abandoning the path of class struggle for economic development. That was blasphemy against Marxism-Leninism.

“Do you have a better way, Comrade Pavlov?” Yanayev, who rarely smoked, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, took one out, and lit it. “In fact, you all have seen for yourselves that Boris Yeltsin’s choice of a full-scale market economy was a foolish mistake, and the danger of collapse brought on by the rigid Stalinist model is plain for all to see. Only by upholding public ownership as the mainstay and allowing various economic systems to develop together can the Soviet Union escape the fate of being left behind by the world. Or perhaps in Comrade Pavlov’s eyes, class struggle is more important than the Soviet Union’s development?”

Pavlov was speechless for a moment. He wanted to rebut, but Yanayev gave him no opportunity, continuing his explanation without pause. “Besides, economic development can’t be done in isolation. If we just close our doors and focus on self-development, we will eventually be abandoned by the world. So, in addition to developing other economic systems, we are also preparing to gradually open our markets and allow foreign capital into our light industry sectors. Of course, the lifelines of the national economy, such as heavy industry, will absolutely never be touched by Western capitalists.”

If Yanayev’s earlier words had brought Pavlov unexpected surprise, then his talk of introducing foreign investment was a revolutionary shock. What did this mean? The decades-long ideological confrontation between the communist bloc and the Western free world was starting to crumble.

“No matter how wary Western governments are, how could the capitalists—who see only profit and ignore nationality—pass up a prize as big as the Soviet Union? A continuous influx of capital into the Soviet Union would, in turn, drive sustained economic growth. This is the only way to break the stalemate of the Stalinist model. This is my economic plan. Are there any other questions?” Yanayev asked. He had seen far too many instances of Western governments saying one thing but doing another when it suited their interests.

“I have one question. In the end, will we be communist or capitalist? Or a mix of both?” Pavlov did not share the view of other national leaders who single-mindedly pursued economic development. Moreover, he was most concerned about the Western world’s reaction. If they couldn’t accommodate them, where would they go?

Yanayev had considered this as well. If it really came to that, they could just operate in separate economic spheres. As long as the Soviet Union had a chance to breathe, he would not stop his infiltration and offensive against the West. Yanayev’s policy was to strike at and divide Western Europe. Since its economic rise couldn’t match other countries, Yanayev would weaken the political power of Western European nations by altering the landscape of the Third World. And in that instant, he thought of the religious fanatics who would one day become a nightmare for the entire world.

“Our neighbors to the south have a famous saying: ‘It doesn’t matter if a cat is black or white, as long as it catches mice.’ Likewise, it doesn’t matter if it’s Communism or capitalism; if it can contribute to our great ideal, then it’s pragmatism. Comrade Pavlov, poverty is not Communism. What we must do is achieve common prosperity for all. We must build a system of Communism with Soviet characteristics.”

“Furthermore, for our future development, the Soviet Union needs allies—a powerful, reliable ally that can stand against the United States. We can’t count on those opportunists in Europe, and we no longer have the strength to maintain a bipolar hegemony. We need to win over another country to create a tripolar situation and completely change the global landscape.” Yanayev’s words heralded a complete revolution in future Soviet foreign policy, and the glimpse they offered suggested he had an even grander plan in mind.

“Comrade Yanayev, I can agree with your approach, but have you considered the risks such a change might bring?” Pavlov asked.

The greatest risk was that the loosening of policies during the economic reforms would give birth to a swarm of corrupt vermin, and these were the very people Yanayev intended to vigorously crack down on.

“Of course, I understand. In fact, the economic reform plan comes with a series of supporting measures that will act as a great dam against this tsunami-like impact.” Yanayev already had countermeasures planned.

After convincing Pavlov, Yanayev went to see Minister of Internal Affairs Pugo and KGB Chairman Kryuchkov. As the heads of the two departments responsible for monitoring dissidents within the party and maintaining social stability, Yanayev needed them to carry out the great purge he had planned.

“Establish a Disciplinary Inspection Committee to oversee the conduct of officials?” Pugo and Kryuchkov weren’t particularly surprised. New leaders always conducted a great political purge after taking power. Having chosen the right side, the two of them were now expected to become Yanayev’s blade, carrying out actions to stabilize the political situation. To put it bluntly, it meant eliminating the political figures who had sided with Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin. Every political upheaval had its share of poor unfortunates who became sacrifices in the struggle.

However, Yanayev’s next words made Pugo and Kryuchkov realize this was more than just a simple great political purge. “Ah, that’s right. The people on this list are your special targets. Regardless of their faction, if you find any history of corruption, please invite them to KGB headquarters for tea. I imagine a considerable amount of ill-gotten gains can be squeezed out of them to replenish the state treasury. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Yanayev handed them two copies of the list. The names on it were almost all the top two leaders of the political departments in major cities. This top-down political purge orchestrated by Yanayev would completely upend the personnel structure of the Soviet Union’s middle and upper echelons.

This was a task guaranteed to make enemies. Yanayev, holding military power from his high perch, could afford not to care. But Pugo and Kryuchkov, who had to consider the feelings of their colleagues, would become the targets of public condemnation. For a moment, neither dared to agree to Yanayev’s request.

Yanayev’s expression instantly darkened. He said in a displeased tone, “Comrade Pugo, Comrade Kryuchkov, you who are tasked with maintaining stability must understand one thing: where the crown of power in your hands comes from. I can crown you as kings, and I can just as easily leave you with nothing. Are you worried about your colleagues? As long as I am in the position of General Secretary, the only one who can touch you is me.”

Yanayev’s meaning was clear. Since you are unwilling to carry out this great purge, then don’t blame me for finding someone else to execute this iron-fisted policy. And when that time comes, it would be hard to say whether you two would be purged as well.

There was no room for negotiation. Pugo had no choice but to bite the bullet and accept. He wiped the fine beads of sweat from his forehead and asked, “How many people are we to arrest in this great purge?”

“One-third. At least one-third of all government officials must be replaced.” Compared to Stalin’s near-total wipeouts, Yanayev chose to be more cautious. “And according to sentencing standards, the more corrupt elements that are executed by firing squad, the better. Oh, and pay special attention to those officials who yearn for Western freedom. They are priority targets. We also need the people to see our determination to rectify the corrupt bureaucracy so that they can regain their faith in the Soviet.”

Yanayev despised those who betrayed their own side for personal gain more than anyone. On the one hand, they shouted about freedom and condemned the system verbally and in writing; on the other, they were preparing to launder the black money they had pocketed into legitimate income after the state collapsed. He wished he could pry every last coin they had swallowed back out and then reward them with a bullet.

“What about the positions left vacant by the executed officials?” Kryuchkov asked. Compared to the executions themselves, the vast empire losing so many cogs in an instant would inevitably affect the functioning of the state machinery.

Yanayev had long anticipated this. He pointed a finger at the thick stack of personnel files on the desk and said with a smile, “Did you think I haven’t already decided on the candidates? Not a single person on the list I gave you can be spared. You need to make them confess with irrefutable evidence and feel the punishment of Communism.”

Pugo and Kryuchkov exchanged a silent glance, a single thought in both their minds. It seemed President Yanayev was truly prepared to move against the deeply entrenched bureaucracy. But could his strong-arm tactics alone truly make everyone bend the knee?

Chapter 31: The Inquisition (Part 1)

(Second update of the day, the third will be posted a little later)

An official directive issued in early September 1991 sent a whiff of imminent turmoil to all officials in the Soviet government, from high-ranking dignitaries to obscure grassroots personnel. The document detailed the necessity of strengthening the advanced and pure nature of the Party’s ranks. Those old foxes with rich political experience knew at a glance that this document likely heralded a fierce upheaval.

Recalling how easily Yanayev had dispatched his political enemies and ruthlessly uprooted their supporters, a chilling thought emerged in many minds: a great political purge.

Yanayev was like a guardian of the Soviet, plucking out the speculators and corrupt officials—parasites on the body of the Red Empire—one by one, and tossing them to the courts to await the judgment of justice. If he could, he would have truly loved to hold an inquisition, sending this mob to the stake at Flower Square.

Bapulov, the Party Secretary of Smolensk, was one of the first high-ranking officials to sense that things were amiss. After Yanayev issued the official directive, he had been plotting his escape to the Western world. Even in the latter half of the Brezhnev era, when economic difficulties arose from low production efficiency, the supreme leader of Smolensk had not generously distributed supplies to the people. Instead, he engaged in hoarding and price gouging, amassing a great fortune. Thus, among the citizenry, the Party Secretary was mockingly known as the “vermin of the hero city.”

Secretary Bapulov controlled the allocation of resources and local privileges in Smolensk. As Gorbachev’s democratization movement progressed, he subtly shifted the people’s dissatisfaction with the bureaucracy onto the system itself, vigorously promoting the importance of democracy and freedom as a convenient way to prepare to whitewash his plunder of the nation’s wealth.

“I’m afraid there’s going to be a great upheaval,” Bapulov sighed on his way to the airport. His secretary was lifting luggage into the trunk, ready to drive the Smolensk Party Secretary to his flight.

He had long ago secretly transferred his ill-gotten gains abroad and was now using the pretext of an “overseas inspection” to apply for political asylum in Western Europe. Gorbachev’s policies had relaxed travel restrictions for Soviet citizens, which was why Bapulov had the chance to flee.

“I must escape this damn country with no human rights,” Bapulov thought to himself. As he inwardly cursed the Soviet Union as a dictatorial tyranny that suppressed human rights, he forgot that he himself was a government official who had come to power through popular election.

“Secretary Bapulov, we can go now. Everything is ready,” said the young secretary, pushing up his glasses. As Ikhalmiki, the secretary responsible for Bapulov’s daily affairs, this young man from Odessa had become Bapulov’s trusted confidant in just six short months. He had helped scheme and bring down political rivals, and in doing so, had become bound by the same fate as Bapulov—sharing in both his glory and his downfall.

Bapulov turned his head for a final, lingering look at the villa that had been his home for five years. Then, he reluctantly opened the car door and let the driver speed him toward the airport. As they left, a strange thought crossed his mind: what if he never had the chance to return here and was fated to spend the rest of his life abroad?

His mood somewhat heavy, Bapulov decided to stop thinking about these troubles and try to distract himself. He called out to Ikhalmiki, “Ikhalmiki, what are your plans for the future? Where are you thinking of settling down?”

“Me?” Ikhalmiki thought for a moment at the Secretary’s question. “I’ll probably buy a white house by the Seine in Paris. In my free time, I’ll drink coffee on the balcony and read. Then, when this country has achieved true democracy and freedom, I’ll come back.”

“Heh, an interesting idea,” Bapulov said. “I’m different. I hope to use the money I’ve saved to start a public company in America and continue creating wealth. After all, ever since I was a child, I’ve yearned for the life of the rich in Europe and America.” As he spoke of his dream, a greedy glint of desire for wealth appeared in Bapulov’s eyes.

“Comrade Ikhalmiki, I’m a bit tired now. I’ll rest until we get to the airport. Wake me up then.” Having not slept soundly for the past two days out of fear and anxiety over the official directive, Bapulov yawned. He leaned his head against the back of the seat, and his heavy eyelids slowly closed.

“Of course. I guarantee you’ll have a big surprise when you wake up, Secretary,” Ikhalmiki said with a smile, watching Bapulov drift off. His eyes were as cunning as a fox sizing up its prey.

“Mmm…” In his daze, Bapulov didn’t register what Ikhalmiki was saying. He just wanted this Soviet nightmare to end as soon as possible. He hoped that when he awoke, he would be standing on the democratic and free soil of America, basking in the warm California sun.

He didn’t know how much time had passed before someone shook his shoulder a few times. He struggled to wake from a dream of Miami Beach and sunshine. Opening his eyes, he asked groggily, “Ikhalmiki, are we at the airport?”

“Bapulov, we are not at the airport.” Secretary Ikhalmiki’s voice was icy. Hearing his own name used so directly, Bapulov realized something was terribly wrong. He forced his eyes open and tried to sit up, only to be met with a sight he had dreaded most.

From the front passenger seat, Ikhalmiki was pointing a pistol at him. Bapulov turned his head and saw KGB agents standing outside the car window. Without exception, they were all staring at the pitiful Party Secretary of Smolensk with the same cold expression as Ikhalmiki. Finally understanding what was happening, Bapulov clenched his fists.

“You betrayed me? Ikhalmiki,” Bapulov said, biting his lip hard to control his emotions.

“Betrayed? You’re overthinking things, Comrade Bapulov. In fact, I never intended to be loyal to you from the very beginning.” Ikhalmiki’s gaze was like that of someone staring at a helpless lamb. “The truth is, I was a KGB agent sent by the Central Government to gather evidence on your crimes. Oh, don’t be so surprised. You aren’t the only one receiving General Secretary Yanayev’s special attention. Leaders of the Party and government organs in many other important cities have also been personally named for his care. Haven’t you heard that many city- and state-level leaders have had some personnel changes around them recently? So, you needn’t feel too dejected.”

“How is that possible?” Bapulov’s eyes widened. “Yanayev only took the highest position this month, but you came to my side eight months ago!”

“What if I told you this plan actually began a year ago?” Ikhalmiki observed the panicked Bapulov with amusement. “Of course, the General Secretary also considered the need to maintain the positive image of the Soviet. So for you vermin, if the amount involved is small, the crime not severe, and you’re willing to proactively expose others, we can show extra mercy and just dismiss you from your post. But if you refuse to talk… well, do you see the gun in my hand?”

Ikhalmiki gestured with the cold muzzle. “We will stage your death as a suicide. Live or die, the choice is yours.”

“Fine, I’ll do it.” Under duress, Bapulov gritted his teeth. He took out a notebook and confessed everything about the network of interests he had built, detailing who had taken bribes, where the money was kept—everything, down to the last detail. When he was nearly finished, he let out a sigh of relief and handed the notebook to Ikhalmiki.

“I hope I can be shown clemency,” Bapulov said.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Bapulov. Oh, I forgot to add one more thing.” Ikhalmiki slapped his forehead. “The General Secretary also said there is one type of person who will not be pardoned: those vermin who yearn for freedom, who use despicable democratic slogans to legitimize their corrupt act of plundering state assets. He said if you catch them in bed, smother them with a pillow; if you catch them in the toilet, drown them in the toilet bowl.”

Ikhalmiki looked at the speechless Bapulov, who was now drenched in a cold sweat, and released the safety on his pistol. “And one more thing, my name isn’t Ikhalmiki. My real name is Vladislav Surkov, a personal aide to General Secretary Yanayev.”

Then he pulled the trigger. A spray of brilliant red blood stained the car window, leaving a final rest note to mark the end of Bapulov’s sinful life.

Chapter 32: The Inquisition (Part 2)

Third update of the day

Vladislav Surkov. In the historical timeline, he should have joined Menatep Bank two years ago. Then, under Khodorkovsky’s patronage, he would have joined the bank group’s decision-making body in 1992, becoming a member of the board of directors. However, by a twist of fate, he met Vice President Yanayev, and then resolutely resigned from his high-level management position at the bank to become one of Yanayev’s secret aides.

No one knew what Yanayev said to Vladislav back then, but after that meeting, he became Yanayev’s most loyal follower and political aide, planning and strategizing for Yanayev’s subsequent series of actions. In 1991, no one thought much of this young man; only Yanayev knew what unattainable heights this fellow would climb to in the future.

Deputy Chief of Staff of the Russian Presidential Administration, Deputy Prime Minister of Russia, a conspirator who manipulated the State Duma—he held many titles. But his most famous moniker was the one bestowed by his opponents at the White House: “The Kremlin’s Chief Political Strategist.”

After executing Bapulov, who had betrayed the supreme directives of the Soviet, Vladislav instructed the KGB agents to stage the scene to look like a suicide. They moved Bapulov’s body into the driver’s seat, rested his head on the steering wheel, and placed the pistol that had shot through his head in his right hand. This was the most remote area in all of Smolensk, anyway; no one would notice that a high-ranking and powerful leader had fallen here.

After the matter was concluded, Vladislav called Yanayev to report that the plan they had set in motion could now be wrapped up; the few fish that had slipped through the net wouldn’t have much chance to celebrate. In the days following Vladislav’s elimination of Bapulov, high-ranking government officials were successively and secretly arrested by the KGB at the Soviet Union’s international airports. Officials who had applied for political asylum were taken away by members of the Disciplinary Inspection Committee who showed up at their doors before they could even step outside. And as soon as they were gone, their vacant positions were immediately filled.

For a time, the public frequently saw headlines like these in the newspapers: “Enemies of the State and Saboteurs of Communism Have Been Captured,” “Traitor to the Soviet Commits Suicide Out of Guilt,” and “The Central Government’s Anti-Corruption Work Reaches a New High.” These headlines appeared alongside an excerpt from a speech Yanayev had given at a conference.

“Heretics. Yes. We call these people the dregs of society, traitors to the Soviet, heretics against Communism. They care only for their own wallets and their petty schemes. They disregard the interests of the Soviet people and the security of the entire nation. They desperately hope that the country will undergo a so-called transformation—which is, in fact, the political turmoil they desire—so they can turn the property that originally belonged to the Soviet people into their own personal possessions. To people like that, I have only one word for them: garbage.” Brilliant. Truly brilliant, that speech. Yanayev’s directness actually won him a great deal of applause from the public. On that point alone, he’s leagues ahead of former leaders like Gorbachev and Khrushchev. By the way, I also heard the chief editor of the Moscow newspaper hesitated about putting that speech on the front page? Haha, what a bunch of rigid, uninteresting fellows.

Yakovlev, the Soviet Communist Party’s Minister of Propaganda, sat in his chair, slowly savoring his coffee as he read the newspaper. He was particularly full of praise for Yanayev’s seemingly unvarnished speech, completely ignoring the grim-faced member of the Disciplinary Inspection Committee, Volkov, who sat directly across from him, as well as the KGB personnel standing around them.

As one of Gorbachev’s few trusted confidants, his numerous crimes—condoning liberal voices in the media while suppressing positive propaganda for Communism—were enough to send him to the gallows. Yanayev had deliberately waited for the great political purge to trap him like a turtle in a jar.

Volkov picked up his newspaper and tossed it aside. Looking at Gorbachev’s confidant, he said slowly, “Political correctness never gets as much applause as radical rhetoric. Tell me, which gets more support: ‘We must fight corruption to the very end,’ or ‘We must hang all corrupt officials from the lampposts on Red Square’? Yakovlev, you’ve been the Soviet Minister of Propaganda for so many years. Surely you don’t lack even this basic knowledge?”

“My mission was to destroy this regime from the high ground of public opinion, not to meticulously preserve its totalitarian rule like you. Comrade Volkov, people like you I can only call slaves to power,” Yakovlev retorted caustically.

“Further talk is useless. We’ll see who has the last laugh, who remains standing. The buzzing of flies is not enough to shake the Soviet’s forward march, but you will fall beneath our iron fist,” Volkov retorted. “What have you cultivated? A pack of corrupt bureaucrats who use the banner of freedom to oppose us, yet are destined to fall like dying men who belong in a grave. Rest assured, after you are gone, we will give you a grand funeral, with all the honors.”

Volkov’s last words were vicious to the extreme.

“You…” Yakovlev, who was older than Volkov, flushed red. It was the first time he had been so humiliated by a junior. He wanted to say something in rebuttal but finally sank back into his chair, limply, and said resentfully, “Then I wish you the best of luck in not ending up like me. And tell Yanayev… I will be waiting for him in court, and in hell.”

“You’re overthinking it. Here, there will be no court, and no trial.”

Volkov’s words gave Yakovlev a sense of ominous foreboding.

Volkov, sitting opposite him, nodded. A KGB agent standing behind Yakovlev pulled a thin, almost invisible cord from his pocket and, catching him off guard, wrapped it tightly around his neck. Reacting on instinct, Yakovlev subconsciously grabbed at the hand, but found he couldn’t break free.

Volkov sat next to Yakovlev, watching his struggles with great interest. “Yanayev knew that if you were sent to court, your supporters would certainly move to obstruct the trial. The final result would probably be you spending a few years in prison, then getting out to continue causing trouble for the government. Only with your death will those who are still holding on to a sliver of hope completely despair and give up.”

Yakovlev’s eyes widened, his hateful gaze looking as if it could swallow Volkov whole. He reached out to grab him, but Volkov caught his hand and pushed it back.

“I forgot to mention, I used to be a KGB agent, so you might as well save your energy and go peacefully. Also, as promised, after you die, I will stage the scene to look like a suicide by hanging. That way, you can retain that last shred of dignity. And you will receive a high-level state funeral.”

“Consider it one last bit of compensation. As a traitor, you should be happy with this end, Yakovlev.”

As Volkov finished speaking, Yakovlev had already stopped struggling. His pupils slowly dilated, and his hands fell limply onto the armrests. His eyes, however, were still filled with resentment, venom, and unwillingness to yield. He had believed he would die at Yanayev’s hands, but he never imagined it would be in such a humiliating way, filled with bitter hatred.

Volkov picked up the noose and tossed it to the KGB agents. “Hang Yakovlev from the ceiling,” he said nonchalantly. “Then arrange the scene properly before you leave the room. This is what you do best. Remember, make it look as much like a suicide as possible.”

That night, a shocking piece of news came from a Moscow television station: the Soviet Minister of Propaganda had committed suicide at his home that afternoon. All members of the Soviet Communist Party Committee would attend his funeral. Yakovlev’s death pushed this great purge of government officials to its peak. For the first time, sleepless officials realized how fortunate it was to be arrested by the KGB, because at least then you wouldn’t mysteriously die in your home one day, only to be posthumously labeled a suicide.

The political turmoil brought by Black September continued. Everyone was closing their eyes and praying to God for the storm to pass quickly. Only the members of the Disciplinary Inspection Committee were busy rushing all over the country, collecting evidence of crimes and sending those who had not yet been punished to the prisons of Siberia for re-education.

Chapter 33: The Inquisition (Part 2)

This was the first time Alexander Solzhenitsyn had picked up his pen to write a story about the dictator. Previously, whether in The Gulag Archipelago or Matryona’s Place, Solzhenitsyn had only targeted the tyranny of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. In his eyes, the Soviet Communist Party was evil, a political organization formed by countless power-hungry individuals to suppress human rights.

Sometimes Solzhenitsyn would wonder—if it hadn’t been for that damned Great Purge, perhaps he would have been promoted from artillery captain all the way to Major, becoming a hero of the Great Patriotic War, respected and beloved by the nation, instead of toiling away in obscurity in a labor camp in Kazakhstan. All those medals and glory should have been his, but fate had made him an enemy of the Soviet.

Thinking of this, Solzhenitsyn lifted his pen and wrote the first sentence on the paper, “On a quiet night on August 26, 1937, the cry of a baby broke the silence in the peaceful village of Perevoz, Gorky Oblast. The newborn’s parents celebrated finally having a child. The man, surnamed Yanayev, named the newborn Gennady Ivanovich Yanayev. They just didn’t know that this child would one day play a crucial role in the future of the Soviet state—a true tyrant, a man who would stand against freedom and democracy.”

——————

Yanayev walked down the long, narrow corridor. His final opponent was the Soviet Foreign Minister, Shevardnadze, Gorbachev’s right-hand man in dismantling the Communist world. With his support, the countries of Eastern Europe were allowed to follow their own paths, no longer bound by Soviet control. When the Communist parties of Eastern Europe called for Soviet military intervention to quell the democratization movements sweeping through the region, he refused to intervene.

Shevardnadze’s foolish actions paved the way for most of Eastern Europe to peacefully complete its democratization. He had reportedly said to the hardliners on multiple occasions: “We must now realize that we cannot obtain socialism, friendship, good-neighborly relations, and mutual respect with bayonets, tanks, and blood.”

Both Communists and Russian nationalists considered his actions treasonous, and he had long been seen as a villain by certain figures in Moscow. But with Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin having fallen, the fertile ground that had allowed Shevardnadze to push forward democratic reforms was gone.

However, Yanayev was still racking his brain over how to take down Shevardnadze, because the man had built a reputation for being strict and conscientious. For instance, Shevardnadze took public transport to work instead of using the car available to a Politburo member. He was incorruptible, having never embezzled a single cent of state property—a rare sight in the corrupt bureaucratic system. Thus, finding an opening to use against Shevardnadze and throw him in prison was proving to be incredibly difficult.

If Shevardnadze hadn’t been so intent on the union republics breaking away from the Soviet Communist Party’s control, Yanayev would have genuinely wanted to sit down with the man, chat about old times, and ask if he wanted to join his group of aides.

“Comrade Yanayev, walking into my office so openly without so much as a knock… that’s a rather impolite way to say hello, wouldn’t you say?” Seeing Yanayev push the door open, Shevardnadze remained calm in the face of the iron-fisted dictator. After all, aside from their differing political stances, it was difficult for Yanayev to get any dirt on the old fox.

“Haven’t I come here specifically to visit my old friend, Comrade Shevardnadze?” Yanayev said with a smile, sitting down across from him, probing him bit by bit.

“Cough, cough. Shouldn’t Comrade Yanayev be busy stirring up a brilliant purge throughout the Soviet Union right now? I hear that since the purge began, many worried officials have been ‘suicided’ for fear of their crimes.” Shevardnadze’s words were barbed as he stared meaningfully at Yanayev. “I heard my old friend Yakovlev also became one of the victims of ‘suicide,’ and the highest-ranking leader within the Soviet Communist Party to do so, correct?”

“Of course, nothing will happen to you, Comrade Shevardnadze.” Yanayev spread his arms and said, “Look, what a great communist warrior. He is diligent, he is incorruptible. Compared to those vermin, he is a model socialist builder. It’s just a pity…” Yanayev let out a deliberate sigh. “A pity he made an even more serious mistake: changing his ideological line. That is far more despicable than hoarding wealth.”

“Oh?” Shevardnadze raised an eyebrow. “Those are baseless accusations, Comrade Yanayev. When did I become a traitor to the Free World? Ideology can’t be used as evidence to convict someone these days, can it?”

Yanayev looked at Shevardnadze as one would a respected old rival. Of course, if Yanayev hadn’t already found a way to defeat Shevardnadze, he wouldn’t be standing here so openly.

“It’s a pity you’ve forgotten one thing. Your daughter… oh, and your wife. Did you really think I wouldn’t know about the sordid things they’ve been doing in private?” Yanayev watched Shevardnadze as if he were watching a clown’s performance. “You talk a big game about being upright and incorruptible, yet you allow your own relatives to amass wealth with abandon. Do you really take us all for fools?”

In the original timeline, after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, Shevardnadze served as the second president of Georgia, where he condoned the corrupt activities of his wife and daughter, turning Georgia into one of the most corrupt countries in the world. A corrupt country with an incorruptible president—it sounded like a blackly comedic joke. And with Yanayev’s words, the smile on Shevardnadze’s lips slowly vanished.

“What do you want?” Shevardnadze felt a knot of anxiety in his stomach, but he pretended to be calm on the surface. He had witnessed Yanayev’s methods firsthand, and he didn’t want his family to become the next Yakovlev. The fact that Yanayev hadn’t bypassed Shevardnadze and directly ordered a trial meant that his ultimate target was Shevardnadze himself.

“Resign.” Yanayev’s words were simple and clear. “Step down from your position as Soviet Foreign Minister, and I’ll even help you out. I won’t go looking for trouble over those shady dealings your family’s been up to. But if you insist on being stubborn, then don’t blame me for being ruthless.”

Shevardnadze lowered his eyes and said helplessly, “I agree, Yanayev.”

————————

“‘The ’dictator’ finally tore off his mask of hypocrisy at this moment, revealing that grim, calculating face. He used the most vicious methods to strike down dissidents, toying with them in the palm of his hand. The people began to fear him, his friends grew wary of him; it seemed as if everyone had become his enemy in an instant. But the ‘dictator’ was not lonely, nor did he care, because his goal was to become the greatest ruler of all—a Tsar.”

Having written this far, Solzhenitsyn put down his pen, read through his manuscript with satisfaction, and then, as he was about to write ‘The End’ at the bottom, he hesitated. In the end, he changed it to something else.

To be continued.

Chapter 34: Suicide

A recent political cartoon from the British BBC has drawn considerable attention from the international community. It depicted a caricatured Yanayev wearing a crown and holding a scepter, standing before a cage filled with his former rivals and enemies. The cartoon was titled, The New Tsar of the East?, ending with a large question mark. It satirized Yanayev’s use of an anti-corruption campaign to eliminate dissidents.

The mockery of the nation’s supreme leader provoked indignation among the Soviet people, especially after Yanayev had won back their support by cracking down on bureaucrats. Although the image of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union had not improved much, the vast majority of people were gradually beginning to accept this supreme leader. Yanayev’s image-building propaganda had also been very successful, thanks in no small part to Yakovlev no longer acting as a liability to the Soviet cause.

Of course, Yanayev paid no mind to this bit of satire from the BBC. In fact, he had even imagined a scene in which he wore a crown, revered by thousands. Naturally, as a staunch communist, this thought was confined to his own mind. Nevertheless, he instructed the Central Daily to publish an article rebutting the BBC’s political cartoon.

“As a ‘mouthpiece’ dedicated to promoting democracy and freedom, the BBC has made an indispensable contribution to global equality. In their grand propaganda, Ngo Dinh Diem and Park Chung-hee are representatives of democracy and prosperity; Bavile and Batista are symbols of the Free World. Of course, these representatives of the Free World, propped up by the Americans, ultimately met their end by a bullet or were exiled from the countries they controlled. And yet, a supreme leader committed to improving people’s livelihoods, combating corruption, and establishing a society based on the rule of law is criticized as a dictatorial and brutal figure. One really has to wonder how the BBC’s double standards define democracy and freedom. ‘O Liberty, what crimes are committed in thy name!’ Of course, the BBC will conveniently turn a blind eye to this quote from the French revolutionary Madame Roland. Because they are, in essence, just a dog loyal to a political party, not people who truly speak for the masses.”

The publication of this article caused another public uproar. It was the first time anyone had delivered such a direct jab at the BBC, so everyone eagerly awaited their rebuttal. The latter, however, remained silent, deliberately avoiding the topic as if they had nothing to say.

Of course, Yanayev had no intention of arguing with these fleet-footed Western journalists. In his view, it was utter foolishness to humbly accept the opinions of journalists who sang a different tune from the President. He had no faith that these unscrupulous mouthpieces, devoid of any scientific common sense, could be expected to say anything impartial. Journalists? They merely let you know a selective version of the so-called truth.

Besides, Yanayev had more important matters on his mind. The Moscow September Political Purge was finally drawing to a close. As the political turmoil gradually stabilized, a group of people from the upper echelons of the Soviet political circle who had backed the wrong side were exiled to the icy wilderness of Siberia to keep company with polar bears. Another group was not so fortunate; they were sentenced to death for the massive sums they had embezzled—the sort of cases Yanayev had personally singled out.

“Chernovyrdin, former Minister of the Gas Industry, sentenced to death, deprived of political rights for life.”

“Medzerzhinsky, former Deputy Minister of the Department of Metallurgical Industry, sentenced to death, deprived of political rights for life.”

…

These high-ranking officials, who in another future might have transformed into Russian oligarchs, had their political careers cut short by Yanayev’s unexpected arrival. Perhaps deep down they harbored resentment toward Yanayev, but the thought of his iron-fisted methods and his control over the largest terror organization in the entire Soviet Union, the KGB, made everyone know better and keep their mouths shut.

As the Communist machine turned, its cogs crushed years of democratization progress accumulated by Gorbachev into dust within a single month. Then, the steel tracks rolled mercilessly over it, letting everyone know that Soviet Russia had no need for that disgusting, hypocritical democracy, nor for the West’s strange and twisted values. Yanayev possessed a far more terrifying weapon of rule.

The rule of law.

And so, in those few days, countless officials were sent to the “communist gallows.” After their sentences were handed down in first and second trials, they were sent to the execution block. The faces of some were ashen, as if they were already empty shells whose souls had been stripped away, having long known their fate. Others still clung to a sliver of hope, appealing their verdicts, but the result was always the same: the original sentence was upheld. As for those who were lucky enough to escape the gallows, their sentences began at ten years of imprisonment.

Countless high-ranking officials were sent to the execution ground to be shot in those few days, just like the Great Purge decades ago. Many had little opportunity to defend themselves before their lives were taken by a bullet. Yanayev, however, gave them the opportunity to speak—only to let them state their case and wail in grief while he still upheld the original sentence. I give you the chance to speak, but I also have the right to pass judgment.

Looking at the newspaper, Shevardnadze saw the faces of old friends with whom he once sat and laughed now reduced to black-and-white memorial photos. His own face drained of color as he clenched his fists. His lips turned pale as he recalled the words Yanayev had said to him before leaving, and a primal fear took root in his heart.

“Honestly, Shevardnadze, I have a certain fondness for you. You are a decent man, but you chose the wrong path. If you had stopped after resigning from your post as Soviet Foreign Minister, I would have let bygones be bygones. But if you still think of mounting a counter-attack, then I am sorry, but our Ministry of Internal Affairs cannot guarantee the safety of you and your family.”

Yanayev’s words had been perfectly clear, but Shevardnadze, relying on his former status, had continued to stir up trouble in the political arena. He had tried to unite the remaining democratic faction to oppose Yanayev’s tyrannical rule, but only a few days after their meeting, the vast majority of them had become black-and-white obituaries.

“You’ve won, Yanayev. From my political allies to my friends, and now even my family… is this how you plan to force me to submit? It’s despicable, but effective. You won’t do it yourself, so you force me to commit suicide. Quite a move.” Shevardnadze pulled open his desk drawer and took out a Makarov pistol. He began to load bullets into the magazine, muttering to himself, “There is nothing more painful than watching the important people around you be lost one by one. Yanayev, are you warning me that my family is next? Your methods of torture are certainly novel. And for once, I’ll let you have your wish. Perhaps only with my death will you be willing to spare the people I leave behind.”

Resolutely, Shevardnadze stuck the muzzle of the gun into his mouth and closed his eyes. “Goodbye, everyone,” he muttered, “but the great cause of freedom will not end here.”

Then, his index finger on the trigger slowly curled back.

Chapter 35: Far East Disarmament

Once the political situation in the Soviet Union had somewhat stabilized, President Yanayev finally had the chance to begin surgical downsizing of the equally bloated Soviet military. To him, the colossal military expenditure was another heavy burden weighing down the Soviet Union, so large-scale cuts were essential. The first to face the knife was the Far Eastern Military District, where Yanayev believed it was most unnecessary to maintain such a massive armed force.

To this end, he had to hold a crucial meeting with the stubborn hardliners from the military. His targets for persuasion were the Commander-in-Chief of the Army, General of the Army Varennikov; the Minister of Defense, Yazov; the Chief of the General Staff of the Soviet Armed Forces, Akhromeyev; and the Commander of the Far Eastern Military District, Viktor Chechevatov. Of course, persuading these few old die-hards was about as difficult as a successful launch of the Soviet N1 moon rocket at Baikonur.

With a heavy heart, Viktor Chechevatov made a special trip from Khabarovsk to Moscow. During the August Coup, the Commander of the Far Eastern Military District had been a loyal guardsman on Yanayev’s side. He never expected that shortly after the turmoil subsided, the Far Eastern forces would face downsizing. How was this any different from casting him aside after he had served his purpose? He was not alone in this sentiment; Akhromeyev and Yazov were both sympathetic to his plight.

So when Yanayev stepped into the conference room, the group of Red Army generals, with their piercing gazes and intimidating presence, inspired in him a spontaneous sense of awe. But for the future of the Soviet Union, he had to bite the bullet and play the villain.

“Gentlemen, I’ve gathered you all here today to discuss one thing: the issue of disarmament in the Far East.” Yanayev did not mince words, getting straight to the point. “The long years of confrontation between the Soviet Union and China have led us to amass a large-scale military force in the Far East. The fact that a war has never broken out means we are forced to spend immense human, material, and financial resources on the daily maintenance of this army. For the Soviet economy, this is fatal.”

Just as Akhromeyev was about to speak, Yanayev stopped him and continued, “In the eastern part of the Sino-Soviet border, the Far Eastern Military District has three army groups and one infantry corps, totaling eighteen motorized rifle divisions, one tank division, and two air assault brigades. The total Soviet military strength in the Asian region is one million two hundred seventy thousand troops, fourteen thousand three hundred tanks, and four thousand two hundred aircraft. The Soviet Army in Asia comprises a total of fifty-nine divisions, of which forty-five are near the Sino-Soviet border, totaling six hundred seventy-five thousand men. I am very curious, do we really need so many troops to guard against an impossible war? Is it truly necessary?”

“It is absolutely necessary, President Yanayev.” Akhromeyev was the first to stand and rebut him. “The reason the Soviet Union possesses such mighty power that makes the Americans wary is precisely because we have a powerful, invincible armed force. It also serves as a warning to those restless neighbors to the south. The Far East is our backyard, and no one may encroach upon it.”

Yanayev raised an eyebrow and said softly, “Oh? But I’ve read your previous reports. For the Soviet Army to launch an offensive on the eastern Sino-Soviet border, it would require at least one million two hundred thousand to one million five hundred thousand ground troops. Three fronts would be needed for a converging assault on our southern neighbor’s northernmost military district, and one front for a pinning attack on their capital’s military region. This would require transferring two additional fronts, fourteen army group command systems and their subordinate units, and sixty-seven army divisions to the Transbaikal and Far Eastern Military Districts to reach a scale of four fronts, twenty army groups, and one hundred divisions. Given the transport capacity of the Trans-Siberian Railway, it would take at least eighty days for all forces to arrive, which is too slow. We would lose the element of surprise, be easily discovered, and become vulnerable to a pre-emptive strike by others. For a protracted war, the Soviet Army’s stockpiles and transport capacity in the Far East are insufficient to sustain it. The real purpose of the heavy troop concentration was to ‘bring the southern neighbor to the negotiating table.’ The Soviet Union’s focus is still on Europe. These are your own conclusions, Akhromeyev. Or has the old general’s memory started to fail him in his old age?”

Yanayev still held a certain respect for Akhromeyev, a general loyal to the Red Army. After all, he had devoted his life to the Red Empire—a true communist and a great patriot.

Akhromeyev was at a loss for words. He hadn’t expected Yanayev to use his own past reports to refute him. But he remained relentless. “But if you completely dismantle the armed forces in the Far East, it will create a defense vacuum in the region. It will also give the Americans the impression that the Soviet Union is exhausted, and they will then pressure us even more relentlessly. Also, how do you plan to resettle the million demobilized soldiers? You can’t just let them drift around the country, can you? And what about the decommissioned tanks and armored vehicles? The fighter jets?”

“Calm down, Chief of the General Staff Akhromeyev. I have already thought of ways to deal with all the issues you’ve raised. Let me go through them with you one by one.” Yanayev resisted the urge to say he would publicly humiliate him point by point. “I’m sure everyone is aware that after the end of World War II, our army diligently summarized the experiences and lessons of the war and further developed Germany’s Blitzkrieg concept. With Deep Battle and high speed as its fundamental operational philosophy, coupled with vast ground forces and advanced weaponry, it formed the most powerful ground force of the Cold War era: the red iron torrent.”

“So if a large-scale ground war were to break out, our army’s simple-is-better approach might be correct. Although our main battle tanks are slightly inferior to our opponents’ in overall technological level, this approach ensures the country can mass-produce them, the army can adapt to them quickly, and factories can repair them rapidly. With absolute numerical superiority, the Soviet armored forces still have the ability to overwhelm the enemy. But you have all forgotten one thing. Since the end of World War II, under the standoff of nuclear-armed nations, it is no longer possible for large-scale military conflicts to erupt. Haven’t the local conflicts of the past seventy years given everyone a new realization? Modern warfare is more about small-to-medium-scale local military conflicts. When the quality of personnel is comparable and the difference in equipment numbers is not significant, the side with the tactical and technological advantage has a better chance of victory.”

Yazov was the first to understand Yanayev’s point. “Is our army beginning to shift its thinking toward electronic and technological warfare?”

Yanayev let out a deep breath. “Thank heavens, you finally understand what I’m saying. Yes, electronic and technological warfare. So, when are you going to invite Marshal Ogarkov—who has profound foresight on the development of electronic technology in the Soviet military, but was driven out of the General Staff—back to the General Staff, instead of letting him live out his days in regret as an inspector general in the Ministry of Defense’s Main Inspectorate Group?”

In 1984, Marshal Ogarkov left the General Staff. He was dismissed for publicly “opposing the reduction of military-industrial R&D funds for the development of civilian products.” From September 1984 to June 1988, he was reassigned as the commander of the Western Direction. From 1988 to 1992, he served as an Inspector General in the Ministry of Defense’s Main Inspectorate Group. In the end, the military technology reforms he advocated for came to nothing.

Although Yanayev hadn’t said it outright, Yazov could already sense his dissatisfaction. He quickly apologized, “I’m sorry, Mr. President. We will transfer him back to the General Staff and restore him to a key position.”

“Hmm, very good. You are all veteran marshals, and your thinking may still be mired in nostalgia for the victory of the Great Patriotic War. But I must say something unpleasant: I am a staunch supporter of technological warfare. Only an army equipped with powerful, advanced technology can be invincible in modern warfare. Of course, if anyone wants to obstruct my steps to downsize our armored forces and build a digitalized and informationized army, I certainly won’t mind them ending up like Colonel General Shilichenko from the Ural Military District.”

Yanayev’s approach was courtesy first, force later. His earlier words were out of respect for the Soviet military; what followed was a stern warning to those who would obstruct military reform. Of course, no one had expected Yanayev’s tone to be so severe. For a moment, everyone fell silent.

“Besides that, are there any other issues?” Yanayev glanced around at the old men, whose combined ages were several times his own. He then shot a look at Chechevatov, who a moment ago had been hoping for someone of higher rank and authority to speak up for him but was now as silent as a cicada in winter. Yanayev said in a calm, methodical tone, “Next, I will tell you about the resettlement plan for the downsized armored forces and personnel. Of course, everything will be done step-by-step; I won’t be reckless. The disarmament in the Far East will be carried out in several phases. But before I explain, I want to introduce you to someone. Come in, Comrade Chemezov.”

All eyes focused on the door. At Yanayev’s command, a still somewhat green Chemezov, appearing before the highest echelons of Moscow, stepped onto his political stage for the very first time.

Chapter 36: The Military Contracting Group

As one of the eight key figures who would one day stand beside Volkov in the Kremlin, Chemezov was destined to become the General Director of the Russian Defense Export Corporation in 2004, taking charge of Russia’s arms trade. And Russia’s arms export business was practically a towering, ownerless money tree. It was on par with natural gas exports, becoming the two heads of the Russian eagle.

Before this, Chemezov was a graduate of the advanced training course at the General Staff of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation. From 1975 to 1976, he worked at the Institute of Rare and Nonferrous Metals before resigning to join the state security services. From 1980 to 1988, he was employed by the Soviet Union’s “Sunshine” Nonferrous Metals Industrial Group and was later dispatched by the group to Dresden, East Germany, as its chief representative. In other words, he was once a KGB agent.

After returning to the Soviet Union in 1988, he served as the Deputy General Manager of the Soviet International Sports Company. It was Yanayev who, with a keen eye for talent, promoted him from that position to his side without giving him any specific duties. But Chemezov never had any complaints, because before transferring him to the Kremlin, Yanayev had told him, “Comrade Chemezov, while you are by my side, I will not give you any major post. That’s the first thing I have to say. The second is that the position you will hold in the future is far more important than any I can give you now. So, do you understand?”

Yanayev didn’t expect him to grasp his intentions a hundred percent. Not until two weeks ago, when he went to see Chemezov and said, “In two weeks, I need to see a proposal for the multinational military corporation I spoke to you about before. Please be thorough and rigorous, because this will be your first opportunity to take the stage.”

Chemezov, with his sharp political acumen and experience in corporate operations, recognized this as a great opportunity. He spent two weeks drafting a proposal, which Yanayev reviewed before Chemezov presented it to the high-ranking military officials today.

Yanayev began by explaining to the attendees, “The troop reduction plan will be carried out in three steps, to be completed by December of next year. In the first phase, we will demobilize sixty thousand troops in advance, then observe the impact on the military and regional stability. Once things have stabilized, we will proceed to the second phase of cuts, demobilizing another one hundred and sixty thousand troops. In the third phase, we will demobilize two hundred thousand more. In other words, the garrison in Asia defending against our neighbor in the Far East will ultimately be reduced to just two hundred and fifty thousand troops.”

“This also sends a signal of goodwill to our southern neighbor. The Soviet Union and China are no longer willing to be in a standoff. We hope to restore our previous friendly relations, and our neighbor, currently undergoing economic reform, will be a political force to be reckoned with in the future. We are already stretched thin dealing with Europe and the United States; there is no need to make things harder for ourselves by creating another powerful enemy. To be blunt, and I apologize for saying so, but we have already begun to decline. If we still want to counter the threat from the West, our only option is to join forces with others to deal with the Bald Eagle.”

For those who fanatically wished to maintain a powerful Red Army, Yanayev’s words were undoubtedly a nightmare. But Yanayev could not gamble the entire nation’s future just to satisfy a small minority of military supremacists. In fact, the era of massive armored columns charging across the battlefield was already obsolete. The Gulf War had been a shock and a moment of reflection for all nations. Information warfare, combined with coordinated land, sea, and air strikes, would be the dominant model of future warfare.

“What should we do with the large number of decommissioned T-72 tanks? Arkhipov once complained to me that the daily maintenance of these armored units is a bottomless nightmare,” Varennikov said.

“Selling them abroad probably won’t be very effective either,” said Chechevatov, who, sensing that preventing the downsizing was a lost cause, took the initiative to curry favor with Yanayev to avoid being downsized himself. “For well-known reasons, the T-72’s poor performance in the Gulf War is something the whole world has witnessed. Why would anyone want to buy a tank with such a terrible track record? And of course, our old friends from the Warsaw Pact are not willing to be fooled again.”

“With all due respect, gentlemen,” Chemezov said with a slight smile, “who said we were going to sell T-72 tanks? The export version we’re selling is the T-90 tank.”

“The T-90 tank? Is that a new project?” No one knew what Chemezov was talking about. Some of those present even thought it was a new tank project developed by some design bureau.

“Not at all. We will simply rebrand the T-72s and continue to sell them for export. Moreover, these second-hand tanks can be sold at a deep discount to third-world countries like Iran, India, and Egypt. Under the right conditions, a ‘buy six, get one free’ deal is not out of the question. We’ll also bundle it with personnel training and routine tank maintenance. If necessary, we can even export equipment and spare parts. For a country like India, with a less… developed industrial base, they can only rely on imports if they can’t produce their own munitions and parts. Naturally, we will establish a new multinational corporation to sell all of this.”

Chemezov’s military arms export group would possess enormous power, as it was personally authorized by President Yanayev. The arms dealer Viktor Bout would travel the world showcasing his talent for selling weapons, while Chemezov would oversee the grand strategy, maintaining close ties with Moscow’s military high command to secure more inventory.

“I’d like to start with five hundred tanks and try exporting them to the third world at an extremely low discount. Oh, and also those Hind helicopter gunships. A couple hundred to start with, if possible. Of course, for every helicopter or T-72 tank sold, five percent of the profit will be returned to the original military district to cover the expenses of resettling the demobilized personnel. What do you think?”

Selling off decommissioned military hardware was a risk-free venture; Chemezov had no cost risks to consider.

The arms business was like any other trade: set a price, schedule a time, and a cash-on-delivery exchange. However, the arms sales Chemezov was responsible for leaned more towards the gray area. Although Yanayev stressed that the money was to be used to improve the lives of the people, it was not subject to the supervision of any state agency. In other words, this money would be Yanayev’s private property.

“I am willing to accept these terms.” Seeing a chance to recoup his losses, Chechevatov naturally nodded in agreement. “But what about the demobilized soldiers? They’ll need jobs after they leave the service, won’t they? Otherwise, an influx of over four hundred thousand unemployed people into society will have a major impact on social stability.”

“Of course, we’ve taken all of that into account. Not all countries need weapons, especially in regions at peace, which makes arms sales more difficult. We also need a large-scale multinational corporation to maintain a balance in global arms sales. In short, we help an organization overthrow a regional government, creating conflict. Then we sell weapons to ignite the powder keg of war. Finally, we intervene as supposed mediators, maintain stability, and help them rebuild their homes.”

Chemezov’s words described a despicable method, but from the perspective of national strategy, it was difficult to fault. Varennikov coughed and asked, “Are you planning to use this company to solve the resettlement problem for the majority of the personnel after the downsizing?”

Chemezov grew more excited as he spoke. He leaned forward, hands on the table, and smiled. “Exactly. And when it comes to war, who is a match for our Soviet Red Army? What’s more, the staff will be paid in US dollars. Even if they die in a foreign country, their families will receive compensation far higher than that of other domestic soldiers, based on the international exchange rate.”

“This way, we’ll need weapons trainers, contract soldiers, construction workers, and so on. And we’ll be backed by a powerful nation, so no small, foolish country would dare to cross us. The company will also possess the military strength to overthrow the governments of small African nations. Of course, those who intervene in wars will not do so in the name of the state. They will need another, less controversial name.”

Although Chemezov didn’t understand Yanayev’s order that the company’s paramilitary personnel were forbidden from wearing camouflage and could only wear company-issued civilian clothing, he still faithfully carried out the instructions. He even had a name ready for the personnel deployed on missions. “They will be called private military contractors. Not illegal mercenaries, but legal war contract workers.”

Chapter 37: The Tragedy of Small Nations

News of the Soviet Union’s impending large-scale military cutbacks quickly set off a new round of turmoil in the international community. For the NATO countries, led by the United States, “shocked” was unequivocally the most accurate word to describe the expressions on their leaders’ faces.

“Damn it! Those Soviets played us! They played us for fools!” Brent had never seen Bush so furious. He slammed the documents from his desk onto the floor, but that wasn’t enough to quell his rage. He pounded the desk with both fists, filled with righteous indignation. “If we had just pressed the Soviet Union a little harder on the Baltic issue, they definitely would have yielded! My God, how could all those intelligence analysts at the Pentagon not see that Yanayev was deceiving you!”

Of course, I was the one who insisted on continuing to pressure the Soviets, Brent grumbled inwardly, but you and your European allies were the ones who ultimately chose to withdraw your troops. So I’m to blame? And is this the first time the Soviets have made a fool of us? When we signed the Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty with Brezhnev, didn’t the Americans think it was a triumph of reason? And after the Soviet Union’s unprecedented Zapad-81 military exercise in 1981, didn’t the West conclude that the Warsaw Pact’s sea of tanks could wipe out NATO’s garrisons in Central Europe and reach the gates of Paris within a week? Has our supreme leader still not learned any lessons from these events?

Of course, Brent couldn’t say any of this out loud. He could only try to console Bush. “But Mister President, at the very least, we’ve learned something crucial from the Soviet military cutbacks: their weak economy can no longer sustain the enormous military expenditures for their armored forces. So from now on, we should adjust our strategic objective to focus on completely crushing the Soviet economy. That way, even if they have a massive arsenal of weapons, they’ll go bankrupt simply because they have no money to maintain it.”

“That’s easy to say, but how do we crush the Soviet economy? It’s obvious the Soviets have already found a way to counter our ideological propaganda offensive. What’s more, Pentagon intelligence analysis indicates that since the Soviet Union adopted Ryzhkov’s economic policies, there’s a seventy-four percent chance they will pull themselves out of their economic predicament.”

“Doesn’t that still leave a twenty-six percent chance of failure? We just need to pour oil on the fire of their already struggling economy. No matter how effective their reforms are, they won’t stand up to a real-world collapse,” Brent said.

Bush nodded. He wanted to make the Soviet economic situation worse—to add frost to snow. Bush picked up a file and tossed it to Brent. “So, don’t we still have that fellow, Leo Wanta? According to this file, back in the 1980s, this CIA agent named Wanta was ordered directly by President Reagan to engage in a secret financial war aimed at subverting the Soviet ruble. The secret operation he designed was codenamed ‘The Great Ruble Scam,’ and it’s been in the works for several years. It’s time for this guy to have his moment in the sun.”

Brent was also one of the few privy to the Wanta plan. In the proposal Wanta had presented to Brent, he stated that with the help of co-conspirators inside the Soviet Union, he would complete a highly profitable transaction: buying one hundred and forty billion rubles with five billion U.S. dollars, a rate double the black market. Then, this year, he would massively short two thousand tons of gold on the London gold market. With that, the already feeble Soviet economy, which was barely surviving on its meager earnings from gold exports, would collapse. The plunge in gold prices would be the final nail in the Soviet Union’s coffin. Afterward, Wanta would implement the next phase of his plan: acquiring a vast amount of assets from the Soviet Union to hollow out the Red Polar Bear.

This operation had been waiting for Bush’s approval. Due to the inexplicable changes in the Soviet situation a year ago, Wanta’s operation was delayed by a few months compared to its historical timeline. The Americans, believing their plan was flawless, were naturally unaware that these changes involved the secret manipulations of a certain transmigrator. They simply treated it as a case of force majeure and continued to prepare the operation according to the original plan.

“Is the President preparing to use Wanta, this particular pawn?” Brent asked. He was now somewhat worried. Half a year ago, he would have supported Leo Wanta’s plan without hesitation, but this time, he had a feeling things wouldn’t be so simple.

But President Bush had lost his reason in his anger. He urgently needed to win back a round in this political game to save face; otherwise, America would be unable to hold its head high among its NATO allies. So, no matter what it took, he had to teach the Soviets a profound lesson.

“Absolutely. Have Wanta come to my office at once. I want to personally discuss the specific implementation steps of this plan with him.” The now-calm President had the seeds of hatred fully ignited within him. He would show Yanayev the full force of America’s counterattack and sanctions.

While some worried, others rejoiced. With the military threat from the north hanging over their southern neighbor lifted, they could finally take a deep breath. They no longer had to live in constant fear that the machine of violence to the north would suddenly have a brain fart and send its iron torrent to flatten them. After all, their three eastern provinces were plains with no strategic depth. If the enemy were to launch a large-scale offensive, they would be utterly powerless to stop the advance of those tank treads.

Following the military downsizing in the Far East, Yanayev immediately issued a statement, declaring a willingness to set aside disputes with his neighbor over contested northern border regions and pursue joint development. This was a signal of goodwill from the Soviet Union. The southern neighbor, whose economy had also faced immense difficulties since the NATO military and economic sanctions, was seeking new opportunities for development as part of its agenda. The Soviet overture offered them a new glimmer of hope.

Years of struggle in a complex international environment had cultivated a cautious character in the southern neighbor. In response to the Soviet Union’s goodwill, they merely offered a few noncommittal platitudes without any further commitment. But Yanayev was already satisfied with their reaction. An ice-breaking journey couldn’t be completed overnight, but this seemed like a decent start.

The Soviet Union’s friendly gesture terrified a host of smaller Southeast Asian nations, especially those neighbors who had long-standing disputes with the great East Asian power. They had previously relied on Soviet generosity to confront their vast neighbor. The General Secretary of Vietnam, for example, cautiously stated that they were a strategic partner to the Soviet Union, separated only by a narrow strip of water, and reaffirmed the friendly relations between the two countries. But Yanayev merely scoffed. Who was on friendly terms with those Vietnamese monkeys? Vietnam had only ever been a pawn to contain the rise of the great power. Now that the two countries were preparing to join forces in the Asia-Pacific, there was no longer a place for small nations like them.

The political influence exerted by the two great socialist powers uniting in the Asia-Pacific region was something NATO and the United States could not have foreseen. The union of these Asia-Pacific superpowers would also bring terrible political pressure to bear on the small countries of East and Southeast Asia. To borrow a line from a song, the picture was too dreadful to imagine.

In recent days, the foreign policy chiefs and high-ranking officials of various small nations had been working themselves to the bone. They gathered to discuss the impact of the sudden shift in the East Asian situation, but the results were, without exception, depressing. With the two socialist giants moving toward an alliance, the smaller neighboring countries with conflicting interests would have to sacrifice those interests to preserve themselves. China, after its experiences with a pack of ungrateful beneficiaries like Vietnam and Albania, had already started acting like a hegemonic power. Paired with a Red Polar Bear that had lost its spirit of communist internationalism and now fantasized all day about how to profit from arms sales to other nations, the most likely outcome for these smaller countries was that the two superpowers would unite to carve up their interests completely. The question of which side to take was simply a choice between the distant Free World of America and the looming radiance of Communism right on their doorstep.

To submit or to die—this would likely become the question that leaders of several small countries would rack their brains over in the near future. However, there were also leaders who couldn’t see the situation clearly and would misjudge the current political climate based on the massive Soviet disarmament, thinking it was simply a matter of economic problems preventing them from maintaining their huge military expenditures.

Without a doubt, Japanese Prime Minister Toshiki Kaifu was one such national leader who failed to grasp the situation.

Chapter 38: Japan’s Ambition

As a candidate for the Liberal Democratic Party, Japanese Prime Minister Toshiki Kaifu was elected on August 9, 1989. His term ended in late 1991. During his time in office, he witnessed the peak of Japan’s bubble economy, as well as the initial stages of the stock market and real estate collapse. This prime minister, who served for 812 days, would also become one of Japan’s longest-serving leaders of the 1990s.

Of course, the Soviet Union’s economic difficulties gave this prime minister of a confident economic superpower hope of reclaiming the four Northern Territories. In April of this year, Gorbachev became the first Soviet president to visit Japan since World War II. While Toshiki Kaifu promised to provide aid for the Soviet economic crisis, he also demanded the return of the four Northern Territories occupied by the Soviet Union. Naturally, Gorbachev refused.

Toshiki Kaifu changed his strategy because he had received news from his friends at the White House (Russian) that after downsizing the army, the Soviets would turn their attention to the navy, especially the Pacific Fleet. This was wonderful news for Japan. If he could resolve the Northern Territories issue, which had been a standoff for nearly half a century, he would become one of the greatest prime ministers in Japanese history.

So he urgently summoned the Director-General of the Japan Defense Agency, Nakatani Gen, to analyze the likelihood of reclaiming the Northern Territories from the Soviet Union at this time.

As of now, Toshiki Kaifu remained optimistic about the sustainable development of the Japanese economy. He believed that Japan had already become a first-rate economic power and should therefore actively pursue the rights of a major political power. If he could create an opening through the Soviet Union’s international troubles, Japan’s performance would surely impress the Western nations.

“Your Excellency, are you saying we should take a hardline stance in negotiations over the Soviet-held Northern Territories? Isn’t that a bit abrupt? After all, we haven’t prepared sufficient bargaining chips on this issue.” Nakatani Gen was younger than Toshiki Kaifu and considered matters more cautiously. If not for the US-Japan Security Treaty restricting his talents, Nakatani Gen would have been far more outstanding than the historically mediocre Director-Generals of the Defense Agency. His later efforts as Minister of Defense to abolish the civilian control system revealed ambitions no smaller than those of his war criminal ancestors.

“Mr. Nakatani, you must understand that the Soviet Union is on the verge of collapse. If we apply diplomatic pressure at this moment, we should have a good chance of taking back the Northern Territories. Even if we can’t reclaim all the islands, getting back even a part of them would give us significant leverage at the negotiating table, forcing the Soviets to retreat and compromise.” Toshiki Kaifu paced back and forth, his excitement growing at the thought of the Red Polar Bear being humbled at his hands. For more than half a century, apart from the Russo-Japanese War, Japan had never gotten the better of Russia.

Of course, Japan itself was currently on the brink of its own economic bubble bursting, but the false prosperity blinded Toshiki Kaifu to the signs of the coming economic decline.

“Think about it. We’ve been militarily suppressed by the Soviet Union for nearly a century. Today, we can finally use economic means to sanction these Siberian barbarians.” The more Toshiki Kaifu spoke, the more excited he became. He wished he could draft a proposal and start negotiating with the Soviet Union right away.

“Why don’t we wait a little longer? Let’s bring up our demands for the Northern Territories when the Soviets actually start downsizing their Pacific Fleet.” Nakatani Gen offered a more moderate suggestion. A dying polar bear, in a final flash of life before death, could still lash out and bite a horrific, bloody chunk out of Japan.

“No, no, no. I can’t wait. We must negotiate with the Soviets now. Delays bring new problems, Nakatani. Haven’t you seen that the newly appointed Soviet President, Gennady Yanayev, is preparing for a new round of systemic reforms? If the Soviet Union recovers from this crisis, our chance to reclaim the Northern Territories will become slim again.” Toshiki Kaifu sat back down in his chair. He had his own reasons. Based on his intuition, this was the Soviet Union’s most difficult period, and thus an excellent opportunity for the Japanese to take advantage of the crisis.

“I will be visiting the Maritime Self-Defense Force in a few days. Mr. Nakatani, please make thorough preparations. You must showcase the gallant and heroic bearing of our Self-Defense Force before the media’s cameras.” The prime minister added one last thing, “If the Soviets refuse to comply, we’ll drag the Americans into this turmoil. I’m sure that after the setback they just suffered over the Baltic states, they won’t pass up such a good opportunity to pressure the Soviet Union.”

Isn’t that just being America’s dog again? Nakatani Gen muttered under his breath. But he couldn’t possibly say those words aloud, so he just nodded perfunctorily, already planning how to use the Kongō-class destroyers to display the might of the Japanese naval forces without looking inferior in the presence of the Kiev-class aircraft carriers.

“Yes, Mr. Prime Minister. I will make sure everyone is thoroughly impressed by the Maritime Self-Defense Force.” Nakatani Gen nodded earnestly. Handling public relations was one of his strengths.

There was just one thing Toshiki Kaifu had forgotten. At its peak, the Soviet Navy could conduct war exercises with all four of its fleets in different seas simultaneously. The so-called Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force was nowhere near that level. Ninety years ago, Japan had gotten lucky against a declining Tsarist Russia. Ninety years later, a lucky Japan was no match for even a declining Red Polar Bear.

Toshiki Kaifu was a man of his word. A few days later, he announced an official visit to the Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force. On a clear and beautiful day, he boarded a Kongō-class destroyer, a source of Japanese pride. Nakatani Gen had indeed done a splendid job for the media. A pristine, gray-black destroyer was presented to the press, and equally eye-catching were the handpicked, tall, and formidable-looking naval personnel. A formation of airborne early warning helicopters and P-2 maritime patrol aircraft flew over Toshiki Kaifu’s head. The neat and solemn array gave him an unrealistic illusion of a powerful navy.

If not for the reality of having no aircraft carriers and the US military’s presence in Okinawa, the Japanese reporters might have almost believed they had returned to the level of the World War II-era Imperial Navy.

Standing on the destroyer, Toshiki Kaifu’s heart swelled with emotion. The visit culminated in a speech by the prime minister to the members of the Maritime Self-Defense Force. He stood at a temporary podium set up on the ship’s deck, while below him sat naval personnel meticulously arranged by Nakatani Gen.

At that moment, Nakatani Gen, who had orchestrated the entire event, stood beside Toshiki Kaifu and asked with a smile in a low voice, “Mr. Prime Minister, are you satisfied with the scene I’ve arranged?”

Feeling the cool sea breeze on the deck, Toshiki Kaifu replied with great satisfaction, “Of course I’m satisfied, Mr. Nakatani. You have presented a perfect image of our new era Self-Defense Force.”

Then he turned to face the SDF members below, who were listening intently to his speech, and said with impassioned emotion, “Standing here today, seeing all of you full of passion and hope, I am greatly comforted. Our nation, Japan, has endured all kinds of hardships, yet we have never forgotten to develop our military strength to protect our country. Similarly, even in these peaceful and stable times, in regions where some disputes remain unresolved, our military deterrence is still needed.”

A reporter interrupted him at a well-timed pause, “Mr. Prime Minister, will you really increase military spending for the Self-Defense Force? Won’t that be seen as a resurgence of the militarist right-wing?”

Toshiki Kaifu stated resolutely, “It will not. The Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force exists to maintain peace and unity. But that does not mean we will turn a blind eye to others occupying Japan’s maritime islands for decades. We insist on resolving these disputes through negotiation.”

At this point, he stroked the cold hull of the destroyer and said slowly, “But this does not mean our armed forces will sit idly by. Against any nation that attempts to split off our sacred and inalienable territory, the Japan Navy will fight a resolute struggle.”

Thunderous applause erupted from below. Many members of the Self-Defense Force hoped the navy could break free from the constraints of treaties and become a true national power. After all, every Japanese naval officer dreamed of restoring the great power an strength of the World War II Imperial Navy.

Moreover, any fool could tell which country the Japanese prime minister was targeting. And Toshiki Kaifu had deliberately used the term “Japan Navy” instead of “Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force.” Did this difference in name signify that the Japanese government, usually weak on island issues, was preparing for hardline negotiations this time? The media furiously scribbled down every word of Kaifu’s speech, preparing the headlines for the next day’s papers.

But everyone was left wondering: would this round of negotiations, like all the others before it, end in nothing?

Chapter 39: At a Loss Whether to Laugh or Cry

After visiting the Self-Defense Forces, Prime Minister Toshiki Kaifu announced his desire to sit at the negotiating table with the Soviet Union for peace talks. For a time, Japanese newspapers were filled with photos of the prime minister giving a speech on a destroyer, accompanied by his remarks about reorganizing Japan’s naval forces. This caused an uproar in public opinion.

Moreover, Toshiki Kaifu used the domestic media to build political momentum for himself, crafting the image of a strong Japanese leader with a hardline foreign policy. One reason for this was to increase his votes. He would soon face a new prime ministerial election. Even if he ultimately failed to reclaim the Northern Territories and simply returned empty-handed with the situation at a stalemate, he could still win the people’s support.

Far away in Moscow, Yanayev also saw the news story, which had been printed in Soviet newspapers. Yanayev was enjoying a rare opportunity to escape his busy work schedule, basking in the warm afternoon sun on the balcony of the presidential resort villa in the suburbs. He read the Japanese prime minister’s speech word for word, shaking his head with a disdainful expression. He muttered to himself, “The greatest tragedy for a country is when its comprehensive strength cannot match its rapidly swelling political ambitions. After experiencing explosive economic growth, Japan’s economic bubble must be on the verge of collapsing. The United States’ Plaza Accord lit the fuse. This year, Japan’s real estate economy will suffer an avalanche-like collapse. I’m just a little curious… when exactly will their economy crumble?”

Behind him, Pavlov was grinding coffee in the kitchen. Foreign Minister Boris Dmitriyevich was sitting on the large sofa on the balcony. In private, Yanayev didn’t put on any airs as a leader, so Boris didn’t feel constrained or nervous in the presence of his two superiors.

“Who knows? Let the Japanese solve their own economic problems. What we need to solve is the unavoidable island dispute,” the Foreign Minister, Boris, said, crossing his arms. “It’s obvious this leader of a small country to our south wants to take a risk and carve off a piece of flesh from us while the Soviet Union is in its most difficult economic period. When Gorbachev visited Japan this year, the Japanese prime minister proposed a deal of ‘islands for economic aid,’ but nothing ever came of it.”

“Are you saying the Japanese heard we were preparing for military cutbacks and decided to take another gamble?” Yanayev was a bit surprised. He hadn’t expected the outside world to interpret the Soviet disarmament in this way. If the Soviet economy were truly in such dire straits, they wouldn’t be starting with small-scale trials—they would be desperately selling off the entire military.

“It seems the Japanese are determined to take a chance and get their Northern Territories back through negotiations and political pressure. Of course, these defeated foes of our Far East Army have no right to negotiate with us,” Pavlov said scornfully as he came in with the coffee.

“But I don’t think it’s that simple,” Yanayev said, pondering Japan’s next move. He stood up and walked to the railing. The villa was surrounded by birch trees, and one of Yanayev’s favorite things to do was to stare at these birch forests in a daze. In this peaceful atmosphere, his thoughts gradually became clearer. He turned back to Pavlov and said, “Just now, when we were discussing the Northern Territories issue and the Japanese government’s attitude, we forgot something very important.”

“What is it?” Boris and Pavlov asked in unison.

“Hold on a moment,” Yanayev said. He turned and walked into the living room, then took a book on the Japanese political system from a shelf. He flipped to the page he was looking for, his eyes finally settling on the third line. Then, as if waking from a dream, Yanayev let out a breath.

Pavlov, curious, leaned in closer and asked, “What is it, Comrade Yanayev?”

“We’ve been overlooking something this whole time: the Japanese prime minister’s general election,” Yanayev, now enlightened, explained to Pavlov and Boris. “The Japanese government’s general election is next month. If I’m not mistaken, the reason Toshiki Kaifu is showing such a tough attitude right now is simply to win more popular support.”

Boris scratched his head, confused. “It’s true that the island dispute will stir up nationalist sentiment, but to say it will win him popular support is a bit of an exaggeration. They’re just sitting down at the negotiating table with us to discuss things that are destined to go nowhere. It’s not like we’re just going to hand over the four islands to the Japanese.”

Yanayev shook his head. “You’re mistaken, Comrade Boris. In fact, Toshiki Kaifu will have achieved his goal as soon as he gets us to the negotiating table. Think about it. Kaifu’s speech on the Kongō-class destroyer and the display of the new warship all point to his desire to fabricate an illusion of Japan’s powerful navy. This is to satisfy the inflated national self-confidence of the public, which has grown along with the country’s rapid economic development. If we choose to negotiate, it will be seen as Japan’s naval power forcing the Soviet Union to submit and willingly come to the table. That way, regardless of whether Toshiki Kaifu succeeds or not, his political polling numbers will shoot up like a mathematical function.”

At this point, Yanayev was at a loss whether to laugh or cry. “I never expected Toshiki Kaifu to be so cunning. This move doesn’t provoke us Soviets, yet it also panders to the self-confidence of his own people. What an old fox.”

“Of course, we won’t let Prime Minister Kaifu’s plan succeed,” Yanayev said, drumming his fingers on the table as he considered how to make Japan lose face over this issue. The Soviet Union certainly couldn’t do what it did during the Baltic crisis and send tanks and bombers directly into the territory of a member republic. Japan was a sovereign nation; such a provocation would be tantamount to declaring war.

Another Pacific Fleet military exercise? Yanayev shook his head. The Soviet Union was in a period of fiscal austerity. He would absolutely not support something as costly and strenuous as a military exercise.

Suddenly, a flash of inspiration struck him. Yanayev shot up from the table, startling both Boris and Pavlov. He said, “Comrade Pavlov, I’d like you to go to Tokyo for a meeting with Toshiki Kaifu. And Comrade Boris, as soon as Pavlov arrives in Tokyo, I want you to immediately draft and release a statement declaring that the Southern Kuril Islands are an inalienable and inherent territory of the Soviet Union.”

“Is there any point in doing this?” Boris asked, confused.

“Of course there is,” Yanayev said, narrowing his eyes. He gazed at the green foliage outside the window and said with a smile, “Since Toshiki Kaifu wants to use the Northern Territories issue for a political show to rake in votes, we can also use the Southern Kuril Islands issue for a political show of our own—one that will change our image in the eyes of our people.”

Chapter 40: A Visit to Japan

Prime Minister Toshiki Kaifu of Japan extended a peace olive branch to the Soviet Union with ulterior motives. Just when everyone thought the Soviets would arrogantly reject Japan’s request, their reaction once again took the world by surprise. Prime Minister Pavlov announced that he would visit Japan for a friendly consultation on the issue of the Northern Territories.

The Slavic people, long known for their bellicosity and hardline stance, were actually willing to sit down and negotiate with their old rival. This sent the elite political aides of governments around the world scrambling once again, all trying to analyze the Soviet Union’s intentions. The White House Chief of Staff, Samuel Skinner, pointed out that the Soviets were displaying fearsome intransigence on the Baltic issue while showing a completely different, gentle side in the island dispute. This could only mean one of two things: either the Soviet Union was strong in appearance but weak on the inside, or it had been throwing up smokescreens to the Free World all along, hiding its true strength. After all, they were well-versed in such deceptive tactics.

As the hot summer was drawing to a close, Pavlov flew to Japan aboard the Ilyushin presidential plane. Although this move was slightly unconventional by international standards, Toshiki Kaifu was nevertheless satisfied with the mild stance the Soviet Union was showing. When the special plane entered Japanese airspace, the Defense Agency’s Self-Defense Forces even dispatched two F-16 fighter jets to escort it all the way to Tokyo’s Narita Airport.

Sitting in his seat, Pavlov watched the ever-changing scenery outside his window, a hint of anger welling up inside him. He had always been opposed to the political show Yanayev had proposed. If something were to happen to the President, his own inability to escape blame would be secondary; the loss of an outstanding helmsman for the Soviet Union would be the most fatal blow.

Of course, not even Minister of Defense Yazov, Air Force Commander-in-Chief Shaposhnikov, and Navy Commander-in-Chief Chernavin had been able to sway the stubborn Yanayev. They had no choice but to proceed with this “dangerous political show” according to Yanayev’s plan. When Pavlov questioned Varennikov about why he hadn’t tried to talk Yanayev out of his reckless behavior, the man had replied mysteriously, “Do you really think General Secretary Yanayev is doing this just on a whim?”

Of course, Yanayev’s mood at this moment was likely as apprehensive as the president who had once ridden a Siberian brown bear. The only difference was that that picture was a photoshop, whereas Yanayev was taking a real risk on the edge of another country’s territorial waters.

“Prime Minister Pavlov, we have arrived at Narita Airport.” Andrei Kharkov, a KGB agent dressed in a neat suit, walked up to the Prime Minister and reminded him softly that it was time to disembark.

Snapping back to reality, Pavlov smiled and nodded at Andrei. Escorted by a group of bodyguards, he stood up and walked out of the cabin. After a six-hour flight, he had finally arrived in this warm island nation to the southeast of the Soviet Union. The latitude was much lower than Moscow’s, and as soon as he stepped out of the cabin, the scorching, dazzling sunlight made him feel as if he were on a summer vacation in Vladivostok.

A grand honor guard played a cheerful tune, and a red carpet stretched from the base of the aircraft stairs all the way to Toshiki Kaifu’s feet. Pavlov looked up and saw the Japanese Prime Minister smiling at him and applauding gently, occasionally saying something to the people beside him.

Unfortunately, the surrounding noise was too loud, and Pavlov, who had learned some Japanese at the Moscow University of Finance, couldn’t make out what Toshiki Kaifu was saying. By the time he walked past the neatly dressed honor guard and stood before Prime Minister Kaifu, Kaifu grasped his hand and said, “Welcome to Japan, Prime Minister Pavlov.”

Before Kaifu’s interpreter could speak, Pavlov beat him to it, replying in fluent Japanese, “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Prime Minister Toshiki Kaifu. The Soviet Union and Japan are friendly neighbors, separated only by a narrow strip of water. This is also the second Soviet visit to Japan this year, following that of our General Secretary Gorbachev. I hope that the relationship between our two countries can become increasingly harmonious, and that we can consult together and make progress on certain disputed issues.”

Pavlov’s Russian-accented Japanese was a bit of a surprise to the Prime Minister, but when he heard that disputed issues could be discussed jointly, Toshiki Kaifu’s eyes lit up. His sharp political mind made him realize that this ice-breaking journey might truly present a breakthrough in getting the Northern Territories back from the Soviet Union.

If the Japanese Prime Minister had paid a little more attention to Pavlov’s face at that moment, he would have noticed the faint look of contempt in the other man’s eyes. These words were simply a smokescreen released to distract Japan. The Soviet Union’s true purpose would only be revealed when they were at the negotiating table, where they would bare their fangs and claws.

Yanayev had once laughingly made an analogy to Pavlov: before we reveal our ferocious nature, let the Japanese think we’re a harmless rabbit with its eyes fixed on nothing but a little bit of money.

The subsequent itinerary was no different from other state visits. To do the honors as a host, Toshiki Kaifu took Pavlov on a tour of the various gardens of the Meiji Shrine. In the Meiji Shrine Inner Garden, Pavlov praised the oriental architecture, which he compared in historical significance to the Tsar’s Palace in Moscow, and said that if possible, he would kindly ask Japanese architects to build one in Moscow to symbolize the friendship between the Soviet Union and Japan.

Pavlov’s words were overwhelmingly flattering to Toshiki Kaifu, who interpreted them as a tactful request for a loan from Japan. Of course, Pavlov couldn’t say anything to spoil the mood at this point and could only play along to satisfy Kaifu’s imagination.

This led to one of history’s more amusing scenes: one leader spouting insincere words, while the other desperately tried to read between the lines like a student doing a reading comprehension exercise, guessing at what the first was actually thinking.

Next came Toshiki Kaifu’s main event, intended to show Pavlov the rapid economic development Japan had undergone in the past decade. On this sunny afternoon, he took Pavlov to visit the Tokyo Tower. From the special observation deck, one could overlook the entire bustling prosperity of Tokyo.

Pavlov stood on the observation deck, looking down at the city. It was unlike the bleak and desolate Moscow. Tokyo was like a young, booming metropolis—its streets crowded, its transport system advanced, and filled with a modern atmosphere. Tokyo’s thriving finance and economy attracted elites from all over the world, turning it into a prosperous international city.

The silent forest of steel seemed to mock Pavlov and the socialism he was trying so hard to build, a system where people still couldn’t fill their bellies. The wind whipping between the tall buildings made him unable to open his eyes, which were turning a little red.

“How do you feel, Prime Minister Pavlov?” Seeing the silent Soviet Prime Minister, Toshiki Kaifu smiled knowingly. It seemed his gamble had paid off. In his eyes, the Soviet leader’s demeanor was undoubtedly that of someone who now saw Japan as a trustworthy creditor. Once these Russians asked for money, the Northern Territories issue would become much easier.

“Japan’s rapid development in recent years has truly been an eye-opener for us,” Pavlov said, the shock he felt atop the Tokyo Tower being utterly genuine. “Previously, we socialist countries always emphasized equality but forgot that economic development and the common prosperity of the people are equally important. Thank you, Prime Minister Toshiki Kaifu. Japan has taught the Soviet Union an unforgettable lesson.”

Facing Pavlov’s praise, Toshiki Kaifu seemed rather flattered. He said humbly, “Not at all. Everyone knows the Soviet Union’s achievements in heavy industry are there for all to see. We still have much to learn as well.”

This time, it was not perfunctory praise but words from the bottom of his heart. Yanayev had discussed the importance of economic development with him before, but he hadn’t fully understood it then. The shock Pavlov felt now was truly immense, and he finally understood the good intentions behind Yanayev’s actions.

A silence fell between the two men. With their own plans in mind, the two leaders stood on the tower, seemingly admiring the scenery and listening to the guide’s introduction, but in reality, they were drafting their opening moves and strategies for the upcoming negotiations. Pavlov gave the towering skyscrapers outside the window a cursory glance, having finally seen all the sights.

In the end, it was Toshiki Kaifu who broke the deadlock, his tone somewhat cautious. “Comrade Pavlov, how about we have dinner and then begin the formal negotiations on the island issue?”

“Of course,” Pavlov said, turning his head. “I’m sure this will be a very pleasant ice-breaking journey.”

Chapter 41: Nakhodka

“Mr. President, Mr. President, wait a moment, please listen to me. There’s really no need for you to personally undertake such a risky act. We have the best aircrews, perfectly capable of handling these missions. You just need to sit in the control tower and watch their every move. I guarantee they will complete the mission successfully.” Air Force Commander-in-Chief Yevgeny Ivanovich Shaposhnikov hurriedly blocked Gennady Yanayev’s path, his tone almost pleading as he tried to detain the Soviet President. It wasn’t just Shaposhnikov; behind him stood the even more bewildered head of the Nakhodka Air Base, Colonel Sergei, who seemed to have no right to speak in the presence of two such high-ranking leaders.

A few dozen meters away from Shaposhnikov, a massive Backfire bomber was parked on the runway. The angel of death had spread its wings, ready to embrace the sky. The destination for this flight was crystal clear: the airspace over the Northern Territories. It was a declaration to all that this was the sacred and inviolable red sovereign territory of the Soviets, which no one was permitted to covet.

Yanayev, dressed in a pilot’s uniform, turned his head and looked impatiently at Shaposhnikov’s incessant chatter, cutting him off. “General Shaposhnikov, you’ve been buzzing in my ear like this since last night. Are you hoping I go completely deaf? Or are you hoping this demonstration flight will be a complete failure?”

“No, no, no, I swear to the Soviet that’s not what I mean,” Shaposhnikov said anxiously. “You are the leader of a country. If some accident were to happen over the Northern Territories, how would the Soviet government explain it to the entire nation? And what would become of the Soviet economy, which is just beginning to recover from its difficulties?”

“That’s enough.” Yanayev stopped him. He tilted his head toward Colonel Sergei and said, “Excuse me, uh, Colonel Sergei, is it? Could you please leave us for a moment? I have something to discuss privately with your superior.”

Eager to leave, Sergei breathed a sigh of relief at Yanayev’s words and quickly departed, leaving a stubborn-looking Shaposhnikov waiting for Yanayev’s rebuttal.

But Yanayev didn’t resort to grand arguments. He simply asked in a low voice, “Comrade Shaposhnikov, let me just ask you one question. You come from a military family, don’t you? I want to know, did your father fight to the death against the Fascists in the Great Patriotic War?”

Shaposhnikov was stunned. He hadn’t expected Yanayev to suddenly bring this up. He could only nod silently, wondering what this unorthodox General Secretary was trying to say now.

Yanayev’s expression grew serious. He stared at the setting sun sinking behind Shaposhnikov. The evening clouds glowed with a myriad of colors, their light falling directly upon the sculpture of the Soviet Hammer and Sickle, creating a scene that was both magnificent and somber. Yanayev took a breath and said slowly, “Back then in Stalingrad, knowing that one step forward meant exposing oneself to Fascist gunfire, did our fathers ever retreat?”

The unexpected question left Shaposhnikov speechless. After a moment of silence, he nodded helplessly and said seriously, “No, Mr. President. Not a single one of them ever retreated.”

“Then do you think that I, as the leader of a country, as the highest standard-bearer of the Soviet, would ever think of retreating when the Party and the country are facing difficulties?” Just as Yanayev finished speaking, an Su-27 fighter jet taking off roared down the runway, its engines thundering. The blast of air whipped Yanayev’s clothes, making them flutter wildly. Bathed in the glow of the sunset, he looked like the supreme leader from a red political propaganda poster, a radiant light shining from behind him.

“No.” Shaposhnikov said this single word with extreme difficulty. It felt as if something was stuck in his throat, choking his voice. For a fleeting moment, he remembered his father, dressed in a khaki military uniform, leaving home. He was still waving goodbye to his mother, whose eyes were blurry with tears.

Yanayev narrowed his eyes and spoke earnestly, “If you want to know what I will do next, I can tell you this: I will not flinch in the slightest, just like our fathers in the Great Patriotic War. The red republic needs people like you and me to protect it, so that future generations will be willing to defend it with their own blood. If even we retreat, the great ideal we have striven for for nearly a century will come crashing down.”

Whether influenced by the heroic and solemn mood Yanayev had created, Shaposhnikov felt a surge of passion, like he was facing Nazi artillery fire once more. He took a step forward to stand beside Yanayev and said excitedly, “Since the General Secretary himself is willing to lead from the front, how could we possibly hide in the back? We may be old, but the passion of our youth is still with us.”

“That’s enough of that.” Yanayev shot him a look and teased, “The specially modified cockpit of the Backfire only has room for one extra person. With your portly figure, you’d better not fight me for the seat. The cockpit is crowded enough as it is.”

“Perfect, then I’ll go. The General Secretary can wait for the good news of our victory in the control tower,” Shaposhnikov joked.

“Then you just wait here, Shaposhnikov. Wait for the good news of our triumphant return.” As Shaposhnikov was about to walk with Yanayev toward the Backfire bomber waiting for takeoff, Yanayev, without turning his head, said something thought-provoking, “Also, do you know why I chose you, Shaposhnikov, and not Chernavin?”

Shaposhnikov was a bit confused.

Yanayev continued as if to himself, “Because you are far more politically correct than that old man. Of course, I’m only telling you this in private. I hope you won’t repeat it. I don’t want to hear any rumors circulating that the supreme leader and the Commander-in-Chief of the Navy are at odds.”

Shaposhnikov was momentarily stunned, but he quickly understood the meaning behind the General Secretary’s words. He quickly replied, “Rest assured, President Yanayev, I will never speak of this to anyone.” At the same time, he gloated inwardly at Chernavin’s misfortune. It seemed the upcoming Great Purge would likely extend to the military. Yanayev’s words also meant that Shaposhnikov had been excluded from the impending purge and could safely remain a bystander.

Shaposhnikov followed Yanayev to the Backfire bomber’s flight crew. Seeing the supreme leader of the Soviet Union, the young men instantly straightened their backs and saluted excitedly, “Greetings, General Secretary! Greetings, Commander!”

“Relax, son,” Yanayev said, patting one of the men on his tense shoulder, signaling for him to ease up. Seeing the supreme leader’s amiable and approachable demeanor, the pilots’ nervousness subsided considerably.

“Young soldier, what’s your name?” Yanayev asked kindly.

“Reporting to the President, my name is Vasily Ivanovich Grechko,” the young soldier replied, his head held high, looking vigorous in the sunset’s glow.

Yanayev nodded and said, “Very good, Comrade Vasily. Our Soviet Union needs new blood like you to provide a ceaseless driving force for our great ideal. Of course, not everyone can understand our cause, but no one can deny its greatness. Today, I am not the supreme leader of the Soviet Union, but just an ordinary man who loves his motherland, like all of you. Let’s make those who try to blockade and attack us taste the might of the iron fist of Communism. I, like you, have sworn an oath: to defend the Soviet Union to the death, to defend the land beneath my feet to the death, and to defend the people I deeply love to the death.”

“We will be sure to remember your teachings, Mr. President,” Vasily said with excitement. He had been a little nervous at first, as rumors described the supreme leader of the Soviet Union as an ill-tempered man. But after meeting him today, he found him to be a kind and ordinary person without any bureaucratic airs.

Only Shaposhnikov, standing to the side, quietly took in every one of Yanayev’s actions. From striking at bureaucracy and closing the distance with the masses, to now firmly grasping the principle of ‘the Party commands the gun,’ there was no doubt that Yanayev was creating a personality cult, shaping himself into the savior of the Soviet Union. As long as he had a massive and loyal base among the people, he could, like Stalin, establish an unshakeable position as the supreme leader.

Shaposhnikov finally understood where ********** had failed. He had abandoned the grassroots masses loyal to the Soviet Union and the Party, merely using the flesh and blood of the Soviet to feed a pack of restless and insatiable white-eyed wolves, until their appetites grew too large to control. In the end, they would devour the entire Soviet Union and transform themselves into the nation’s political oligarchs.

Yanayev, on the other hand, was starting from the grassroots, creating the image of a leader devoted to the people and gradually winning their trust.

“General Secretary Yanayev, you truly are an extraordinary man,” Shaposhnikov thought to himself. He stood on the tarmac, waving goodbye to Yanayev, and waited in Nakhodka for his return, waiting for him to lead the Soviet Republic toward glory and a great rejuvenation.

Chapter 42: Backfire Over the Kurils (Part 1)

A state banquet in Japan typically includes tuna sashimi, Hokkaido king crab, sea urchin sashimi, and Kobe steak. For Pavlov, who was trying this “primitive” way of eating for the first time, it was undoubtedly a challenge. However, the moment he put it in his mouth, he found he loved the cold, raw, yet delicious Japanese cuisine. Moreover, the nation’s most skilled chefs had arranged the dishes to be so appealing in color, aroma, and flavor that one couldn’t bear to put down their chopsticks.

The Soviet delegation, accustomed to knives and forks, may not have been used to Eastern chopsticks, but that didn’t stop the meticulously arranged banquet from receiving high praise from the Soviet government officials. During the dinner, Toshiki Kaifu raised his glass to toast the friendship between the Soviet Union and Japan. Pavlov, just as insincerely, clinked his glass in return, wishing for an everlasting Soviet-Japanese friendship.

As for how much substance there was in that “everlasting friendship,” Pavlov knew crystal clear.

Normally, a state banquet would begin at eight and end at ten, but Toshiki Kaifu had deliberately started it an hour early. His goal was to strike while the iron was hot—to discuss the loan with Pavlov after the banquet and settle the territorial dispute between their two nations as soon as possible. Whether the islands were to be called the Southern Kuril Islands or the Northern Territories, Toshiki Kaifu hoped for a reliable answer tonight.

“Prime Minister Pavlov, are you satisfied with the banquet this evening?” Toshiki Kaifu asked with a plastered-on smile, as if he were the one asking the Soviet Union for a favor, not the other way around. His humble demeanor reminded Pavlov of the sycophantic smiles of the despicable traitors he had seen in movies who sided with the enemy.

“It was very good, Prime Minister Toshiki Kaifu.” Pavlov picked up a napkin to dab his lips, then leaned closer to Kaifu and said in a low voice, “Regarding our disputed islands, I trust we can reach a clear answer tonight. So, shall we set aside the dispute to discuss in detail tomorrow, or can we establish a unified policy tonight and sign an agreement tomorrow?”

The translator beside Toshiki Kaifu relayed Pavlov’s words verbatim in Japanese. Hearing Pavlov’s suggestive reply, Kaifu’s heart leaped with joy. He quickly stood up, made an inviting gesture, and said to Pavlov, “Then shall we retire to the conference room for a discussion now?”

“Of course, why not,” Pavlov said with a smile. After holding back for so long, the Arctic bear, whose paws had been itching, could finally reveal its ferocious claws.

Toshiki Kaifu led Pavlov to a room that was not large but was furnished to an exceptionally high standard, a level of luxury likely reserved for hosting the highest leaders of other nations. Pavlov walked over and sat down on the leather sofa in the guest of honor’s seat without a hint of hesitation. He then asked Toshiki Kaifu, “Hmm? Is smoking allowed in here?”

Smoking in front of another country’s top leader was inherently impolite, but for the sake of the bigger picture, Toshiki Kaifu still smiled and replied, “Of course. After all, you are our distinguished guest.”

Pavlov lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and then asked, “I’d like to know what kind of terms the Japanese side is offering so that we can have a basis for negotiations, wouldn’t you agree? After all, if something like ceding sovereignty isn’t handled properly, it can cause political instability. The Soviet government might be able to withstand the turmoil, but your country’s Cabinet? I’m not so sure.”

When the conversation turned to politics, Toshiki Kaifu immediately put on the face of a skilled politician and laid out the plan he had long prepared. “The terms we are offering are simple. As long as your country relinquishes sovereignty over the Northern Territories, we are willing to provide the financial aid you desire.”

Toshiki Kaifu cleverly avoided stating a specific amount, leaving it to the other party to guess. What if the Soviets only wanted five billion US dollars and he offered ten billion? Japan would clearly be on the losing end.

However, Pavlov had no interest in discussing the sovereignty of the Southern Kuril Islands with Toshiki Kaifu. He was only sitting here to stall for time, waiting for the Japanese Prime Minister to receive that unfortunate piece of bad news.

“Before we officially begin negotiations, I’d like to ask something. Japan’s economy has taken off rapidly, and you’re beginning to seek the status of a major political power, but do you have the ability to manufacture heavy industrial products? Of course, I know you have your Mitsubishi weapons export company, and oh, your cars are quite well-made. But as for the basic industrial equipment for things like large aircraft and ballistic missile technology, I wonder if your country has any interest?”

When the translator rendered the Russian into Japanese, Toshiki Kaifu’s expression clearly hesitated for a moment before he asked, “Uh? Prime Minister Pavlov, what do you mean by that?”

Toshiki Kaifu certainly had his own ambitions. With twenty years of rapid economic growth, the goal of becoming a major political power had become the great national dream for which successive prime ministers had striven. However, due to the existence of the US-Japan Security Treaty, all such attempts had ended in failure. But Toshiki Kaifu had not given up on this goal; he had begun seeking to build up Japan’s comprehensive national strength to break free from these chains.

“Could the Soviet Union be planning to sell its heavy industry to Japan?” Toshiki Kaifu was secretly delighted. Not only could they reclaim the Northern Territories, but they could also acquire industrial facilities from the Soviets. This was a wonderful Fait accompli. If that were the case, he wouldn’t mind raising the loan by a few hundred million more. After all, that money would eventually find its way back into the hands of the Japanese government.

“No, no, no, I think you might be overthinking things, Prime Minister Kaifu,” Pavlov said, rolling up his sleeve to glance at his watch before continuing slowly. “As long as you have the money, the Soviet Union’s heavy industrial facilities can certainly be sold to you. In fact, if you have enough money, we can even sign an order for ballistic missiles. However, there is one thing I hope you won’t misunderstand.”

“What is that?” Toshiki Kaifu asked, puzzled.

Pavlov dropped his cigarette butt into the ashtray. The moment he looked up, his eyes turned sharp. He stared at Toshiki Kaifu and enunciated each word, “On the issue of the Kuril Islands, the Soviet Union will not retreat a single step. This is not something you can get back with tens of billions in loans. If you want to take them, then bring it on—as long as your navy and air force can walk over the corpses of our Far East Air Force and Pacific Fleet.”

Pavlov’s words were delivered with such exceptional dominance that the translator beside Toshiki Kaifu had to think for a moment before relaying them to the Prime Minister in a more diplomatic way. But upon hearing that the sovereignty issue was non-negotiable, Toshiki Kaifu’s face instantly darkened, and his voice turned cold. “I suppose all the sincerity you’ve shown until now was just a pretense. Or should I say, you never intended to engage in a genuine negotiation at all.”

“Neither did you,” Pavlov retorted. “You, a tiny island nation, don’t you just want to take advantage of the Soviet Union’s critical situation to carve off a piece of its flesh? I can tell you now, you will never defeat the Soviet Union through wishful thinking. We love peace, but when it comes to our vital interests, we let our fists do the talking.”

Toshiki Kaifu clenched his fists. If the man opposite him weren’t a national leader, he really would have liked to smash his fist into Pavlov’s face. To be played for a fool like this by these communists would infuriate anyone.

“Excellent. Truly excellent, Prime Minister Pavlov,” Toshiki Kaifu said, clapping his hands sarcastically. “For a country with a collapsing economy to make such shameless boasts. I’ll just wait and see your economy collapse, your government overthrown, and the radiance of democracy piercing the dark clouds of Communism. Perhaps when you come begging to us in Japan then, we’ll just stand by and watch you die.”

“Before you mock us, you should worry about your own situation,” Pavlov said, sitting on the sofa with his left hand propping up his chin, speaking in a slow, unhurried tone. “I imagine someone will be bringing you some bad news any minute now, don’t you think?”

Just as Pavlov finished speaking, an unfamiliar Japanese official rushed in anxiously, leaned in, and whispered a few words in Toshiki Kaifu’s ear. The Prime Minister’s face instantly turned pale.

Pavlov didn’t even need to look to know what the man had said. It was likely that while the state banquet was underway, an unidentified bomber from the north had approached Hokkaido’s airspace. The Air Self-Defense Force had scrambled to intercept this bomber group, which was escorted by fighter jets. The bombers had first circled the Northern Territories before closing in on Japanese airspace.

Toshiki Kaifu turned his head, his eyes showing a mixture of shock and disbelief as he looked at Pavlov. He bit his lip and said, “By doing this, are you planning to resume a state of war with us?”

“Continue the war we left unfinished decades ago?” Pavlov, enjoying the spectacle, delivered an utterly soul-crushing remark. “Do you think you’re worthy?”

Chapter 43: Backfire Over the Kuril Islands (Part 2)

(Getting this second chapter out just before noon.)

Although Yanayev had taken fixed-wing aircraft courses in his youth and even obtained a pilot’s license, it didn’t mean he could handle a Backfire bomber—a machine that looked impressive and, in fact, truly was. Furthermore, to ensure the President’s safety, this particular flight was not armed with “Kitchen” or “Kingfish” air-to-ground missiles.

When they took off from Nakhodka, two Su-27s flew as their escort. After all, the Supreme Leader was on board. If any fatal mishap were to occur, the Air Force would be unable to escape blame. Some might criticize Yanayev for staging such a costly and perilous political show, but to him, opportunity often came hand-in-hand with danger.

Looking down through the side window, he could see they were moving away from the land. The sun, not yet fully set, was on their left, its golden rays blanketing the Backfire’s fuselage and painting it a brilliant gold. It was like an angel at God’s side, spreading its white wings, chastising the wicked and vile enemy with scepter and spear.

By the time they flew towards the Southern Kuril Islands, night had fallen. Through the window, Yanayev saw that the sea below was pitch black. Only a silver moon, newly risen in the sky, cast its gentle light upon the fuselages of the two Su-27 fighter jets flanking them, making them gleam brightly.

“Mr. President, we will be arriving at the Southern Kuril Islands shortly,” the pilot said, turning his head to Yanayev. A hint of unease flickered across his face, a subtle worry that this flight might lead to some unforeseen incident.

Yanayev nodded at him. “Thank you for your hard work, young men.” Then he continued to wait quietly for the Japanese to appear.

According to the 1956 Soviet-Japanese Joint Declaration, the Soviet Union had agreed to return the islands of Habomai and Shikotan to Japan after the conclusion of a peace treaty, trading the two islands for a peace agreement with Japan. However, due to interference from the United States and Japan’s insistence on the return of all four islands, the 1956 treaty was never implemented. Now, the Japanese still wanted to reclaim the Northern Territories from the Soviet Union, and Yanayev was the first to disagree. Moreover, according to Soviet tradition, if even a single Japanese citizen dared to cross the border—be they fisherman or soldier—the Soviet Navy had the right to shoot them on sight, without hesitation. After all, since we haven’t signed a peace treaty, your border crossing is tantamount to an infringement of our territorial sovereignty in my eyes.

“Mr. President, why are these four islands so important to us? From any angle, they seem to be in an unfavorable geographical position,” one of the pilots asked, puzzled.

“Oh?” The pilot’s question pulled Yanayev from his thoughts. He considered for a moment, then replied in a simple, easy-to-understand manner, “The total area of these four islands is 4,996 square kilometers. Not only is their strategic position extremely important, but they are also rich in resources. The continental shelf has estimated natural gas reserves of about one point six billion tons, gold reserves of about 1,867 tons, silver at 9,284 tons, iron at 273 million tons, and sulfur at 117 million tons. In addition, Iturup Island is rich in rhenium, which is more precious than gold, with reserves of up to thirty-six tons. Habomai and Shikotan may be small, but the nearby continental shelf is abundant in marine products, with an annual yield of about 800,000 tons. According to Soviet experts’ estimates, the total value of the four islands and their continental shelf resources is as high as 45.8 billion US dollars.”

“So, do you think we would ever give up such an important place?” Yanayev said. “Besides, Japan’s wings cannot be allowed to grow full. Those guys are insatiable vermin. The moment you compromise on certain issues, they will become even greedier. So if the Japanese want the Northern Territories back, fine. Let them tear up the armistice agreement with us, if they have the guts.”

“What if they actually do that?” asked the pilot, Vasily, anxiously.

Yanayev stretched and said nonchalantly, “If they really do that, then every inch of land in South Korea and Japan will be planted with the red flag that symbolizes Communism.”

As the Backfire bomber approached Hokkaido’s airspace, the Japanese Air Self-Defense Force, alerted by their radar, scrambled two F-15 fighter jets to intercept. This information was reported to Nakatani Gen, the Director of the Defense Agency, with the utmost urgency. The Director, who had just finished a state banquet and was preparing to go home, was aghast when he received the news and immediately rushed to find the Prime Minister to discuss a counter-plan.

When he learned that the Prime Minister was in the middle of discussing territorial issues with the Soviet Prime Minister, Nakatani Gen could only ask someone else to relay the message, as he did not want to walk in on that awkward scene himself.

The emergency in Hokkaido continued to escalate, but in truth, Japan dared not provoke the Soviet Union. The bitter lessons of Nomonhan and the Kwantung Army were seared into its memory, teaching the ambitious Empire of the Rising Sun that its northern neighbor was not to be trifled with. It was a blessing that the Soviet Great Bear wasn’t already causing trouble for Japan; now, because of the Northern Territories issue, the Prime Minister was once again facing the danger that the ceasefire agreement could be torn up.

The Japanese F-15 pilot broadcast a message to the pilot of the Backfire bomber. “Unidentified aircraft, state your identity and leave this airspace. This is the inherent territory of Japan. Unidentified aircraft, please leave this airspace. I repeat, unidentified aircraft, leave this airspace, or we will shoot you down. I repeat, or we will shoot you down.”

“Mr. President, what do we do? They’ve issued a shoot-down warning,” Vasily said nervously. The other pilots also looked at Yanayev, as if he were the supreme commander of the bomber.

But Yanayev remained perfectly calm and composed in his seat. He replied with complete confidence, “Just tell them that this is the Soviet Union’s Southern Kuril Islands, which belong to the Yuzhno-Kurilsky District of Sakhalin Oblast. If the other side dares to do anything to threaten a Soviet aircraft, our Su-27 escort fighters will show no mercy. Oh, and add this at the end: the Supreme Leader of the Soviet Union is currently on this Backfire bomber. If they dare to intercept, it will be considered a unilateral violation of the ceasefire agreement with the Soviet Union.”

The pilot relayed these words verbatim to the Japanese pilot of the F-15. In his extreme nervousness, he misspoke, saying “the Soviet Union’s Japanese Islands” instead of “the Soviet Union’s Southern Kuril Islands.” This harmless slip of the tongue, however, terrified the Japanese pilot, who mistook it for a prelude to war.

Yanayev had long anticipated Japan’s reaction. The Soviet Union was currently a desperate madman, fully armed and going for broke. Japan, on the other hand, had a booming economy and was certain not to risk any conflict with him. Otherwise, not only would its economy be sent back to its post-World War II infancy, but the capitalist nation might also be directly transformed into a member of the socialist bloc.

Amid this awkward standoff, Yanayev repeatedly reassured the pilots not to be nervous. Accidentally pressing the launch button would be a huge problem. “Just pretend you’re on a scenic tour of Hokkaido,” he told them.

And so, a peculiar scene unfolded in the night sky: a Backfire bomber, leading two Su-27 fighter jets, flew brazenly in the airspace near Japanese territory, while two F-15 fighter jets trailed helplessly behind them.

“What should we do, Director Nakatani? If we really open fire on them, I’m afraid it will cause more than just a diplomatic incident,” the head of the Air Self-Defense Force at the Defense Agency said, repeating the Soviet pilot’s original message word-for-word to Director Nakatani Gen before looking at him with an awkward expression.

Nakatani Gen held the piece of paper, his heart in turmoil. He was well aware of Japan’s own capabilities. Pitting Japan, with only a few islands, against the Soviet Union, which could steamroll across the nations of Europe in a matter of weeks, the outcome was already a foregone conclusion. The only option now was to appeal to the United States for help. But as long as the Soviet Union did not actually attack Japan, the Americans wouldn’t get involved in something that would cause the Japanese government to lose face completely.

The current situation was equivalent to forcing a militarily weak Japan to directly confront the most powerful war empire on earth. Everyone would watch with pity as it was humiliated by the Soviet Union, then look down and say nothing, pretending not to see. No one would extend a helping hand or issue a statement of condemnation in support. Perhaps after Japan’s total loss of face, the United Nations would pretend to mediate, but by then, the simmering fury of the Japanese public would be impossible to suppress.

Ask their neighbor to the west, the Republic of China, for help? Forget it. They were currently cozying up to the Soviet Union, their relationship warming up rapidly. It would most likely end in a rebuff as they rolled up their sleeves to watch the show. In that moment, Nakatani Gen tasted just how laughable it was for a nation lacking strong military and political backing to aspire to the position of a great power.

“If only we could abolish civilian control of the military, abolish the unequal treaties shackled around our necks,” Nakatani Gen, who was not yet old, sighed. For the first time, the desire to cast off these fetters grew in his heart.

Chapter 44: Backfire Over the Kuril Islands (Part 2)

Pavlov sat on the sofa, looking at the Japanese Prime Minister who was still forcing a calm demeanor. He lifted his teacup, opened the porcelain lid, took a slow sip, and said, “The whole world is probably watching to see how Japan will react. Just think about what kind of headlines will appear in your country tomorrow. ‘Soviet Warplanes Brazenly Approach Japanese Airspace, Self-Defense Forces Jets Dare Not Intercept’? Or perhaps ‘The Wrath of the Soviets: Japanese Prime Minister Faces Resignation’?”

Japan didn’t dare to make a move, as they couldn’t be sure if that tyrant was truly aboard the Backfire bomber. But the Soviet Union wouldn’t stop its provocation either; Prime Minister Toshiki Kaifu was destined to pay the price for his remarks a few days ago. In Pavlov’s eyes, however, this carried an even deeper political meaning. Making an example of America’s foremost stooge in the Asia-Pacific was also a silent warning to their heavyweight opponent across the Bering Strait.

The Japanese Prime Minister took a deep breath to compose himself before retorting, “Then what kind of outcome would Prime Minister Pavlov like to see? My fighters shoot down a bomber that might be carrying your country’s supreme leader, thus triggering the Soviet conquest of Japan, and perhaps even the world? Or Japan backs down, allows the Soviet Union to trample on our nation’s sovereignty, and we issue a strong protest?”

“No, no, Your Excellency Toshiki Kaifu, our passage through the Kuril Islands is merely a reaffirmation of our own sovereignty. As for the trade agreements we discussed before, they are still valid. We are currently in the process of a massive military downsizing. Tanks, attack helicopters, and the like are cheap and affordable, with volume discounts available. Everything is negotiable. Why don’t you consider it, Your Excellency?” Pavlov added as a final touch, “And these aren’t export versions; they’re the cream of the crop, original Soviet hardware.”

Quite a few countries and organizations were eyeing this massive Soviet arms sale, some of them illegal groups unrecognized by the international community, such as Peru’s Shining Path. The infamous Escobar cartel from Colombia also came calling. Yanayev’s order to Viktor Bout was that any organization, except for the Soviet Union’s direct adversaries, could buy weapons. Of course, illegal organizations could only deal in cash on the spot. This unrestricted trade allowed Viktor to unleash his arms-dealing talents to their fullest. In just a few days, the value of his arms deals had already reached three hundred million US dollars. He was on track to break his personal record of two billion dollars in arms sales made after the collapse of the Soviet Union.

So for Japan to receive this special attention from the Soviet leadership, it was hard to know whether to laugh or cry. Their own economic aid had somehow turned into another country’s arms sale. Toshiki Kaifu gave a bitter smile. “Are you saying that the Soviet Union is provoking us while claiming to come in peace from Russia? And you want to sell us some second-hand military hardware to strengthen Japan’s armed forces on the side?”

“What else? I recall there’s a group in Japan called the Japanese Red Army. I hear their activities have been in a slump since 1979, after suffering a spiritual blow. Of course, they see both the Japanese government and our Soviet Union as enemies, but they are also die-hard ultra-leftist forces. If the Soviet government were to bury the hatchet and cooperate with them, what do you suppose would happen to Japan?”

Pavlov twisted the knife with another sentence, making Toshiki Kaifu’s eyelids twitch. “Ah, let’s see, Japan would probably be facing terrorist attacks every single day. But I imagine the unluckiest ones would be the urns in the Yasukuni Shrine. They’d probably all be blown to bits by bombs, not a single one left.”

“Is that a threat?” Toshiki Kaifu narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the placid Prime Minister Pavlov with a chilling gaze. But the other man remained unfazed, continuing as if talking to himself, “Of course not, Your Excellency. We just want to inform you who the potential clients of Soviet arms sales are. To us, doing business with you or with the Japanese Red Army is the same. If you don’t buy, they will. If relations between us worsen, the Red Army will receive even greater weapons subsidies, so…”

Continuing his psychological attack, Pavlov stretched lazily, paused deliberately, and then said, “You think it over.”

Having abandoned ideological confrontation, the Soviet arms trade was like a merchant with no moral bottom line. As long as you had the money, they would sell you deadly weapons without a second thought. They wouldn’t stop just because the Japanese government got involved in the arms business. At worst, they wouldn’t sell chemical weapons to the Red Army; they could just sell them a few more Kalashnikov rifles and RPG shoulder-fired rockets.

Just as Toshiki Kaifu was at his wit’s end, Pavlov muttered to himself again in a low voice, “Oh dear, Vozrozhdeniya Island is due for renovations again. The stocks of , , and Soman are all running critically low. We’ll have to move out a batch of the old stuff to make room for the new chemical weapons.”

Toshiki Kaifu sucked in a cold breath, his tone softening. “Alright, alright, I agree to your request. We will temporarily drop the dispute over our national territory. As for the arms sale, I hope the Soviet government can offer a reasonable, discounted price. We certainly wouldn’t want a batch of high-end weapons to fall into the hands of our enemies.”

He was clearly tempted himself, eager to strengthen the Self-Defense Forces, yet he had to make it seem as if Japan was being coerced into purchasing military equipment by the Soviet Union. In his mind, Pavlov gave this hypocritical prime minister the middle finger.

“Japan is a coy little bitch. Don’t expect to close an arms deal with them easily. After all, the shadow of American imperialism looms behind them, and they’ll definitely try to interfere. But it would be best if we can complete the transaction. If not, it doesn’t matter. We still have potential customers within Japan: the Japanese Red Army and Aum Shinrikyo. Those people would be overjoyed to get their hands on our weapons.” Yanayev’s previous analysis of Japan’s situation had been perfectly astute.

What would happen if those two extremist terrorist organizations actually managed to overthrow the Japanese government? Yanayev had always daydreamed about it with malicious glee.

“Have your Soviet planes withdraw from the airspace near Hokkaido, Japan, immediately. Otherwise, we will not enter into any transaction with you.” The prime minister, having lost all leverage, made his demand with a humble tone. This was a world where fists did the talking.

“Of course. In fact, it was just a very routine patrol.” His mission accomplished, Prime Minister Pavlov stood up to bid Toshiki Kaifu farewell. “We can sign the agreement tomorrow. I hope Your Excellency has a peaceful night’s sleep tonight.”

The show was about over. According to the Backfire’s original flight plan, it was now time to turn back towards Vladivostok. The lead Backfire bomber signaled the escorting Su-27 fighter jets. Before leaving, Yanayev didn’t mind playing a little trick on the two F-2 fighter jets trailing them.

On Yanayev’s instruction, the Su-27s and the Backfire bomber simultaneously released flares from their tails, known as the “Angel of Death.” The burning magnesium powder lit up the dark night sky like a fleeting meteor, the airborne flames leaving a visible streak in their wake. They resembled the pure white wings of the Archangel Michael, yet they also symbolized bloody slaughter.

The pilots of the two F-2 fighter jets behind them were scared half to death, thinking the Soviet Air Force was finally declaring war. Just as they placed their hands on the cannon firing buttons, the other aircraft changed course, silently slipping into the darkness outside Japanese airspace, leaving behind only the magnificent spectacle of the spreading wings.

“Are they flexing on us?” one of the F-2 pilots muttered to himself. He kept his eyes fixed on the three planes until they disappeared from view, only then returning to the air base in Hokkaido. Although the situation was ultimately resolved, everyone was left with a stifling sense of frustration that was hard to shake off.

On the Soviet side, Yanayev greeted the leaders at Nakhodka Air Base, who had been on edge the whole time, and announced that the situation had been successfully concluded. When they heard Yanayev say in his own voice, “Operation ‘Wrath of the Third Rome’ is complete. I repeat, Operation ‘Wrath of the Third Rome’ is complete,” everyone in the command room erupted in loud cheers and applause.

The codename for this operation was also the result of Yanayev’s persistence against all objections. The others had wanted to use a codename closely related to the Soviet Union, but Yanayev insisted on using the title of the Third Rome, the heart of Orthodox Christianity. It was all to correspond with that final scene of the angel’s wings.

In Yanayev’s mind, those wings held a deeper metaphor: half a sacred angelic halo, half the wicked wings of a demon. An Angel of Death, with the heads of sinners hanging from its hands, would use blood and steel to forge a new empire from the depths of darkness and decay.

And all of this was only the beginning.

Chapter 45: An Embarrassing End

(Second update of the day)

When the incident hit the papers the next day, it sent shockwaves throughout Japan. Public anger was instantly ignited, especially when citizens saw how the media sensationally reported that Soviet fighters had swaggered into Japanese airspace, yet not a single Japanese fighter had dared to intercept them.

Patriotism is also a breeding ground for the militarist right-wing and extreme nationalism. Of course, the government cabinet led by Toshiki Kaifu bore the brunt of the blame. Cries for Kaifu’s resignation rose and fell across the country. Seizing the opportunity, his political rivals didn’t miss the chance to kick him while he was down, launching a barrage of attacks against his political maneuvering.

At this point, Toshiki Kaifu’s resignation seemed to be a foregone conclusion.

In the end, the Soviet Union and Japan failed to reach any verbal agreements. The arms deal ultimately fell through due to obstruction from the pro-American faction. However, Pavlov had already achieved his objective, so he wasn’t bothered by the lost sale. After all, there were plenty of others eyeing this batch of cheap, reliable, second-hand military hardware. One less buyer made no difference. In Yanayev’s words, “We’re not particularly interested in a foolishly rich country like yours, where a single fighter jet can cost as much as 180 million US dollars, but we have no quarrel with the money in your pockets.”

The day Pavlov left Narita Airport was far more desolate than the scene that had greeted his arrival. Toshiki Kaifu even used the excuse of feeling unwell to avoid seeing him off. Even so, Pavlov left with his head held high like a victor, departing the country he had so thoroughly toyed with.

Meanwhile, the reports in the Soviet newspapers were the complete opposite. The story of Yanayev accompanying the Backfire bomber crew to declare sovereignty over the Southern Kuril Islands was meticulously orchestrated by Surkov of the Soviet Propaganda Department. He was painted in the papers as a Slavic hero, a figure who demonstrated the Soviet Union’s unshakeable resolve to protect its sacred and inviolable territorial sovereignty through an uncompromising stance.

Suddenly, a full-frontal photograph of Yanayev was everywhere. In it, he stood on the tarmac of Nakhodka Airport, exuding an aura of dominance, dressed in a pilot’s jumpsuit with Ray-Ban sunglasses, a pilot’s helmet tucked under his right arm. Contrasted with the disappointingly weak image of Gorbachev that had preceded him, this masterfully staged political photo instantly earned the fanatical adoration of Russia’s youth.

Surkov was clearly far more competent than his predecessors, the “enemies within the Propaganda Department.” Not only did he capitalize on the image of Yanayev’s powerful return, but he also paired it with a heartwarming photo of Yanayev playing with a a small golden retriever puppy, accompanied by the simple slogan, “A Man of Strength and Gentleness.” It instantly brought to mind the melancholic-eyed World War II soldiers from the movies, standing on the banks of the Volga, playing the accordion.

Step by step, Yanayev was forging the image of an outstanding man, a composite of numerous virtues, in the hearts of the simple and kind Slavic people. Of course, these were all tactics Yanayev had learned in his past life from observing the constant image-crafting of Western politicians, as he too needed to build the persona of a Soviet savior. Once his image was deeply rooted among the people, any so-called democratic ideological offensive could be easily dismantled.

The reformed newspapers also began to publish positive portrayals of Yanayev. The editor-in-chief of Spark, for example, was thrown into a special psychiatric hospital by the KGB’s Fifth Directorate. What’s that? Foreign countries are saying we have no human rights? Then you must be sick too and in need of treatment. From then on, those democratic activists who had espoused “give me liberty, or give me death” transformed into the Soviet government’s official, state-sanctioned writers.

Overnight, the correct and great Soviet leader, Gennady Yanayev, became both a national hero and a tyrannical figure condemned verbally and in writing by the Western press. But these attacks were as light as a feather, utterly harmless.

At this point, Toshiki Kaifu, with no other choice, turned to US President Bush for help. He hoped Bush could step in to manage the political situation, or at least help Japan save a little face after this humiliation.

When Bush discussed the situation with his think tank, his Chief of Staff advised him to stay out of it for the time being. After all, they were in the middle of laying a trap to strangle the Soviet economy, and being too conspicuous would attract unwanted attention. Japan was merely a pawn for the United States to contain China and the Soviet Union. As long as no regional war broke out, diplomatic incidents that resulted in a loss of face were of no great importance.

Samuel Skinner’s exact words, spoken in a dismissive tone, were, “It’s utterly ridiculous that these monkeys living on a reef would dream of becoming a great political power. If you get taught a lesson, you should be prepared for it. Even we have to weigh our options when dealing with the polar bear. What gives an island fisherman like him the courage to challenge the Evil Empire of the Arctic Circle?”

So, on the advice of Chief of Staff Samuel Skinner, Bush tactfully told Toshiki Kaifu that the United States was unwilling to interfere in the territorial dispute between the Soviet Union and Japan, citing respect for the two nations’ sovereign integrity. After this smokescreen, the infuriated Japanese ambassador to the United States repeated Bush’s搪セ原封不动的复述给海部俊树.

Holding the telephone receiver, Toshiki Kaifu felt a chill run through his limbs. Even his last lifeline, the American government, was advising him to be patient. It seemed all his efforts to remain Prime Minister had come to nothing. Unless Japan were to resume a state of war with the Soviet Union, he couldn’t imagine how he could possibly continue to serve as the nation’s leader.

“Damn you Russians. You’ve ruined my future, ruined my everything,” Kaifu slumped into his chair, his listless eyes staring at the ceiling as he muttered to himself, seeming to have aged a dozen years in an instant. After a moment’s thought, he dialed another number and said calmly, “Prepare a speech for me. Yes, a resignation speech. I’ll need it tomorrow.”

After hanging up, the unreconciled Kaifu made another call, this time to Nakatani Gen, Director of the Self-Defense Agency. He had some things to entrust to him. Essentially, he had come to the realization that Japan must possess a powerful armed force to guarantee its standing in the world. He hoped that Director Nakatani could carry on his unfinished mission: to build a modern and formidable Japan Self-Defense Forces.

With a heavy heart, Nakatani Gen agreed to Toshiki Kaifu’s request. In his mind, abrogating the US-Japan Security Treaty now seemed to be a monumental task he had to accomplish in his lifetime, no matter how fraught with difficulties the goal might be.

A few days later, Toshiki Kaifu left the Prime Minister’s office, swept out the door along with the goals and dreams he had fought for. His resignation came a month earlier than it had in history. However, his departure also marked the beginning of Japan’s economic nightmare, the start of the real estate bubble’s collapse. In a way, Toshiki Kaifu was lucky, because his successor, Miyazawa Kiichi, would have to face an even more overwhelming domestic economic crisis the moment he took office.

Toshiki Kaifu’s era came to an end because of a single diplomatic incident. And for that same reason, his political career was cut short. As for his later appointment as an honorary professor at Peking University or Shenzhen University, that was a matter for the distant future.

One couldn’t help but sigh. It was truly an embarrassing end.

Chapter 46: The Red Mercury Hoax (Part 1)

Someone once said that the Inspector General of the Soviet Ministry of Defense’s Main Inspectorate Group was a department where two incompatible circles coexisted: the new blood of the Soviet military’s high command and the decrepit losers of power struggles. One circle, centered around Minister of Defense Yazov, attracted the younger, more radical faction of the Soviet military’s new generation, who were poised to become the future pillars of the Red Empire’s legions. They would all undergo a period of study here before being better prepared to assume key positions within the army.

The other was a somber, aging clique. Most of the old men within it had retreated to this nursing home, far from the true vortex of power, after losing political struggles. Having lost all ambition for the highest authority in the military, they mostly buried themselves in Russia’s vast collection of military tomes. Occasionally, they would lift their heads, shifting their gaze from abstruse monographs to observe, as outsiders, the ambitious younger generation either rising brilliantly or, like them, slowly sinking into obscurity.

Without a doubt, Marshal Ogarkov was one of the latter. As a hawk who emphatically stressed that Soviet industry must serve the military, his platform of industrial national defense not only threatened the Soviet Union’s established interest groups, but his attempt to instill the idea of “the gun commands the Party” into the reformist thinking of the Soviet Presidium was also a taboo. He was also dissatisfied with the slow pace of information technology reforms in the Soviet military. As a result, Ogarkov had unpleasant frictions with other generals, which also deepened the risks of his tyranny within the army.

The ultimate consequence for Ogarkov was being driven out of the General Staff, transferred to the Western Theater Command as its Commander-in-Chief, and later becoming the Inspector General of the Ministry of Defense’s Main Inspectorate Group. He languished in this de facto nursing home, full of resentment and indignation, and eventually passed away quietly from illness three years after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, to be buried in the Novodevichy Cemetery.

Ogarkov was hunched over his desk, writing furiously. It was his latest thesis on the importance of establishing electronic information warfare units. Regardless of whether the higher-ups would deign to glance at this thin sheet of paper, he hoped to awaken a desire for reform in at least a small cluster of people within the lethargic Soviet military.

“The flower of new-era reform will inevitably be born from the massive corpse of the dying old society.” Ogarkov had carved this sentence into his desk with a utility knife to encourage himself to strive for the future of the Soviet Union.

Perhaps Ogarkov was so deeply engrossed that he failed to notice Yanayev standing behind him. And Yanayev, having instructed those around him to remain silent, simply watched as Ogarkov finished writing a long, dense passage of text. He lamented that such a great talent had defied the supreme will and directives of the Party Central Committee.

When Ogarkov finally looked up from his world of words, he was startled to find President Yanayev staring with great interest at the thesis he was writing. Ogarkov quickly stood up and said to Yanayev, “Forgive me, Mr. President. I truly didn’t notice you arrive. How rude of me.”

Yanayev had no intention of reprimanding Ogarkov for his intense focus. He picked up the draft lying flat on the desk, blew gently on the paper, and only spoke when the ink was dry. “On the contrary, Comrade Ogarkov, I should thank you for your foresight. This draft has taught us all a profound and thought-provoking lesson. Information warfare is indeed changing the nature of war, and it is also influencing global technology.”

“Take the recent Gulf War, for example. Early warning, command, control, communications, and intelligence are the vital means by which modern warfare is conducted. In the Gulf War, the American military used electronic warfare to strip the Iraqi army of its communications capabilities in this regard, seizing electromagnetic superiority on the battlefield—an indispensable method for carrying out critical strikes. Before the war even began, the U.S. military used electronic warfare aircraft to intensely jam Iraqi electronic equipment, suppressing their communications and early-warning radar systems, thus ensuring the element of surprise for their airstrikes. Throughout the war, the U.S. military waged powerful electronic warfare against Iraq’s command, control, communications, and intelligence systems, suppressing their electronic equipment, air defense radar, and communications networks. As a result, the Iraqi military’s command failed, their communications were cut off, and their ability to search for aerial threats and counterattack was lost, leaving them in a passive position, taking a beating.”

“The Soviet Union must also accelerate its reforms in electronic information technology. Otherwise, relying on outdated communication methods alone, we would likely be as helpless as headless flies under American jamming.” After this long-winded speech, Yanayev made a point of emphasizing to Ogarkov that he valued his ideas, hoping that Ogarkov would be willing to cooperate with him amicably.

Ogarkov clapped his hands a few times symbolically and replied in a near-indifferent tone, “Of course. The Soviet military high command is a bunch of short-sighted fools. They’ve always clung to the stubborn idea that all electronic equipment will fail after a nuclear war begins, thereby hindering the army’s progress and development. So, President Yanayev, do you want to be an innovator of reform or a guardian of the old order?”

Yanayev shook his head. He placed both hands on the desk, sizing up Ogarkov with the gaze of someone holding supreme power, and said in a low voice, “I do need you, Comrade Ogarkov. Your military genius and sharp insight can always pinpoint the army’s problems with unerring accuracy. There is just one thing I need you to be clear about.”

Yanayev’s smile, which didn’t reach his eyes, suddenly made Ogarkov’s heart clench. Thinking about the recent rumors in the army, he suddenly feared his own reckless words.

Yanayev leaned close to Ogarkov’s ear and said softly, “The extent of the Soviet military’s information technology reform and your position are both granted by the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet. So, you can drop that naive plan of yours to have ‘the gun command the Party.’ What I, Gennady Yanayev, give you, you can take. What I don’t give, you can’t even think about scheming for. Otherwise, even a respected high-level official such as yourself, I can still throw out into the frozen wilderness to keep the polar bears company.”

In the past, Yanayev would have simply tossed someone like Ogarkov into this position to rot and wait for death without batting an eye. But now was a time when the Soviet Union desperately needed talent for its various reforms. As long as Ogarkov knew his place, Yanayev could let his past mistakes be bygones.

“Your lesson is well-received, Mr. President,” Ogarkov muttered under his breath. “So, you didn’t come here just to prepare for information technology reforms, did you? I don’t see much sincerity in your eyes.”

Yanayev was taken aback. He hadn’t expected Ogarkov to discern from his eyes alone that he wasn’t there to discuss reforms. He had no choice but to admit it. “Of course not. You have crossed wits with several political advisors, Chiefs of Staff, and other senior think tank members from the White House and the Pentagon and emerged unscathed. You are the first to do so, Ogarkov. So, today, there is indeed a matter I wanted your advice on.”

Ogarkov held up a pencil, motioning for Yanayev to stop talking. He thought for a moment and said, “Let me guess. The Soviet Union’s current situation is indeed terrible. The President needs a stable external environment to develop the economy. In other words, you want to blackmail the West in an unprecedented way, to make them rein themselves in and buy the Soviet Union some breathing room for its reforms? But as for how much time you’ll get, that depends on when those people in the West realize it’s all a hoax.”

Yanayev was stunned. He hadn’t expected the man to have seen through his entire plan. No wonder those old foxes in the West were so thoroughly played by his mix of truth and deception. If a Strategic Deception Bureau could be established in the Soviet Union, Ogarkov would undoubtedly be its first Director.

“The red mercury hoax,” Ogarkov stated bluntly. “If you want to incite fear in the Americans, what could possibly have more deterrent power than a red mercury nuclear weapon? If this plan is executed brilliantly, the Americans will likely not dare to pressure the Soviet Union too aggressively for a year or two. I believe that between their own lives and using economic sanctions to drive a desperate, cornered Soviet Union into a final struggle, American politicians will choose the former.”

Chapter 47: The Red Mercury Hoax (Part 2)

(Second update complete)

The existence of red mercury nuclear weapons, hailed as a wonder weapon of the Cold War, has always been an elusive mystery. So much so that in 2015, an extremist organization attempting to establish a religious fundamentalist state in the Middle East regarded it as a near-sacred weapon for striking at Western nations.

The red mercury bomb is a miniaturized tactical thermonuclear weapon. It uses antimonide as a neutron source, which drastically reduces the volume required compared to the neutron sources in typical atomic bombs. Furthermore, since thermonuclear fusion has no critical mass limit, the entire bomb can be made very small and light. A small red mercury bomb might be tiny, but its explosive yield can reach incredible levels, capable of easily killing tens of millions of people within a certain area.

A miniaturized nuclear weapon means you can fit it into a briefcase and carry it into any public space you wish—a sports stadium, an airport, a hotel. If you could, you could even bring it into the Pentagon and the White House. Imagine the symbols of American power, the White House and the Pentagon, being struck by nuclear weapons simultaneously. It would instantly paralyze the nation’s entire political foundation.

Although the Soviets were obsessed with this mythical weapon, and American intelligence indicated that the Soviet Union might have already developed this weapon capable of changing the bipolar world order, Gennady Yanayev knew that the red mercury bomb had never moved beyond the theoretical stage. The project had been shelved indefinitely after they were unable to overcome certain technological hurdles.

And now, the Soviet Union was preparing to use this non-existent weapon to intimidate the West.

Yanayev was also well aware of the impact of psychological warfare. Reagan’s a dministration, for instance, had proposed the “Star Wars” program, which was practically non-existent but managed to drag the Soviet economy down through a space arms race. That was why Yanayev, upon taking office, had immediately canceled all plans related to countering the Strategic Defense Initiative, likening them to be as foolish as the Americans’ “Stargate Program.”

“Decades of confrontation between the East and West, and the mutual infiltration of intelligence, have given birth to all sorts of spies and agents—the so-called products of the Cold War,” Ogarkov began, briefly introducing his strategy to Yanayev. “The Americans rely heavily on this intelligence network to get information from us. For example, let’s say we have long been trying to obtain intelligence from the United States on our launch vehicle engine technology. As long as the Americans know what information we want, they can analyze which technical hurdles we are unable to overcome with our engine technology. From there, they can draw further inferences about which of our projects are still incomplete and which are just a smokescreen. It all becomes clear to them.”

“Are you saying our spies should suddenly start seeking intelligence on antimonides—something even the Americans might not have—to attract the attention of the CIA?” Yanayev didn’t quite grasp Ogarkov’s idea. “Wouldn’t that be tantamount to telling the Americans that our technology for the red mercury reaction is not yet fully mature?”

“We can’t let the Americans figure things out that
quickly. We must first approach it from the aspects of temperature and pressure. Besides using antimonide as a neutron source, temperature and pressure are also crucial,” Ogarkov paused, then explained as he met Yanayev’s puzzled gaze, “This will convince the Americans that we truly are developing antimonides for a suitcase nuke.”

“Then, just as the Americans are about to guess our real intention is to acquire antimonide technology, we immediately cut off all intelligence penetration and have all KGB agents go into ‘radio silence’,” Ogarkov, also an expert in psychological and intelligence strategy, had a profound understanding of the mindset of the CIA’s top brass. “Ceasing intelligence infiltration implies that we no longer need America’s secret technology. This will lead the Americans to believe we’ve made significant progress with antimonide technology. Then, we deliberately feed them some false intelligence, a mix of truths and lies, to make them more and more suspicious.”

The more Ogarkov spoke, the more excited he became, as if he had returned to the years when he devised strategies for the Soviet Presidium. Yanayev had dismissed everyone else from the room long before Ogarkov began speaking. These were state secrets, known only to Yanayev and Ogarkov.

“At the same time, the Soviet government’s stance must become increasingly hardline, preferably to the point where the Americans believe we might start World War Three at any moment. Once we reach that level of high tension, the deceptive goal of the non-existent red mercury bomb will have been achieved. The Americans will think we’ve built this Cold War wonder weapon and won’t dare to act rashly, which will win us a somewhat relaxed external environment and the time we need to recover our strength.”

“It’s just a pity that even the most brilliant strategy is merely a move born of desperation,” Ogarkov said, taking off his glasses to slowly wipe them. He thought of how Brezhnev had desperately exported oil, leading to the current distorted state of the Soviet economy, and couldn’t help but shake his head in resignation.

“These are all measures taken out of necessity. What can we do when our economy faces insurmountable difficulties, and our system’s rigidity and accumulated ills are so difficult to reverse? These are all urgent problems that need solving. The current government can only desperately try to find ways to buy more time,” Yanayev felt a headache coming on as he thought about how the Soviet economy would have to rely on oil and arms sales in the future. This was clearly not the scientific and democratic socialism he wanted to build. The Soviet Union’s economic development shouldn’t depend on exporting a single type of resource. The Soviet people still didn’t have enough to eat, the country was still short on funds, and the external environment was still harsher than imagined.

The development of a mixed-ownership economy—a policy criticized by conservatives for dismantling the essence of the Soviet Union and betraying the spirit of Marxism-Leninism—was also facing constraints. Yanayev’s pilot cities received very few responses. He even offered tax exemptions and subsidies, but still failed to attract the capitalists he had hoped for. Ultimately, they still distrusted the Soviet Union’s new measures, fearing that some day a new leader would take over the communist Soviet state and change the policies once again.

It seemed the slogan of insisting on economic development as the central task and promoting the joint progress of a mixed-ownership economy had to be put on Parliament’s agenda and written into the Party charter. Once the grand national policy was set, the President would have free rein to act as he saw fit.

“When can I return to the General Staff? After all, there’s still a group of Soviet vermin there that need to be dealt with. They are also among the main culprits who have dragged down the Soviet economy.” Ogarkov, who had never forgotten being sidelined in earlier years, saw no better time to kick them while they were down. He proceeded to list several young generals whom Yanayev favored.

Yanayev knew exactly what Ogarkov was thinking. He rejected Ogarkov’s request flatly and threatened him, “Don’t even think about that dangerous idea of using the army to control the Communist Party. I value your talent, Marshal Ogarkov, but if you go too far, you might not even have your leisurely days as Inspector General anymore. And I don’t mind in the slightest throwing you into prison.”

Chapter 48: Beating Them at Their Own Game

This was Leo Wanta’s first time setting foot in Moscow. As a CIA agent, he naturally didn’t believe the slanderous portrayals in American movies, which depicted a bleak and somber city where military police patrolled the streets, ready to arrest dissidents at any moment, and the people lived in poverty. As the capital of the Soviet Union, Moscow’s magnificent central architecture commanded a sense of solemn reverence.

The red walls and towers of the Kremlin stood in quiet contrast to the blue and white sky, forming an unparalleled, brilliant, and majestic architectural ensemble. Leo Wanta raised his camera, aimed it at the white doves taking flight in the square, and with a click, captured a beautiful, artistic photograph.

Leo Wanta entered Moscow under the guise of a tourist. Since Gorbachev came to power and relaxed passport controls for Soviet citizens, the people could more easily come into contact with the outside Western world, and the ideological impact was growing ever stronger. Coupled with the large number of traitors that had emerged from within the Soviet propaganda department, this had led to the rise of absurd notions about so-called freedom and democracy saving the world.

One had to wonder what those who had personally torn down the Iron Curtain that protected the populace, and then smugly declared victory, must have felt upon seeing the tragic state of affairs after the collapse of the Soviet Union.

The relaxed immigration policies had also made it easy for intelligence personnel like Leo Wanta, who harbored ulterior motives, to enter Moscow and coordinate with the corrupt forces he had cultivated in the upper echelons. Although the earlier Great Purge had swept away some of the vermin, a few deeply hidden individuals were still waiting for Leo Wanta’s life-saving funds.

Litening, the Deputy Minister of Finance of the Soviet Union, was one of the individuals Wanta had turned. As the primary executor of the plan to exchange US dollars for Rubles, Litening had set the transaction location in Moscow, so he could immediately receive his share of the benefits, obtain citizenship in a Western country, and escape what he saw as Gennady Yanayev’s bloody and terrifying rule. Of course, Leo Wanta had readily agreed to all of Litening’s requests. How much of it would actually be honored was beyond the knowledge of an operative like him; only the somber-faced bigwigs sitting in their offices had the authority to make the final call.

With a mix of nervousness and unease, and with Bush’s support, Leo Wanta finally had the opportunity to implement the “Great Ruble Scam,” a plan specially approved by Bush himself. To this end, a sum of five billion US dollars had appeared in the account of Wanta’s New Republic Financial Group, ready for the purchase of one hundred forty billion Rubles.

The transaction was to take place in an inconspicuous Khrushchev-era apartment building. According to the rules of the deal, three billion US dollars would first be transferred into an anonymous account. The remainder would be sent in five separate installments to a dozen other accounts after the first transaction was completed. This operation involved the CIA, the Federal Reserve, and several Swiss banks. These ambitious capitalists, seeking to establish a wicked financial axis from London to Wall Street, had united to send the last country obstructing their global domination by the US dollar to the graveyard of history.

Leo Wanta sat on a chair in the room, waiting anxiously for Litening’s arrival. In his briefcase was a computer specifically for managing account transfers. Just then, the door opened. A harried-looking Litening rushed in, covered in dust from his journey. Following behind him was a young man. Though he didn’t look as worried as Litening from the Ministry of Finance, his eyes betrayed a hint of unease.

However, Leo Wanta was clearly displeased with this unexpected addition to the plan. He pointed at the young man and questioned his trading partner, “Litening, who is this? He wasn’t in our script.”

Before Litening could answer, the young man beside him spoke up. “My name is Ivan, Mr. Litening’s assistant. Of course, you wouldn’t be able to complete this transaction without me, so I should also get my share.” After speaking, the young man named Ivan licked his lips, his eyes gleaming with greed.

“Heh,” Leo Wanta let out a cold laugh, clearly not believing him. Just as he was about to call off the deal, the grim-faced Litening discreetly made a neck-slitting gesture. Having been trained as an agent, Wanta understood instantly.

It seemed that in order to procure the one hundred forty billion Rubles, Litening had made a side deal with this man. He didn’t want to pin the crime on himself, so he intended for the CIA to be the villain. Leo Wanta didn’t like the business of killing with a borrowed knife, but for the sake of his country, he would make an exception this one time.

“We will enter the account numbers and passwords simultaneously. The transfer will only proceed after both of us press confirm. Of course, three billion US dollars is no small sum, so we cannot touch any keys until the transfer is complete, understand?” Leo Wanta drew a pistol fitted with a silencer from his waist and aimed it at Litening and the nonchalant young man beside him.

“No problem. But if I transfer the money to your account and then find that no funds have entered mine… my old friend, I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you,” Litening said with a regretful expression, looking at Leo Wanta as if he were a dead man. An ominous premonition washed over Wanta.

“Let’s open our respective accounts now.” Wanta licked his dry, chapped lips, trying to push aside any negative thoughts and focus on the mission at hand. He took a piece of paper from his pocket, on which was a string of seemingly dense and random characters. Then, with the ease of long experience, he tapped on the keyboard and opened the account containing the five billion dollars. Likewise, Litening meticulously entered his account password, and the two men confirmed the amounts in each other’s accounts.

“Then let’s begin.” Wanta took a deep breath and clicked confirm.

Back in the United States, the CIA was monitoring every move of the transaction. The moment anything went wrong, they would immediately freeze the sizable account. CIA Director Robert Gates was personally supervising the implementation of the plan. They watched the progress bar climb to ninety-nine percent, and then the screen displayed “Transaction Complete.”

After the transaction was complete, a second confirmation was required from both parties. Just as Wanta was about to press the button, the young man suddenly lunged forward. Wanta, his attention fixed on the screen, was tackled to the ground, and the silenced pistol was knocked aside. The sudden turn of events left Wanta stunned; he hadn’t yet realized that this was a trap set by the Soviets.

The young man, who was clearly well-trained, pressed down on Wanta’s neck and said in a cold voice, “My apologies, Mr. Wanta, but you are under arrest.” He then pressed the cancel key, unilaterally terminating the transaction that was about to be finalized. Of course, the three billion dollars that had already flowed into the designated Swiss bank account remained in the account Litening had provided.

“It’s useless,” Wanta sneered, realizing what had happened. “The Federal Reserve is also monitoring this money. If they see something is wrong, they will immediately notify the Swiss to freeze the account. You won’t be able to get a single cent out.”

“If I’m not mistaken, it takes about a minute for the funds to be confirmed after arrival. That gives us enough time to do what we need to, right, Minister Litening?” the young man said calmly.

“You betrayed me from the start? My friend.” Wanta stared at Litening in disbelief. The secret arrangements over the past few months had been flawless. How on earth did the Soviets find out?

“You actually chose to side with this evil regime and betray me!” Wanta roared. He tried to struggle to his feet but was held down firmly.

Litening himself was wondering why the KGB had inexplicably burst into his home that night and found evidence of his conspiracy with Wanta. The KGB agents had threatened him, telling him that as long as he cooperated, he would be fine. Under duress, Litening had no choice but to agree to participate in this risk-free-venture-turned-trap.

After all, the lives of his entire family were in the hands of that somber-faced Soviet leader in the Kremlin.

Wanta had never imagined that the very trap he had set to draw first blood and cripple the Soviet economy would be turned against him. Not only was he now isolated and helpless, but America’s five billion dollars were also in danger of being seized.

Furthermore, the promised support had vanished into thin air. Of course, Wanta had no way of knowing that at that very moment, the CIA was in a state of chaos due to the sudden loss of signal from Moscow.

Chapter 49: The Fish in the Net

Compared to the calm and composed KGB, the guys at the CIA were practically going insane. Robert Gates was roaring at the CIA’s network communications staff, “Can someone tell me why, after one minute and thirty-six seconds, our communications still haven’t been restored! What about the field support teams? Why can’t we reach them either?”

“Sorry, Director. At first, we just thought it was a bad signal, but now it seems the other party is using communications jamming. That’s why we’re in this situation,” a communications officer with ten years of experience dealing with the Soviet Union was the first to reply to Director Gates.

Hearing this piece of news, the one he had dreaded most, a grim-faced Director Gates turned to the heads of the Federal Reserve and the Swiss bank, whose expressions were just as dark, and said, “Freeze the two accounts involved in the transaction immediately, now!”

Just as the head of the Swiss bank was about to call his headquarters, an overseas call came in from Switzerland. They had discovered that the funds in the account were being rapidly transferred to other accounts in increments of two hundred million US dollars. Realizing something was wrong, the Swiss bank immediately froze the funds, but nearly 1.4 billion US dollars had already been moved. The entire process had taken exactly one minute and thirty seconds.

The financial account was now frozen. Of course, not a single cent of the promised 140 billion Rubles had appeared in the designated account.

“We’ve been tricked!” Robert Gates finally realized what had happened. He nearly grabbed the Swiss bank representative by the collar and threatened him to spit the money back out. Of course, the Swiss bank representative was no pushover. He immediately began to trace the flow of all the funds, but the further they looked, the more they realized something was amiss. The 1.4 billion dollars that had been dispersed seemed to have been systematically split into dozens of portions, then rapidly distributed to other accounts before being wired to major financial banks around the world, including in London, Sweden, and Hong Kong.

Continuing to trace this project would be rather difficult, as the funds were now in the accounts of other financial institutions, and the workload was so tedious it was not a problem that could be solved in a day or two. The head of the Swiss bank quietly relayed this bad news to Robert Gates, advising him to be prepared. The money could be completely withdrawn in half an hour.

The ballpoint pen clutched tightly in Robert’s left hand snapped in two. His face was a stiff mask. It was obvious that only a very large organization an a long-planned operation could have pulled this off. And the most likely culprit was the higher-ups in the Kremlin. The problem was, the Ruble scam had only officially launched a month ago. How had the Soviets known in advance?

He took a deep breath and glanced at the head of the Federal Reserve. The man’s eyes held a hint of schadenfreude as he took a step back, making it clear he was ready to draw a line between himself and the unlucky CIA director.

Knowing he couldn’t escape the blame, Robert Gates took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. He sighed, “I will go and explain to the President. I will bear all the consequences. It has nothing to do with you all. Especially you,” he said, looking at the head of the Federal Reserve. Then Robert Gates lifted his head and, smiling, said word by word, “But whether those interest groups will hold you accountable for their losses is another story. A scapegoat? I think you’re an excellent candidate. I do hope I get to see you in prison.”

After Robert Gates finished speaking, the face of the head of the Federal Reserve changed drastically.

Ignoring the man who was destined to become a pathetic wretch, he turned to the person beside him and said, “Get me the President on the line. I will report this to him personally.”

Bush, who was still savoring his dinner, nearly flipped his plate onto the floor when he heard the news. He gripped his knife and fork, taking several deep breaths to calm himself down. The First Lady, Barbara, sitting opposite him, sensed something was wrong. She gently took Bush’s hand and softly asked what had happened. Bush just smiled and shook his head at Barbara, saying he had an emergency meeting and would be back to finish dinner shortly.

At that moment, a group of people was waiting for Bush’s arrival in a White House conference room, including Chief of Staff Samuel Skinner, presidential advisor Brent, and Minister of Defense Dick Cheney. They all knew they were about to face a storm of condemnation from President Bush.

From Bush’s stormy and unpredictable expression, everyone assumed they would not be spared his furious reprimand. But surprisingly, Bush simply said one sentence, “Skinner, Brent, Cheney, you three stay. Everyone else, out of my office.”

Those whose names were not called left with a sense of relief. The remaining three looked at each other; they were all supporters of this great Ruble scam. They had previously used all sorts of reliable analysis to prove the plan’s feasibility, but they never expected the Soviets to use the simplest of methods to completely disrupt their painstakingly crafted scheme.

Bush slammed his fist on the table, pointed at the three senior government officials, and roared, “This is your plan! This so-called great Ruble plan! A brilliant scam! Ridiculous, but what results do I have now! 1.4 billion US dollars is now unaccounted for, and those Soviet perpetrators are still laughing behind our backs! How did things get this bad? What damn Ruble scam? Everyone is deceiving me, including you! A bunch of goddamn traitors! Goddamn Soviet lapdogs!”

Barbara, standing outside the door, clasped her hands tightly. It was the first time she had ever seen her husband so furious. And like the others outside, the First Lady could only wait for the President to vent his anger before going in to comfort him.

On the receiving end of Bush’s tirade, Brent lowered his head and said in a deep voice, “Mr. President, isn’t that going a bit too far?”

But the President continued his relentless tirade, “Too far? You are despicable scoundrels with no sense of honor! After all those years studying in finance schools, did you only learn how to eat with a knife and fork? A bunch of trash giving me useless advice, holding me back! I should have had them all shot, like Stalin!”

Just when the three thought the President had finished venting, Bush clenched his fists and shouted one last sentence, “These people are an unforgivable betrayal of freedom, of the American people.”

After his final curse, Bush slumped into his seat as if drained of all strength. He covered his face with his hands and said in anguish, “It’s over. It’s all over. We failed. With this 1.4 billion dollars, it’s like giving a dying patient a shot of adrenaline. It has ruined all of our painstakingly laid plans.”

“But Mr. President, shouldn’t our priority be to minimize the fallout and cut our losses?” Cheney pushed his glasses up and pointed at a photo of a man named Vanta. “This man is the most critical part of the plan. His arrest means he could reveal a lot. If he announces our loss of 1.4 billion US dollars to the global financial markets, the resulting panic and tyranny would be enough to cause a major stock market crash.”

Brent added, “And the massive financial resources we’ve poured into the Gulf War have already depleted the national treasury. A sudden loss of 1.4 billion dollars… I’m afraid it could trigger a debt crisis. Most importantly, how are we going to come up with 1.4 billion in a short time to fill the black hole left by this project’s funds?”

“We can’t abandon Vanta, nor can we cover up this scam.” Skinner put his hands in his pockets, tilting his head as he looked at the photo on the table and offered his view. “Even if we could erase all records of his existence, we can’t erase the memories of his family and friends. Instead of trying to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes, we should negotiate with the Soviets, who have a clear advantage, and demand the secret extradition of this man.”

“Hmph, how naive, Skinner. Aren’t you afraid the Soviets will demand an exorbitant price?” Brent scoffed.

Skinner ignored Brent and continued, “Gold. Tell the Soviets we know where their rainy-day funds are. The biggest gold market is in London. If they’re unwilling, we can use various methods to attack the gold market, including short-selling. The worst-case scenario is a mutually destructive outcome. America will be badly hurt, but for the Soviets, it will just make a bad situation worse.”

After Skinner finished speaking, everyone stared at President Bush, waiting for the final decision the silent President was preparing to make.

Chapter 50: Blackmail

“Impressive. The Americans reacted a little faster than we anticipated. What are your thoughts on this, Surkov?” The request submitted by the U.S. Ambassador to the Soviet Union, Jack F. Matlock, Jr., was tossed aside by Yanayev. He sat on the throne symbolizing the supreme power of the Soviet, staring at the paper with its few short sentences, his eyes closed as he contemplated their next move. The message on the paper was simple; Bush had used the most concise language possible to implicitly express his seething rage.

“Dear Comrade Yanayev, we have an American citizen who has been illegally detained by the KGB in the Soviet Union. Please believe that he is merely an ordinary person traveling in Moscow, not the criminal you are looking to apprehend. If possible, could you please meet with our ambassador to the Soviet Union, Mr. Matlock? He will explain everything to you. We apologize for any inconvenience caused to your country.”

This diplomatic rhetoric was a classic case of a clumsy denial that reveals the truth. An ordinary American citizen attracting the President’s attention? Everyone knew this fellow was an American spy, but according to protocol, they still had to recite these lines—which were probably nauseating even to themselves—to their counterparts.

“The Americans don’t want to blow this up. They’re hoping to handle this quietly.” Surkov, who had personally tailored the “eye for an eye” plan for Yanayev, was now planning the President’s next move. “If we obediently hand Wanta over to the Americans, the matter will be considered closed. But no one can guarantee that the Americans won’t pull another dirty trick like this tomorrow. This time it was the Ruble, next time it could be financial fraud. They can always find a vulnerability in our fragile economy.”

“If we don’t hand him over and instead publicize the news of the 1.4 billion dollar deficit, the Soviet Union would suffer no losses. America, however, would lose 1.4 billion dollars, creating a black hole that would cause a significant financial shock. This is the last thing the Americans want to see. At the same time, an enraged and humiliated America would retaliate by any means necessary, such as short-selling the London gold market, using our reliance on gold exports as a crushing weight on our shoulders. The result would be making a bad situation worse for the Soviet economy, while America’s economy would be deeply wounded. To be honest, if it were me, I would choose to compromise with the Americans. After all, the fragile Soviet economy can’t take any more turmoil. What are your thoughts, Mr. President?”

“Neither the first nor the second option is the best choice. We have a third option: teach the Americans a lesson, so they’ll think twice before waging financial warfare again.” Yanayev pondered for a moment before saying to Surkov, “We can make the Americans pay a ransom to get Leo Wanta back.”

Hearing the president of a country suggest demanding a ransom from another nation like a kidnapper, Surkov looked troubled. He said tactfully, “President Yanayev, isn’t that… a little inappropriate? This would put us in the immoral position of kidnappers and could even give them leverage to use against us.”

Yanayev, who had been holding a teacup, set it down upon hearing Surkov’s words and said dismissively, “Leverage? To hell with it. We have no friends left in Europe anyway. In their eyes, we are nothing but brazen robbers, ‘Mad Ivans,’ terrifying demons, heretics of Communism. Since they already see us this way, why should we try to please them? Since they are unwilling, we don’t need to try and curry favor with the idea of peaceful coexistence. For the West, a collapsed Soviet Union is the only good Soviet Union.”

“The corrupt capitalist world deserves only to tremble before Communism. We need not pity them. Their so-called welfare states exist not because those capitalists have any sort of conscience, but because of our own formidable presence.”

Yanayev never intended to greedily carve a large piece of flesh from American financial institutions, but making President Bush enraged and humiliated once more was the outcome he truly desired. For all the damage American imperialism had inflicted on the Soviet Union over the years, Yanayev was going to make Bush pay it all back—with interest.

With his hands in his pockets, Yanayev stood before the window, gazing out at the brilliantly lit cityscape. This land he loved so dearly, the Soviet motherland, was facing its most difficult time, plagued by internal troubles and external threats.

Yanayev turned back and said softly to Surkov, “We’ve already initiated the ‘red mercury hoax.’ I think the Americans have fallen into the trap by now. They’ll mistakenly believe we possess red mercury nuclear weapons. You ask why I dare to openly demand a ransom from them? This is my leverage. The Americans don’t know the truth, which will make them more willing to compromise at the negotiating table.”

“Besides, is one hundred million dollars a lot? Not really. Those greedy Wall Street financiers could scrape that amount together from their anonymous slush funds. But for us, 1.5 billion US dollars would be an indispensable shot in the arm. With it, the Soviet Union could drag on for a while longer. Surkov, the atmosphere of economic recovery I had you create in the newspapers was nothing but an illusion to deceive ourselves and others. The truth is, the Soviet economy is still mired in the gloom of low growth. I’ve merely been using a series of so-called diplomatic victories to divert the public’s attention.”

Yanayev looked at the pale-faced Surkov and patted him on the shoulder. “This is the Soviet’s most difficult hour. That’s why, whether it’s through oil or arms, I must raise enough capital to get us through this crisis, to hold out until Ryzhkov’s economic recovery plan shows results.”

The realization of many things comes at the cost of others. For instance, the unlucky “American tourist,” Wanta, was at that very moment enduring inhuman treatment and torture in a secret KGB safe house. Plekhanov had given them advance instructions: they must use methods of torture that left no visible wounds. Thus, waterboarding and intimidation were brought onto the stage for dealing with Wanta.

After enduring several hours of waterboarding, Wanta still remained silent. So, a KGB agent threw a photo of Wanta’s daughter in Pennsylvania in front of him, threatening that KGB agents were already lying in wait in the United States and that Wanta himself had to choose whether his daughter lived or died.

“Does it make a difference?” Wanta, tortured to the brink of death, said with a contemptuous laugh. “I’m already a sacrificed pawn. If I talk, the Americans will silence me and my daughter. If I don’t, you’ll silence me and my daughter. If I die in this filthy prison, at least I’ll get a state funeral.”

Plekhanov, who was smoking beside him, dropped his cigarette butt upon hearing Wanta’s words. He walked right up to the man, grabbed him by the hair, and stared into Wanta’s eyes, which longed for release. “You really can’t see the situation clearly, can you, Leo Wanta?” he asked. “Has it never occurred to you that if you give us those account passwords, you and your daughter will be under the heroic protection of the Soviet authorities for the rest of your lives?”

Chapter 51: The Merciful Butcher

Matlock stood in a conference room in the Kremlin, waiting anxiously for Yanayev’s arrival. This was one of the few times he had ever set foot in this forbidden place, considered heretical by the liberal world. According to Soviet protocol, he had no right to meet directly with Yanayev, but the urgency of the situation had forced him, under the authorization of the American president, to bypass the so-called rules and seek a direct audience.

As for whether this reputed tyrant was as ferocious and ill-tempered as Stalin had been, Matlock had to admit he was completely in the dark. It had been two months since the August 19th Coup, and he still had not exchanged a single word with Yanayev in person.

Nearly fifteen minutes had passed since his request had been submitted, and Yanayev still hadn’t appeared. Bored, Matlock sat in the conference room, drumming his fingers on the table while he calculated how he was going to negotiate with the Soviet president.

The U.S. Ambassador to the Soviet Union was, to put it simply, the mouthpiece who cleaned up the mess when the guys at the CIA bungled an operation and solved diplomatic problems. Whether or not to rescue the person in question, by what means, and what conditions to negotiate with the Soviets—it had all been planned out. He just had to haggle with them according to the script provided by Washington. In short, it was a thankless job.

“My apologies, Ambassador Matlock. I’ve kept you waiting.” A deep, magnetic Russian voice sounded from behind him. Matlock turned to see a smiling Yanayev walk into the room. The President instructed his guards to stand three paces away so as not to disturb Mr. Matlock.

Standing before him was a middle-aged man with a kind smile, utterly devoid of any brutal or bloodthirsty aura. Matlock was a little bewildered. He had seen photos of Yanayev before and had thought he seemed like a gentle person. So was this really the tyrant who had personally approved the execution of four hundred dissidents? The Luciferian political leader demonized by the West?

Seeing Matlock standing there in a bit of a daze, Yanayev raised his voice slightly and asked again, “Ambassador Matlock, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Ah, my apologies, I was out of sorts, President Yanayev,” Matlock said, quickly apologizing. He bowed slightly and shot a quick glance at the other man’s face. Seeing that Yanayev’s expression was still unreadable, he breathed a small sigh of relief.

Yanayev waved his hand casually and said, “It’s nothing. Haha, many of your Western journalists have the same reaction when they see me. They all think I’m some unreasonable, domineering man. I heard there’s a news anchor at your Columbia Broadcasting System named Mike Wallace who has been wanting to interview me to understand the real ruler of the Soviet Union. If there’s a chance in the future, I’d like to invite him to Moscow for an exclusive interview. Haha, I think it would be a very exciting debate on democracy and freedom.”

Matlock didn’t know how to respond, but Yanayev seemed entirely unbothered by the awkward silence and continued speaking on his own. “I hear you’ve come about the matter of an American citizen being detained by the KGB, Ambassador Matlock?”

“Yes.” Seeing that the topic had finally been broached, Matlock nodded quickly. “I believe this must be a misunderstanding. That American traveler has a clean record. He is not a criminal suspect, nor is he a CIA agent. The United States will not abandon any of its citizens facing a life-threatening crisis abroad.”

“Oh? How interesting.” Yanayev deliberately drew out his words. “But even the KGB has yet to report specifically who they’ve captured or what their nationality is. How is it that you Americans are able to foresee the future?”

Faced with Yanayev’s sarcasm, Matlock shamelessly fell back on his usual diplomatic rhetoric. “I believe there must be some misunderstanding. Before this American citizen was apprehended, he called the consulate to say he was being followed by KGB agents. The line went dead before he could finish. That’s why we suspected he was in your government’s custody.”

Yanayev sneered inwardly. Could you find a better excuse? Since when did the United States need to interfere in Soviet public security matters? To put it more severely, this was interference in their internal affairs. Yanayev shifted his position and continued to fence verbally with Matlock. “That’s strange. When I received your request, I made a special call to the head of the KGB. He said he would monitor the situation, so please, Mr. Ambassador, be patient. We will give you a specific reply in a few days.”

Matlock realized that he had been trapped by his own fabricated excuse. Moreover, Bush had warned him not to wait a single moment. No matter what it took, he had to get Leo Wanta out of Soviet hands. After all, Wanta held the keys to Bush and his interest group’s slush fund.

In other words, Vanta was the guardian of that slush fund. If he talked, the funds would be completely exposed to the enemy. Although they could use their influence with the banks to freeze all the known accounts, Bush knew that no guardian was ever completely scrupulous. They likely had their own private slush funds, separate from the interest group’s, built from the extra profits skimmed off while working for the president. The KGB, of course, couldn’t touch the funds in the frozen accounts, but these small, untraceable accounts were the juicy morsels they craved. All told, the amount could be anywhere from thirty or forty million to as much as a hundred million.

If Vanta talked, it would be a nightmare for Bush.

“Let’s be more direct, President Yanayev.” Matlock frowned, deciding to be open with the still-smiling man before him. “What we want is Leo Wanta, whom you have in custody. If your side is unwilling to return him, then please don’t blame us for what happens next if we haven’t given you a warning.”

“I hear you. Is that a threat, Ambassador Matlock?” Yanayev asked, feigning indifference as he steepled his fingers under his chin. “An economic fraudster who traveled all the way from America colluding with corrupt forces within our Soviet Union, trying to completely crush the Soviet economy just as it was beginning to recover. Should such a person not face Soviet justice? Or should we hand him back to you villainous financiers so he can continue to help you exploit the wealth of the world’s people?”

Ambassador Matlock was about to interject, but Yanayev cut him off, listing America’s crimes in the calm tone of old friends chatting. “Admittedly, due to our long-term planned economy, we are not as adept as those elites on Wall Street who pull the strings. But that doesn’t mean we can’t see through your attempt to establish the hegemony of the U.S. dollar, to create an evil axis of London and Wall Street, to control the people of the world with debt, and to make the wealth created by the labor of the ninety-nine percent serve your one percent. You hope that after humanity was liberated from slave owners, they will once again become slaves to capitalists, and socialist countries are your greatest obstacle.”

“But here, I want to tell you, as long as the Soviet Union has not fallen, you vampires on Wall Street can forget about getting a good night’s sleep. The goal of our Communism is to eliminate the bourgeoisie and completely liberate the proletariat from the shackles of your capitalist extortion!”

Yanayev’s every word struck Ambassador Matlock’s heart, and a chill ran down his spine. Although the man before him still wore a smile, the killing intent beneath it sent cold sweat trickling down the back of Matlock, a man known for his composure.

“So go back and tell Bush he can try whatever tricks he wants. The Soviet Union wasn’t afraid in the past, we are not afraid now, and we will not be afraid in the future. Oh, and of course, one more thing. If you really want Leo Wanta back in one piece, I hope the U.S. government can show its sincerity by offering a considerable ransom. Otherwise, hehe, in a few days, the whole world will know what America has been doing in the Soviet Union. The sensation it causes might just rival the Watergate scandal.”

When Yanayev stated his terms, Matlock breathed a sigh of relief. He had completed his mission of delivering the message. Now all he had to do was dump these words back on the elites gathered in Washington or the White House and let them deal with the headache. However, just before Matlock stepped out of the Kremlin, he still muttered something quietly to Yanayev beside him. “President Yanayev, what you just said reminds me of a Patriarch with a special nickname. They called him the Merciful Butcher. And you, you have perfectly embodied that.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Yanayev replied politely. Before getting into the black sedan, Matlock cast another uneasy glance at Yanayev, but seeing that the other man’s gaze wasn’t on him, he relaxed slightly.

After escorting Matlock out of the Kremlin and watching his car disappear from view, Yanayev turned and headed back inside, thinking to himself that the White House, thousands of miles away, was about to get a lot more lively than imagined.

Chapter 52: Red Mercury Intimidation

(Second update, one more to come)

“The Soviets are demanding a ransom? God, what’s the difference between those guys and bandits? Dammit, they are a bunch of bandits! They overthrew the rule of Tsarist Russia, carved up the property of the former rulers, and then took the rulers’ seats for themselves, transforming into a pack of shameless, exploiting bastards! Is that what they call Communism? It’s an exploitationism even more despicable than Wall Street.” Few people had ever seen President Bush so exasperated on the phone. Of course, given that the recent Vanta incident had put him on the back foot at every turn, his mood was naturally far from good.

When the U.S. Ambassador to the Soviet Union delivered this bad news to the President, Bush’s voice on the other end of the line was loud enough to burst Matlock’s eardrum. He moved the receiver slightly away from his ear before saying timidly, “Mr. President, the Soviets haven’t announced the ransom amount, but I believe, given their desperate need for funds, the sum will not be small.”

“Forget it. Losing my temper won’t do any good. I understand. Thank you for your hard work, Ambassador Matlock. Get some rest.” Having vented his anger, Bush’s voice took on a dejected tone. From putting constant pressure on Gorbachev until now, he had never imagined that America’s policy toward the Soviet Union could fail so spectacularly. When it came down to it, all these incidents had occurred because that one man, so desperate to keep the Soviet Union from collapsing, was pulling strings from the shadows.

After hanging up, Bush turned to his advisors and staff. “You all heard that,” he said. “The reason the Soviets dare to provoke us so brazenly is all because of that so-called red mercury nuke.”

The conference room fell silent. The two unfortunate pieces of news—the red mercury nuke and the political blackmail—were laid before President Bush almost simultaneously. No one would be in a good mood in his position.

“Can we confirm the authenticity of this red mercury bomb with the agent who provided the intelligence?” Bush asked Robert, the Director of the CIA. After all, he had been the first to review the intelligence and present it directly to the President.

Having lived through the Vanta incident, Robert had become very careful with his words. He answered Bush cautiously, “Intelligence analysts believe there’s an eighty percent probability that the Soviets already possess the red mercury nuke, but I find this data unreliable. Two weeks ago, we received intelligence that the Soviets were avidly collecting specific data on the pressure and temperature required for nuclear weapon manufacturing. For ordinary nuclear weapons, the Soviet Union would have no need for such data. Furthermore, we discovered the intelligence they were gathering was focused on the miniaturization of nuclear weapons. So we reached a bold conclusion: the Soviet Union is attempting to build some kind of miniaturized nuclear weapon, possibly comparable in size to a nuclear artillery shell.”

“A few months ago, we discovered a large factory under construction somewhere in Smolensk, in the Soviet Union. Its extremely remote location aroused our suspicions, but we found no immediate evidence of wrongdoing—just some trucks coming and going. It only caught our attention after all the collected nuclear intelligence was traced back to Smolensk.”

“An agent embedded deep within the Soviet Union obtained a shred of information through an informant. The sealed iron barrels being transported contained mercury antimony oxide. Data on pressure and temperature differentials for small nuclear weapons, mercury antimony oxide… the Soviets’ clumsy deception indicated they might be building a terrifying weapon: the red mercury nuke.”

Hearing the words “red mercury nuke,” the composed President Bush’s expression changed drastically. He hadn’t expected the Soviets to be rushing to develop a “suitcase nuke.” Did the high command controlling the Soviet military know their days were numbered? Were they preparing to use such extreme measures to strike at the West?

“Just before the Vanta incident, the Soviet Union immediately ceased all collection and infiltration related to nuclear weapons data, and the factory, once bustling with vehicles, fell silent. It was as if nothing had ever happened. For this to occur, there is only one possibility.” Robert paused, hesitating. The words he was about to say were a reality no one wanted to accept.

Beside him, Vice President Dan Quayle’s lips trembled as he finished CIA Director Robert’s thought. “Yes, it means our intelligence is no longer useful to them. The Soviets have found a solution to the temperature and pressure problem. In other words, they have already developed the red mercury nuke.”

Robert placed a stack of satellite photos in front of the President. They were blurry, top-down images of a mountain, with a dazzling fireball faintly visible rising from its center. The series of photos documented the mountain explosion from beginning to end. Robert explained, “This was a Soviet test we detected the day before their intelligence gathering ceased. We can see a mushroom cloud rising from the test, but the yield of this nuclear weapon is relatively small, small enough to be compared to the TNT equivalent of a nuclear artillery shell. But the explosion and radioactive fallout are enough to flatten the Pentagon or the White House and kill everyone inside.”

“Can our security facilities even detect such a weapon?” Bush was growing agitated. The thought of being surrounded by such invisible nuclear weapons was enough to rob anyone of a peaceful night’s sleep.

Dan Quayle explained, “The Pentagon’s security has been raised to the highest level. We can ensure such a thing doesn’t happen inside, but Mr. President, they don’t need to detonate it inside the Pentagon. A single suicide bomber standing at the main gate could level the entire White House. And if the Soviets were to detonate them in New York, in Los Angeles, in San Francisco… America’s economy would collapse from the panic. After all, no one wants to live under the shadow of a nuclear threat. The final outcome could be the Soviet Union dismantling the Free World with just a few suitcase nukes.”

“If we allocate funds for research now, can we make our own suitcase nuke? I mean, with our full, unreserved support for this research, what’s the soonest we can get results?” Bush asked anxiously.

“Because the Reagan administration considered this kind of weapon to be nonsense, we are far behind the Soviets in this area. To see even preliminary results would probably take seven or eight years. Moreover, large mineral reserves of this mercury antimony oxide are only found in Russia and its surrounding territories; other regions have next to nothing.” Robert gave Bush a number that was enough to make everyone in the room’s heart sink. Eight years was enough time for the Soviets, with their near-miraculous production capabilities, to manufacture tens of thousands of red mercury nukes and then methodically detonate them, one by one, in the West.

Dan Quayle tried to console the President. “The Soviets’ red mercury bomb has only just been developed. Its performance might still be imperfect in many respects, such as the safety of its radiation shielding, the difficulty and cost of transport, and so on. Perhaps by the time they find solutions, we will have found a countermeasure as well.”

But at that moment, nothing the Vice President said could help. Bush felt he had been completely outmaneuvered. He sank limply into his chair, hands on the table, and fell silent for a long time. All the high-ranking officials waited for Bush to speak. In the end, all he could say was a helpless, “Let’s negotiate a truce with the Soviets.”

Hearing talk of a truce, the CIA Director became agitated. “But President Bush, we’re not yet certain if that weapon is a real red mercury nuke. Perhaps this is just a trap set by the Soviets, waiting for us to take the bait and negotiate.”

“Does Director Robert want to see a splendid mushroom cloud rise over the White House before he’ll believe this isn’t a bluff but a bloody fact?” Bush shot Robert a look. “Lifting the economic sanctions and renegotiating with the Soviets at most puts us back at square one. But if we push them until they can’t breathe, I can’t imagine a United States that isn’t haunted by the specter of nuclear weapons everywhere. Neither you nor I can bear that responsibility.”

Robert wanted to argue, but Bush cut him off bluntly. “Enough, Director Robert. I exhausted every option I had to save your position as CIA Director after the Vanta incident, so don’t disappoint me again. Gentlemen, I’m very tired now. I’d like to be alone.”

Knowing he couldn’t convince the President, Robert sighed and prepared to leave the room. Just before he left, Bush spoke in a low voice, “Although we’re halting the economic offensive, I hope, Director Robert, that you don’t forget to create small frictions for the Soviets. The external offensive will be temporarily suspended, but the unrest created by those member republics must not stop.”

Robert’s eyes lit up as he understood Bush’s meaning. He nodded at the President and said firmly, “Rest assured, I will not disappoint the President’s expectations.”

Chapter 53: Put the Briefcase Down and Let’s Talk

The staff working at the Pentagon and the White House today all felt a tense atmosphere. Security personnel patrolled back and forth with police dogs, their expressions grim. It was as if the Soviet army had already stormed the US East Coast and were preparing to land in Washington, and they, like the last of the SS honor guard defending the Reichstag, awaited the Red Army’s charging cry of “Ura!”

In addition to having their work IDs checked, everyone had to open their briefcases for inspection. Only after confirming a lack of any radioactive material could they pass through security. Some employees complained that the White House security measures were an overreaction, but after seeing the powerful MP5 submachine guns in the guards’ fierce-looking hands, they obediently chose to shut up. While no one wanted to be treated like a Soviet spy and subjected to scrutiny just to get to work, even less did they want a taste of a 9mm bullet.

It wasn’t just Washington. Airports, train stations, and metro stations across the United States had all bolstered their security, as if the Soviets had already infiltrated major American cities and were preparing to detonate red mercury nukes. The US government’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point. Meanwhile, immigrants with a thick Russian accent were out of luck; they were listed as prime surveillance targets by the FBI and the Immigration Bureau, subject to summons and investigation at any time. For a moment, America had entered what was possibly its most tense state of war readiness since the Cuban Missile Crisis.

But in contrast to the tense atmosphere within the United States, Bush’s announcement to the world that he was signing a friendly coexistence agreement with the Soviet Union came as a relief to the people of the third world. Leaders of other nations proclaimed it another victory for peace. No one, however, thought to ask why America would want to sign such an agreement with the Soviet Union for no apparent reason. Of course, only the small circle of high-level officials who knew the truth could only suffer in silence.

The whole world watched the two superpowers’ every move. After meeting at the negotiating table in Munich, the two adversaries, Bush and Yanayev, once again set their sights on a conference table in Moscow to shake hands and make peace. Kennedy and Khrushchev had once sat together in the same way to discuss a peace agreement, all while their hands, hidden from view, secretly tightened their grip on the red button.

This was Bush’s first visit to the Soviet Union in 1991, and the Soviet side gave the Bush delegation ample face. Not only did they dispatch fighter jets as an escort, but they also deployed a formidable armored force at Moscow International Airport—ostensibly to protect the American President, but in reality, to show off the Soviet Union’s armed forces. Anyone disembarking to the sight of an entire armored division would be scared into thinking they had been placed under house arrest by a foreign military. When Brent stepped off the plane and saw the forest of steel, his knees felt a little weak.

Bush, long accustomed to dealing with the Red Polar Bear whose mind was filled with war, missiles, nuclear weapons, and liberating the world, gave a helpless shrug. He was used to the Soviets’ simple and crude way of thinking.

As soon as he stepped off the plane, Bush received a warm welcome from Yanayev. He stood beside Bush and shook his hand warmly, allowing reporters to capture the photograph of the supreme leaders of the two rival superpowers shaking hands in reconciliation after more than seventy years of confrontation, signaling to the world that the conference on peaceful coexistence was off to a good start.

The tracks of the camouflage-green BMP infantry fighting vehicles flanking the presidential car began to turn, heading toward the Kremlin. Low-flying Hind helicopters cleared the path ahead, surrounding Bush’s car like stars orbiting the moon, as if the man inside were the President of the Soviet Union. Of course, to the Americans inside the car, it was another matter entirely. It felt uncomfortably like being prisoners escorted to jail.

Presidential advisor Brent looked with considerable displeasure at the steel behemoths escorting them. The infantry fighting vehicles, spewing black exhaust, were a symbol of backwardness and savagery in his eyes. America’s weapons of war, fitted with high-end electronic equipment, could turn these crude, ugly monsters into a pile of scrap metal at any moment.

At this thought, a sense of pride welled up from the depths of Brent’s heart. The surrounding infantry fighting vehicles were inferior toys, fit only to serve as their escort. But the self-satisfied Brent was, of course, unaware of the hateful gazes the soldiers were directing at him. If not for their loyalty to the supreme leader’s orders, all four 30mm cannons would have undoubtedly been aimed at the Americans in the car, followed by a scene of splattered blood.

But they were Communist warriors, following the highest directives of the Party organization with an indelible faith.

The presidential car carried Bush into the Kremlin. The two men alighted simultaneously and, under the protection of tight layers of security, Yanayev and Bush walked side by side through the Kremlin’s gates. Bush, however, asked with some confusion, “Does the Soviet Union always receive foreign guests with this level of security?”

“Oh, not always,” Yanayev said, pausing for a moment. He turned his head to Bush. “Decades of hostility and inculcated hatred are bound to cultivate a few extremists. It’s not impossible that as President Bush and I shake hands, one of the guards here is an extremist preparing to assassinate the American president. I’m doing this, truly, for your own safety.”

Yanayev’s words were thick with menace. The expression of the presidential advisor beside Bush changed, and he glared indignantly at the Soviet President. Only the soldiers around them, holding their Kalashnikov rifles, made him suppress the urge to lash out.

“So today, let us dissolve the hatred of all these years and establish a new order. Let us move our hands from the briefcases with the nuclear launch codes and place them upon the documents of the peace treaty we are to sign.”

Hearing the word “briefcase,” Bush’s eyelid twitched subconsciously, and an ominous premonition washed over him. He was desperate to ask Yanayev if the Soviet Union had truly developed the red mercury nuke, but to do so would be to show weakness, which would put America in an even more passive position at the negotiating table.

The representatives of both sides sat down in the conference room, and consultations began on the issue of Vanta. Bush noticed two aides by Yanayev’s side, each holding a black briefcase and appearing to be on high alert. This made Bush restless; his attention kept drifting to the briefcases, wanting to know what was inside.

Yanayev saw everything. It was clear the red mercury hoax had left America’s top leader on edge. His next move was to add more fuel to the fire, to make Bush compromise during the negotiations and give the Soviets more leverage in the Vanta deal.

Yanayev cleared his throat and began to speak. “President Bush, I trust that the US Ambassador to the Soviet Union, Matlock, has already relayed our conditions for this negotiation. Vanta, a financial fraudster with a notorious record, also held the post of a high-ranking CIA official. This does not inspire much trust in the American government. But that is of no consequence to us. What I want to know is, how much ransom is the US government willing to pay to save the keeper of your unspeakable secrets?”

Yanayev tilted his head slightly and glanced again at the presidential advisor, Brent. Seeing the contempt in the man’s eyes, he simply offered a noncommittal smile.

“Or perhaps you have no intention of making a deal at all?”

Chapter 54: You Thought I Was Talking About Rubles?

(First update)

“President Yanayev, you must believe we have come with sincerity. To resolve and properly handle the Vanta incident, after thorough consideration, we have unanimously agreed that our two nations should set aside conflict and coexist peacefully.”

Yanayev wasn’t particularly moved by the olive branch Bush extended. After all, Uncle Sam’s shamelessness was a globally known fact. But Bush’s forced, humorless smile did irk Yanayev. Still, he forgave the man, thinking he had probably been in a state of high tension for days due to the red mercury nuke.

“So, what price is your country prepared to pay to get your man back? We have emphasized before that since Vanta, an economic fraud, can openly serve as a top leader in the CIA, there will be a price to pay.”

At the negotiating table, Yanayev had no intention of revealing his hand first. He would wait for Bush to make the first move.

Bush gently tapped the table with his thumb and forefinger. He observed his counterpart’s unhurried demeanor and slowly laid out his terms, “We are willing to offer four hundred million to get Leo Wanta, currently held by the KGB. What do you think?”

Yanayev frowned. According to the official exchange rate of 1 USD to 1.66 Rubles, four hundred million Rubles would convert to over two hundred million US dollars. For the Soviet Union, this risk-free venture was not a loss.

Seeing no reaction from Yanayev, Bush grew a little anxious. America’s bottom line was six hundred million, and he didn’t want to reveal his upper limit too soon. So, he added another sentence to urge Yanayev to make a decision, “President Yanayev, four hundred million US dollars is the absolute most we can afford. If your country feels this price is unsuitable, I can only regretfully say that we have failed to reach an agreement.”

“Eh?” Yanayev was taken aback. It was as if he hadn’t heard Bush correctly. Only after the other man repeated himself did he understand. “Are you saying you will pay four hundred million US dollars for Leo Vanta? Four hundred million… dollars?”

Bush found Yanayev’s attitude peculiar. He asked, “Yes. Does President Yanayev perhaps find the price of four hundred million dollars unsuitable? Then how much do you want? State your demand, and we’ll see if we can accept it.”

Yanayev had initially thought the Americans would settle the payment in Rubles. He never expected the wealthy US government to use US dollars directly. This way, converted at the official rate, it amounted to six hundred and sixty million Rubles—another timely aid package for the financially struggling Soviet Union. To think that historically, during this very month, Gorbachev was so broke attending a Western conference that he couldn’t even afford a hotel room. Meanwhile, Yanayev was finding ways to pry the money that Western nations had swallowed right back out of their mouths.

“No, I just feel the price is a little short of the expected standard. However, seeing as President Bush has come all the way from Washington to Moscow, we can reluctantly accept this price.” Although it had far exceeded his expectations, Yanayev pretended to accept Bush’s offer with some reluctance.

The Soviet’s straightforwardness caught Bush off guard for a moment. He then realized the price America had offered had surpassed the Soviets’ expectations. But a word spoken is like spilt water; Bush couldn’t go back on it. He could, however, add a condition. “Of course, we have a condition as well. The Soviet Union must either sign a non-proliferation treaty on the miniaturization of nuclear weapons with us, or share the technology for miniaturizing nuclear weapons. Only then will you receive this money.”

Yanayev deliberately pretended not to understand what Bush was saying. “I’m sorry, a non-proliferation treaty for miniaturized nuclear weapons? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, the Soviet Union has no subsequent models in development beyond nuclear artillery shells. How can we sign a non-proliferation treaty with you for something we don’t even have ourselves?”

“The red mercury nuke. We want to restrict the proliferation of the red mercury nuke.”

Bush’s voice was a bit hoarse, but he still enunciated, word by word, the name of the Cold War superweapon that had tormented him for days. Even Yanayev hadn’t expected Bush to be so direct about this secret. It seemed the United States was truly paranoid, terrified by the red mercury hoax.

Yanayev still didn’t reveal his hand. “Red mercury nuke? Isn’t that a rumored Soviet weapon that your American military fabricated to secure more funding? What, has America developed a persecution complex now, thinking we Soviets possess this weapon?”

Brent, who was on the side, couldn’t watch anymore and directly broke the charade between the two men. “President Yanayev, I am Brent, advisor to the President of the United States. We now have detailed evidence to suggest that you possess a weapon called the red mercury nuke. You can choose to deny it or think I’m being an alarmist, but we will absolutely not allow such a world-destroying weapon to exist in your laboratories. It should not exist, whether in the Soviet Union or the United States.”

“If any country stubbornly insists on turning it into a fearsome weapon to control the world through terror, then we, the United States, will unite with other nations to jointly oppose the evil country that possesses the red mercury weapon.”

Yanayev clapped his hands, showing his appreciation for Brent’s righteous and awe-inspiring speech. It seemed this group of Americans was following the script Ogarkov had designed to the letter. Even Yanayev himself, when he first saw the script Ogarkov had prepared, had mistakenly believed the Soviet Union actually possessed such a weapon. It was all too real, with every little detail taken into account, which was why Bush and his team had been forced into such a passive position.

“Excuse me, I propose a temporary recess so we can regroup. What do you think, Mr. Bush?” Yanayev pretended that he needed to discuss this with his team, making Bush even more certain that the Soviets had the weapon.

“Of course, President Yanayev.” Bush readily agreed, while breathing a sigh of relief internally. The fact that the Soviets chose to halt the session for an internal discussion rather than continuing to play dumb proved that they did have the red mercury nuke, and perhaps their stance wasn’t as firm as he had imagined.

While Bush’s mind was racing, Yanayev, who had temporarily left the meeting room, entered another room. Inside, only one person was sitting in a chair, intently watching the events in the meeting room on a screen.

Upon seeing Yanayev, the young man quickly stood up, bowed slightly, and said respectfully, “President Yanayev.”

He was Surkov, the future peerless statesman of Russia. Hailed as a standout of the new generation, the most likely to take up the banner from the preceding generation’s brain trust, and a strategist for the Soviet. He currently held a high-level position in the Ministry of Culture. He was still a bit young and lacked polish, but his wild and imaginative thinking more than compensated for it. At the same time, he was free from the shackles of an empiricist.

Yanayev’s words were few. He directly asked Surkov, “Do you think we should negotiate a truce or continue to play dumb? If we hold out, the potential political gains might be even greater.”

“That depends on whether you, Mr. President, want to save the Soviet Union’s fading pulse or destroy it completely. If you refuse outright, the United States will then resort to all sorts of small tricks against us, hamstringing the weakened polar bear’s movements, and then use our economic problems to dismember us piece by piece. They can go for broke, but we don’t have a real red mercury nuke to save our skins. If we choose to agree, this fake trump card—the red mercury nuke—can continue to be used to blackmail the Americans and keep them up at night.”

Surkov hit the nail on the head, pointing out the flaw in Yanayev’s thinking. Yanayev frowned; he hadn’t realized there was another layer to it—the additional conditions that could be bargained for within the non-proliferation treaty.

“You mean we should agree to sign the treaty, but we must have our own additional conditions, right? It’s like pretending to be reluctant, but in reality, securing a big enough share for ourselves.”

Surkov nodded and said seriously, “Exactly. This way, the red mercury nuke will become a life-saving talisman for the foreseeable future, safeguarding the Soviet Union as it navigates its economic crisis. By doing this, the Americans won’t dare to act rashly, whether it’s a military strike or a financial war.”

Chapter 55: Besides Red Mercury, There Are Also the Rods from God

(Second update)

Returning to the negotiating table, Gennady Yanayev appeared far calmer and more composed than before, which made Bush feel a little uneasy. And when Yanayev looked at Bush, it was with the air of a lion stalking a rabbit—utterly superior. Having laid the trap of the red mercury hoax, the Soviet Union held all the leverage on the issue of small nuclear weapons. They could reject any harsh treaty proposed by the United States—at least, so long as the Americans had not yet discovered that the red mercury nuke was a sham.

“The Miniaturized Nuclear Weapon Non-Proliferation Treaty. The signatory states possessing miniaturized nuclear weapons commit not to transfer, directly or indirectly, such weapons or other nuclear explosive devices, or control over such weapons or explosive devices, to any recipient whatsoever; and not in any way to assist, encourage, or induce any non-nuclear-weapon state to manufacture or otherwise acquire nuclear weapons or other nuclear explosive devices, or control over such weapons or explosive devices.”

“Furthermore, the number of miniaturized nuclear weapons possessed by both the United States and the Soviet Union shall not exceed fifty. In the event of war, neither party shall be the first to use miniaturized nuclear weapons against another state.”

If the first clause was official boilerplate, then the second was America’s true objective. The United States had deliberately fudged the concept of “not exceeding fifty,” failing to specify the actual limits on the weapons’ yield or the true count. This was to ensure that once the United States developed a weapon comparable to the red mercury nuke, it could bypass these tedious regulations. And “in the event of war”? What a joke. Besides the Soviet Union, was there really any other country that would compel the United States to use nuclear weapons?

And a war between the United States and the Soviet Union? That would be the end of humanity.

Listening to the translator’s narration, as cold and emotionless as the nuclear weapons themselves, Yanayev couldn’t help but interrupt the man’s long-winded speech. He asked directly, “I feel that a limit of fifty is far too restrictive. The number should be at least three hundred, don’t you think? After all, nuclear weapons are a crucial part of a nation’s defense. We cannot accept this number.”

Yanayev deliberately gave the impression that the Soviet Union possessed a significant number of suitcase nukes, all to lead the Americans to misjudge the quantity and variety of the Soviet nuclear arsenal. This would more easily achieve a deceptive deterrent effect.

“Three hundred, you say? Isn’t that a bit… too many?” Bush swallowed hard. Three hundred. Even if the number of Soviet red mercury nukes was half what Yanayev claimed, the remaining one hundred fifty weapons would be enough to subject all the major cities in America’s fifty states to a devastating explosion. But Bush would never have imagined that Yanayev, in reality, had not a single red mercury nuke to his name.

“President Bush, we cannot agree with you on this point.” Yanayev deliberately frowned, his tone turning somewhat cold. “If you possessed such a devastating weapon, one capable of checking any other nation, would you want it to be limited by some treaty, or even be forbidden from producing it? I imagine you wouldn’t agree, for the same reason I won’t agree to the number fifty right now.”

“So, you’d better hurry up and find a way to counterbalance miniaturized nuclear weapons.” Yanayev decided to give the United States a helpful push down the wrong path. He said, with feigned nonchalance, “Unless you can accelerate your development of the ‘Rods from God’ outer space strike weapon, once the balance is broken, our iron torrent will plant the red flag all across Europe.”

“How do you know about the Rods from God project?” Bush was momentarily stunned. The Star Wars initiative had been a deceptive strategic propaganda program to begin with, and the so-called “Rods from God” was merely a concept imagined by the Americans, one that would be exceedingly difficult to actually implement. It was as impractical as the old Soviet notion of detonating a nuclear bomb on the surface of the moon.

“Of course I know that the plan you Americans designed is nothing but an absurd hoax. The Soviet Union has its own Rods from God project, too, but it’s far more reliable than your tungsten rods. We are deploying tactical nuclear warheads in near-Earth orbit. I can tell you plainly, it is to turn the tide in our struggle for supremacy.”

Yanayev was essentially revealing a non-existent plan in its entirety. Combined with the earlier red mercury hoax, it was enough to forge a blade that never was, now hanging above the Bald Eagle’s head. And the Red Polar Bear held the thread attached to that blade; a simple loosening of its fingers, and the Bald Eagle would surely die.

One could only imagine the crumbling thoughts going through Bush’s mind as he sat across from Yanayev. All this time, America had believed it was far ahead of the Soviet Union in every aspect of technology, only to discover that its opponent’s tech tree had been superior all along. Just a moment ago, he had been smugly thinking that he finally had a chance to chastise the Soviets and their allies.

Of course, Bush was half-believing and half-doubting. They had firsthand confirmation about red mercury, but this “Rods from God” business rested solely on Yanayev’s word. Given the Soviet Union’s economic difficulties in recent years, it was hard to say whether they could even afford such a superweapon. His first reaction was to wonder if Yanayev was using the panic caused by red mercury to threaten him.

But this was precisely what Yanayev wanted: to make Bush ponder the matter with deep suspicion. As long as the United States agonized over whether the Soviet Union possessed these unconventional weapons, they would find a way to increase funding to develop similar weapons of their own, even if none existed on the other side. The result of such an arms race would be both sides endlessly developing weapons that seemed powerful but were, in reality, not very effective. For example, the Object 138 prototype with its two turrets, resembling an Apocalypse Tank, or that M388 nuclear rocket whose range was shorter than its own blast radius.

Sometimes, thinking too much is not a good thing.

In the end, Bush, his thoughts in turmoil, agreed to Yanayev’s request, though the number of three hundred was whittled down to two hundred and fifteen after some haggling. He also demanded that the equipment at the Smolensk factory be dismantled by May of the following year to prevent any further production of red mercury weapons.

Yanayev agreed to Bush’s demand, but he had a condition of his own: when the United States reached its own upper limit for miniaturized nuclear weapons, it must, like the Soviet Union, cease production of such weapons forever. The Americans, obsessed with the yield of small nukes, were well aware of the loophole in this so-called treaty. As long as the power of their weapons could overwhelm the enemy’s numbers, it didn’t matter if they had fewer.

The immediate priority was for the United States to acquire its own suitcase nukes to counter the Soviet threat. Bush wished he could end the meeting right then and there, return to the White House, and persuade Congress to approve the new budget for military weapons research and development.

As the meeting drew to a close, both sides signed their names on the document. Then, each harboring their own ulterior motives, they shook hands and made peace, allowing reporters to capture the historic moment. A photograph showing a stark contrast between a weary-looking Bush and a radiant Yanayev made the newspaper headlines. The entire world was watching the signing of this Miniaturized Nuclear Weapon Non-Proliferation Treaty. But a small cluster of intelligence analysts saw something in Bush’s exhausted expression, and from it, they drew some deeply unsettling conclusions.

The benchmark of balance in the contest between the Western free world and the Communist bloc had been broken.

Chapter 56: Wallace (Part 1)

Not since the August Coup had Gennady Yanayev felt as relaxed as he did now. He had suppressed the restless nationalists and disorderly liberals, dismantled the subversive plots and economic blockades of hostile Western powers, and seized supreme authority over the military. The Soviet Union had once again become an unbreakable alliance for its allies, a dreaded Evil Empire for its enemies, and a revered hegemon for its neighbors. And Yanayev himself had become, in the mouths of intellectuals, a dictator as cruel and evil as Stalin.

A dictator? As long as he could save this empire from the brink of collapse and allow the masses to enjoy a better life, that was enough. What use were democracy and freedom? Could they fill one’s stomach or nourish one’s soul? Yanayev had never believed in such nonsense.

Months of exhausting planning had brought the Soviet Union a brief period of peace and stability. Yanayev planned to use this time to continue deepening political and economic reforms, using the short respite to restore the nation’s comprehensive strength. Taking advantage of a rare moment of leisure, Yanayev went to the presidential holiday villa on the Black Sea to enjoy a short, tranquil time facing the ocean.

Yanayev lay on a lounge chair, savoring the warmth of the sun and the beach instead of scheming at the treacherous political table, thinking of how to preserve himself and eliminate his opponents. He was filled with emotion. He picked up a glass of wine, took a sip, and murmured to himself, “It’s rare that I can enjoy a moment of peace, just like the rest of the world, instead of keeping my hand warily on the button at all times.”

While handling international affairs, Yanayev had not relaxed his grip on the domestic situation either. He used every opportunity he could to rally support and shape the image of a bright and magnificent leader for the masses, making the Soviet people believe that he was the one who could lead the Soviet Union out of its predicament.

It wasn’t that Yanayev particularly wanted to be a dictator, but that a country with such complex regional cultures inherently needed a strong leader. Not having one was tantamount to crippling oneself. He would rather be the brutal dictator vilified in speech and print by intellectuals than the one condemned throughout history for the collapse of the Soviet Union.

And so, during a moment of leisure, he summoned Surkov, the newly appointed Minister of Propaganda, to his private presidential residence and revealed a plan he had.

“Invite Mike Wallace, the news anchor from the Columbia Broadcasting System, to interview you, the General Secretary?” Hearing Yanayev’s plan, Surkov couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. He added, “Why Mike Wallace specifically? Isn’t he a Western journalist? If you want an interview, our Moscow Television has equally outstanding hosts. There’s no need to specifically seek out a Western reporter.”

“No, no, no, Comrade Surkov. The journalist Wallace is a very dedicated and outstanding professional. He has interviewed numerous famous politicians, such as the chief architect of the socialist reform and opening-up in the south. Seven American presidents have faced his sharp and insightful questions.”

Yanayev had other ideas in mind. Wallace was a journalist who liked to sing a different tune from American policy. Yanayev imagined his own image in American political cartoons was likely that of a Tsar wearing a golden crown and red robe, holding a scepter. This was also one of the ways domestic opponents publicized their views and attacked the ruling Soviet Communist Party. If Yanayev could shatter this image and make his opponent praise him, it would undoubtedly be a significant blow to the “spiritual Americans” who idolized the West.

Surkov sat beside Yanayev and asked softly, “That may be so, but if anything uncontrollable happens during the interview, it could be troublesome. For example, what will the General Secretary do if he asks some rather difficult questions?”

“You mean, how should I properly answer if he asks about the martial law during the August Coup, the death of Gorbachev, and the assassination of Boris Yeltsin?” Yanayev replied bluntly.

This was precisely what troubled Surkov the most. He frowned and said in a low voice, “Yes. No matter how the General Secretary answers those questions, it will seem somewhat inappropriate.”

Yanayev took a sip of wine. He watched the white waves crash against the jagged reefs of the coastline. The roar of the sea relaxed his nerves, allowing his thoughts to slowly clear. He put down his glass, turned his head to Surkov, and said, “You are now the Minister of the Soviet Propaganda Department, a sharp-minded man. Gather them all. List all the possible questions Wallace might ask, and then design some tactful answers. That way, no matter what sharp questions he might throw at us, we can find a way to deal with them.”

Since Yanayev had given the order, Surkov could only accept this thankless job. He would find some quick-witted individuals from the office directors of the Propaganda Department to handle it. Although the topics were sensitive, Yanayev gave these people plenty of freedom of speech, allowing them to come up with all sorts of wildly imaginative answers for his review, hoping they would be able to produce a sufficiently good plan.

A few days later, Surkov gathered the elites from the press and the Propaganda Department in an office for a meeting. The topic was to brainstorm answers to questions a Western journalist might ask.

“First question: What is President Yanayev’s view on the Western belief that the Soviet Union lacks a democratic atmosphere, and what will he do when the people oppose his policies?” An official from the Propaganda Department office read out the questions personally written by the president, his mind racing to think of an answer. Before, no one would have dared to ask the General Secretary of the Soviet Union such “treasonous” questions. Only a detached Western journalist could ask something so pointed.

“We can frame our answer around improving the people’s livelihood. Even if the Soviet Union currently can’t give the masses as much say as American-style democracy does, our commitment to improving their lives is also a strong point,” Office Director Markov answered cautiously. Since his immediate superior, Surkov, was right next to him, Markov glanced over and only continued after seeing no sign of displeasure on the other man’s face. “We should let the Soviet people see our determination to make the Soviet Union better. That way, when it’s reported, it will be more convincing to the public.”

“Second question: What is your view on the August Coup, and on the fact that both Yeltsin and Gorbachev did not receive a state funeral? Can Soviet leaders not escape the strange cycle of rising to power through coups? After all, Khrushchev and Brezhnev both ascended to the stage of history through disgraceful political means. Can you not become a beloved leader through the people’s vote, like an American president?”

This time, no one dared to speak. The question was too sensitive, like exposing the dirty, filthy secrets in the depths of one’s heart to the world. No one would be able to accept it.

“How are we supposed to answer that…” Markov swallowed hard and said helplessly.

Chapter 57: Mike Wallace (2)

(First update)

All the questions were gathered and laid on Gennady Yanayev’s desk. Except for a few of the most sensitive ones that required Yanayev’s personal decision, the rest even came with standardized answers, ready to be recited from the script during the interview. However, for a seasoned politician, these questions were hardly a challenge to Yanayev’s ability to improvise.

On that same morning, having collected and organized his firsthand materials, Mike Wallace enthusiastically boarded a private plane to Moscow. This was his first time interviewing the supreme leader of the opposing camp. Amid the envious or jealous gazes of his colleagues, Mike Wallace was about to reach another pinnacle of his career in the world of journalism.

Throughout the journey, Wallace meticulously prepared and gathered materials. He had noted down every detail of Yanayev’s life from the time he started working in 1958 until the August 19th Incident. What particularly surprised Wallace was how Yanayev’s entire personality had changed after the incident, shifting from his previously moderate political methods to a hardline, even extreme, approach. Wallace had always believed that, with the exception of the evil genius Stalin, all subsequent leaders of the Soviet Communist Party were, without exception, smug clowns. They had no idea how to wield supreme power or maintain a clear head in the struggles of international politics.

Finally, Wallace closed his folders, rubbing his tired eyes. Then, as if remembering something, he picked up his pen and drew a large question mark on Yanayev’s photograph. Beside it, he quoted a remark from Fadeyev about Stalin and Khrushchev.

Was Yanayev an evil genius like Stalin, or an ignorant and incompetent clown like Khrushchev?

Upon arriving at Moscow International Airport, Yanayev was given a special reception by agents from the KGB’s Ninth Directorate. Only after they had inspected all his equipment and confirmed he was not carrying any dangerous items was he allowed to board the presidential plane to Foros in Crimea. During the search, however, Wallace noted the rude behavior of the KGB agents, who merely stated it was routine procedure. Still, Wallace secretly filed it away in his mind.

Perhaps Wallace was the only Western journalist to enjoy the privilege of flying on the presidential plane. When he arrived at the Foros Dacha, Yanayev, who had been waiting for some time, greeted him with a warm embrace.

The interview was set to take place in the presidential bedroom. Yanayev hoped to present a friendly image of the supreme leader to the West.

Facing the somewhat wary eyes of Wallace, Yanayev said with a smile, “Welcome to the Foros presidential dacha, my Western friend. You are the only Western journalist to set foot in this villa in many years. I hope our interview can be as relaxed and pleasant as a chat between old friends. Don’t be so tense, my journalist friend. Relax. Don’t make yourself as apprehensive as the French director Barbet Schroeder was when he interviewed President Amin of Uganda. I’m an easygoing person.”

Wallace was a little surprised. Yanayev’s gentle and polite demeanor made him doubt whether this was the same ruthless dictator vilified in American newspapers and cursed by Soviet intellectuals.

In response to Yanayev’s warmth, Wallace firmly shook his hand and broke into a broad smile. “Hello, President Yanayev. I’m honored that you accepted my invitation for this interview. To be honest, since you mentioned President Amin of Uganda, is President Yanayev the cruel tyrant who persecutes dissidents, as the Western world describes? Or is the friendliness I’m seeing just a facade you’re putting on, like the president of Uganda?”

Wallace’s first question was immediately aggressive. The cameraman even glanced hesitantly at Yanayev; if the President nodded, he was ready to cut the recording at any moment and have the guards forcibly end the interview.

But Yanayev simply replied gently, “However, the intelligence we have shows that President Amin of Uganda’s rise to power was greatly aided by British intelligence, with American and Israeli intelligence agencies also involved. Britain’s intention was to prop up Amin to halt the nationalization of foreign property and to stop President Obote’s pro-Marxist leanings. Moreover, in one document, the British Foreign Secretary bluntly stated that Amin was ‘a man we have a relationship with, and we can fully count on him.’ Of course, you can assume that what I’m saying is false. If you have time when you return, Mr. Wallace, you can check the records and you will find that as soon as Amin came to power, he immediately reversed the previous government’s decision to nationalize private British companies. And to thank Amin, the British government immediately provided him with nine million pounds in financial aid, gifted him fifty armored infantry vehicles, and sent military advisors to help train the Ugandan army.”

Wallace suddenly realized there was a hidden meaning in Yanayev’s words. It seemed a trap had been laid, waiting for him to step into it. The mention of Uganda had been a ploy to lure him into Yanayev’s way of thinking, to make him follow his train of thought.

As expected, Yanayev continued unhurriedly, “Britain, a nation that prides itself on human rights and freedom. A country that promulgated the Bill of Rights in 1689, placing clear legal constraints on royal power. And the English poet Alexander Pope once said, ‘He who does not grant freedom to others cannot find it for himself.’ So, when Britain obstructs the Ugandan people’s right to freedom and democracy, does that not make it an accomplice to a dictator?”

Wallace wiped the sweat from his forehead. It turned out this Soviet leader was not a simple and crude “Tsar” like Nicholas II. Every sentence was a calculated move against the West, dragging all the shady dealings of Western governments out into the open.

At that moment, Yanayev completely cast aside the scripted answers Surkov had provided him days ago, entering a state of pure improvisation. He made a gesture of invitation, allowing Wallace to ask the next question.

Wallace took a deep breath and began to ask a question aimed directly at Soviet tyranny. “Then what about the innocent people who gathered peacefully in Red Square during the August 19th Incident? Your soldiers pointed their guns at people who love freedom and hope for a democratic and prosperous nation. Isn’t that the act of a dictator? In what the West has called a Stalin-like Great Purge, you’ve eliminated nearly half of Moscow’s officials, and many high-level figures have mysteriously ended their own lives. Even Solzhenitsyn, author of The Gulag Archipelago and hailed as the most conscientious of intellectuals, wrote an article satirizing you as a dictator. In the eyes of Westerners, your record can be described as thoroughly disgraceful. So, I’d like to know what President Yanayev feels when he hears these assessments. Do you admit to being a dictator?”

Compared to his previous question, this one made everyone in the room hold their breath. Some of the cameramen were even afraid they were hearing secrets they shouldn’t. But only Yanayev remained calm and composed as he looked at the equally confident Wallace, his eyes seeming to have already seen through everything.

“What a pity, Mr. Wallace. The quality of your questions is lower than that of those American shills,” Yanayev thought to himself.

Chapter 58: Wallace (3)

(Second update)

As if to pour oil on the fire, Wallace added, “And I was shamelessly mistreated by KGB agents at the airport. They subjected me to a rough body search. Is this how you treat the guardians who defend freedom and equality? Or did you think the fountain pen in my hand posed a threat to your personal safety?”

Yanayev smiled and gestured with his hand, signaling for Wallace to calm down. Only after the sharp-tongued journalist had composed himself slightly did Yanayev speak slowly. “Alright, alright, don’t be hasty, my journalist friend. Let’s address these issues one by one.”

Yanayev raised his first finger. “First, regarding the innocent masses during the August 19th Incident. You claim our soldiers pointed their guns at these people who love freedom. But when these same people were engaged in arson, assault, vandalism, and looting of the public’s property, did you simply turn a blind eye? And if they were truly freedom-loving citizens, then who, may I ask, is responsible for the gunshot wound on my shoulder? Can one simply disregard the law under the banner of freedom? Perhaps the French revolutionary Madame Roland was right about one thing: ‘O Liberty, what crimes are committed in thy name!’ Back during your 1863 New York Draft Riots, the police never showed any mercy when suppressing others. Why is it that when it comes to the Soviet Union, there are double standards? When you suppress a riot, it’s a victory for the rule of law. When we enforce order, it becomes a symbol of tyrannical rule?”

Wallace was momentarily speechless. He hadn’t expected Yanayev to be more knowledgeable about American historical and political events than he was. But Yanayev didn’t stop there. After taking a sip of tea, he pressed his advantage with renewed vigor. “I’m very curious about what the ‘correct’ version of the Stalinist purges is. If you’re willing, Mr. Wallace, we can provide a list of all the evidence, including the exact amount of public funds each political prisoner embezzled or accepted in bribes. Some of them committed crimes worthy of the death penalty. We deal with corrupt officials with swift and decisive action to make them submit.”

Wallace gritted his teeth and pressed on, “But the materials I have indicate that the officials who committed suicide were from the progressive faction, who favored democratic reform. Does this not imply that the trials between the progressives and conservatives were marred by unfair treatment?”

“There is no such thing. Both progressives and conservatives must pay the price for their actions,” Yanayev said, pointing out the flaw in Wallace’s ridiculous assertion. “However, I clearly recall that U.S. presidential elections have explicit rules regarding political donations. I find it surprising that a democratic country can practically amass wealth in broad daylight through legal means. Isn’t this indirectly encouraging corruption? Or is it that those officials who yearned for democratic and liberal reforms actually wanted to be corrupt bureaucrats, just like the officials in your country?”

Wallace tried to say something more but was cut off by Yanayev’s torrent of words. “Could I venture a hypothesis? That these democratic reformers are actually yearning for an oligarchy free from the constraints of national law? That way, they could transform themselves overnight, using their ill-gotten wealth to control the entire country and turn it into a so-called democracy? If your democracy means a small minority controlling the interests of the vast majority, then I will be the first to oppose it.”

“Next, let’s talk about Solzhenitsyn, hailed as the conscience of Soviet Russia. I hear you want to prop him up as a propaganda weapon against Soviet tyranny. But unfortunately for you, besides disliking Communism, Solzhenitsyn also dislikes your liberalism. He described American music as dreadful noise. Oh, and he also called the United States a nation of vulgar material consumerism.”

Yanayev watched Wallace’s somewhat awkward expression with satisfaction. He hadn’t expected to be able to cross swords with the West’s most caustic journalist nine years ahead of schedule, and he continued with ease. “Do you know what he truly longs for? A return to something like Tsarist Russia, to restore the dominance of the Eastern Orthodox Church in the national ideology. I usually refer to such relics of a bygone era as ‘Russ-Tsars,’ meaning supporters of Russian Tsarism—people who are naturally spineless.”

“So, you’re admitting, President Yanayev, that you suppress religious freedom in the Soviet Union? And national freedom and equality? Just like you treat the member republics.” Wallace, sensing a slight crack in Yanayev’s argument, quickly launched a verbal counterattack. The Soviet Union’s religious policies had always been a widely criticized factor, easily exploited by the West as a weapon to infiltrate the regime.

To put it in Yanayev’s earlier terms, there were always villains out to get him.

In the monitoring room, Surkov and Plekhanov nervously watched the brilliant debate. President Yanayev always managed to do something unexpected and succeed. Although others had strongly opposed this debate, believing it would harm the Soviet Union’s international image—Yazov and Pavlov even claimed it was a Western conspiracy—their President had walked into it seemingly unprepared. Only Surkov had, as always, believed the President could pull off a magnificent counterattack.

“President Yanayev, how will you answer?” Surkov crossed his arms, worried the President might reveal a weakness on this issue, causing the interview to spin out of control.

However, Wallace still didn’t see the surprised expression he had anticipated. Yanayev’s eyes seemed to see right through all of Wallace’s cards. He smiled, shook his head, and said a single word in Russian-accented English: “NAIVE.” Then he began his eloquent rebuttal. “Since you’ve brought up religious freedom, I can tell you that it is a unique cultural tradition of the Soviet Union, inheriting the civilization of the Eastern Roman Empire. It is not like your ancestors’ hypocrisy during the Crusades in Europe or when they used the Inquisition to slaughter heretics, placing divine power above secular authority. I suggest you visit the various religious sites in the Soviet Union. Go to Leningrad, go to Sverdlovsk, and see for yourself. The churches there are innumerable. We have never had an incident of suppressing Eastern Orthodox believers in recent times.”

“If, as you claim, we are suppressing religious freedom, there wouldn’t be so many people there, and the buildings themselves would have been demolished. But all these sites are listed as key protected national heritage sites. Besides repairs funded by donations from Orthodox believers, the government also allocates funds for their protection every year. Are we foolish enough to spend money protecting something we intend to suppress? Of course, we went down some wrong paths during the Stalin and Khrushchev eras, but you should see the efforts we have made on religious issues in recent years. To stare at a person’s past while ignoring their present achievements is a very flawed way of thinking.”

Yanayev shifted all blame to the two previous leaders, completely absolving himself of any pretext of religious suppression.

“Now, let me talk about the United States, shall I? Do you mind, Mr. Wallace? What I have to say might be a bit sharp.” Yanayev had seized complete control of the interview, making it seem as if Wallace were the one being interviewed.

“I don’t mind at all. In fact, as long as what you say is correct, President Yanayev, I won’t interrupt you,” Wallace said, gesturing for him to speak freely.

Yanayev began, “We acknowledge that the United States is a worthy pioneer in building a modern nation. The American people are a great people; a diligent and kind people who built a great country and provided valuable experience for human development. Nevertheless, the United States has no right to lecture other countries, especially by criticizing their internal affairs. It’s not just that this will create a backlash; more importantly, God did not give you that authority. Besides, the Soviet Union is not a satellite state established by America. We have the right to walk our own path and have our own system. We may make many mistakes, but making mistakes is also a right given to us by God.”

“Many Americans who like to lecture the Soviet system forget America’s own history. As a modern nation, the Soviet Union has only existed for seventy-four years, while the United States has a history of over two hundred years. One of America’s founding fathers, Jefferson, wrote in the Declaration of Independence that all men are created equal. Regrettably, he himself was a lifelong slave owner. He was very clear about the difference between ideals and reality. We, like you, do not consider him a hypocrite. The original U.S. Constitution had no bill of rights. Why? Because America’s founding fathers were realists. They put the nation’s unity and stability first. Before the Civil War, Lincoln tried to use the preservation of slavery as a bargaining chip in exchange for the South canceling its secession to maintain national unity. Clearly, Lincoln’s principle was that unity trumped human rights. It was over a century after America’s independence that women gained the right to vote, and one hundred ninety years before racial segregation began to be dismantled in the nineteen sixties. Even to this day, we know that people of different races in America do not live together. They are polite on the surface, but they are far from being truly integrated.”

“So, Mr. Wallace, is it really a correct choice to brandish American democracy to attack Soviet politics?” Yanayev’s final sentence was sonorous and forceful, leaving Wallace unable to refute it.

Chapter 59: Wallace (4)

(Third update)

“Our time is almost up, so I believe this will be my last question, President Yanayev.”

Wallace was at his wit’s end with Yanayev. No matter the topic, he could always steer it toward America’s dark history. Finally, Wallace decided to abandon his usual playbook and take a different approach. He flipped a page of his manuscript, his gaze finally settling on a question that had originally been crossed out in red.

“Before I ask this question, I’d like to tell a story first.” Wallace closed a page of his script. The interview time was nearly over, and all his questions had converged on this final moment. Wallace steeled himself, determined not to fail again. He had to expose a scandal, a moment of weakness, from the leader of the Soviet Communist Party.

“In 1985, a Soviet prisoner of war uprising shocked the world. At the time, twelve Soviet prisoners were being held at the Badaber camp in Pakistan’s North-West Frontier Province. It was a major base for the US Central Intelligence Agency and Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence to arm the Afghan resistance movement. In the camp, the prisoners were subjected to inhuman treatment. Driven to desperation, on the evening of April 26th, while the camp guards were at prayer, they swiftly seized the armory and the radio station. The prisoners tried to use the radio to contact the Soviet 34th Aviation Corps stationed in Afghanistan, hoping for air support, but there was no response from the military. In the final moments, the leader of the Afghan resistance movement, Rabbani, accompanied by American and Pakistani advisors, went to the scene to persuade them to surrender. The prisoners’ condition was: ‘We want to meet with the Soviet ambassador to Pakistan.’ But for various reasons, the Soviet ambassador refused to appear. On April 27th, an impatient Rabbani ordered an attack. The Soviet prisoners fought to the death and, in the end, blew up the armory, taking their own lives.”

Yanayev, who had thought victory was in his grasp, slowly let his smile fade. Wallace brilliantly captured the change in Yanayev’s expression and asked smugly, “Did you know about this? Did the Soviet government know?”

If he said he didn’t know, it would be tantamount to lying in front of the entire world. If he said he knew, it would be an admission that the motherland had ultimately abandoned its soldiers during its invasion of Afghanistan. More terrifyingly, there was no evading this question. Whichever answer Yanayev chose, a series of even more difficult questions awaited him.

“I knew.”

Yanayev took a deep breath. His voice was almost hoarse as he gave the heavy answer. He reached for his glass again, only to find it empty. Surkov, who had been observing the atmosphere on set, sensed that something was wrong. He instructed the cameraman to be ready to cut the feed at any moment. The cameraman, whose eyes had been fixed on Yanayev, already had cold sweat forming on his palms.

If he failed to handle the editing of such a major international incident, he couldn’t imagine what the severe consequences would be.

“Then I want to ask why? Why did they have to end their own lives in such a tragic way, instead of returning safely to their homes?” Wallace’s words were a direct challenge to Yanayev. To be honest, he was also a bit surprised. The Soviet Union had vehemently denied these things before, yet Yanayev had so cleanly admitted the prisoners’ existence.

Yanayev put down his glass, as if he had just made the most difficult decision of his life. He began to speak slowly, “Because at the time, the official Soviet media called the actions of these prisoners of war shameful. And the former leader, Gorbachev, stated at a press conference that the Soviet Union was not at war with any country, and therefore, we had no prisoners of war. Of course, I believe this view is extremely irresponsible. Those soldiers are human beings too. Even if they don’t receive medals and commendations like the heroes of the Red Army in the Great Patriotic War, the motherland still has no right to forget them.”

“When the Soviet army hastily withdrew from Afghanistan, the official registers recorded about 430 missing personnel. But they were ultimately scattered across the battlefields of Afghanistan, unable to come home. Due to all sorts of difficulties, rescue operations were never launched, and they were never found.”

In 1991, there was no Russian Federation Veterans Committee, nor were there any spontaneous non-profit organizations to rescue the figures long lost to the desert and the loess.

“President Yanayev, aren’t you afraid of being condemned by the entire nation for saying these things?” Yanayev’s candor surprised Wallace. Based on the past behavior of Soviet leaders, who would always prevaricate, Wallace had expected Yanayev to deliberately change the subject, which would have given him a greater opening to attack.

But a Soviet leader who spoke so frankly left him at a loss. It was as if all his little tricks for taking down politicians were rendered useless in the face of Yanayev’s forthrightness.

“Socialist construction does not just focus on grand achievements; the fates of ordinary people are also a key concern of ours. If the Soviet Union created the most powerful war machine in the world but couldn’t even protect its own people in the end, that would be the real joke. I have to ask, would the people still trust us then?”

No national leader had ever spoken like this. Yanayev’s frankness won the goodwill of everyone present. Sometimes, admitting a mistake earns more public trust than a clumsy cover-up, but it is also much harder, as it means enduring more criticism and censure.

“Thank you, Mr. Wallace. If you hadn’t deliberately brought this up, perhaps the entire Soviet Union would have forgotten this small group of people who should have come home. We will form rescue teams to ensure that those who are still scattered across Afghanistan can finally return.”

Yanayev looked straight into the camera and said with a smile, “Whether they can see this or not, I want to tell them, to tell their mothers, and their motherland, that they have not been forgotten.”

After he spoke, the set fell silent. The first to react was Wallace, who rose from his seat and gave Yanayev a thunderous round of applause for his candor and his earnestness. Others, moved by Yanayev’s speech, joined in.

Seeing that the interview had reached its conclusion, Surkov finally breathed a sigh of relief. The tension had been no less than that of a political crisis.

“It seems our President is more than capable of handling situations like this. I wonder what kind of sensation this report will cause when it airs in America.” Plekhanov nudged Surkov’s shoulder with his elbow, watching the American journalist’s concession with a hint of pride.

Surkov squinted at the scene. Everyone assumed the President’s perfect response was his doing. But he had never told anyone around him that, in fact, none of the President’s answers had followed the standard replies he had written.

“After all, of all the paramount leaders we’ve had, he is the most unorthodox one, isn’t he,” Surkov said.

“That was brilliant, President Yanayev. I think the report on you will be far more exciting than my interview with any other national leader. If I may, I’d also like to do what I can through some friends in the government. Our ideologies may differ, but international humanitarian aid transcends ideology.”

“Thank you, my friend Wallace. The people of the Soviet Union will not forget what you’ve done.” Yanayev and Wallace shook hands firmly.

The image of a brutal Soviet leader, so painstakingly crafted by the United States, was shattered in that instant. In Wallace’s mind, Yanayev’s stature had suddenly grown immense. And in his own mind, he was already drafting the story that would introduce the Western world to a completely different kind of Soviet leader.

Chapter 60: Welcome Home (1)

(First update)

This was perhaps the most shocking day in the history of American journalism. An article titled “The Western Hoax—Revealing the Real Soviet Leader” made headlines in major Western newspapers. The author was none other than Mike Wallace, the renowned American news anchor. No one doubted the weight or authenticity of the report. When Wallace had been invited to the Soviet Union for the interview, almost all his friends in the press had thrown him a farewell party for his grand undertaking.

In Wallace’s report, Yanayev was no longer the dictatorial figure feared by everyone in the West. His friendly and approachable image leaped from the page. Wallace even described Yanayev in the newspaper with these words: “God gave the Archangel a greatsword because He knew that love and peace cannot resolve all disputes.” He also laid bare Yanayev’s exposé of America’s dark history, analyzing it with penetrating insight.

On screen, audiences saw a national leader of sharp wit. His frank discussion of the various ills in American society won him the support of the American people. Some even suggested that Yanayev shouldn’t be in Moscow but in the White House, ousting a Bush who would only start wars to consolidate his own position.

Someone else was not in a good mood either. Solzhenitsyn, whom Yanayev had derided as a Russian tsarist, had finally given his American colleagues something to use against him. Perhaps it was the common ailment of literati scorning one another, unable to stand seeing someone else steal the limelight. Columnist Anthony described Solzhenitsyn as a religious fanatic who, under the guise of being the “conscience of society,” attacked freedom and human rights when, in fact, his own conscience had long been thrown into the sewer.

As a result of this controversy, the publication of his new book about the Soviet Tsar was postponed again and again.

Where there was sorrow, there was also joy. For this brilliant report, Wallace once again won the Pulitzer Prize. The judges praised the article for describing a Soviet leader of flesh and blood from a completely new angle, presenting a side of him that was entirely different.

Perhaps even Yanayev himself did not know that this unintentional act of his during the interview had accidentally made him the most-watched national leader in America. People joked that if Yanayev were willing to give up his position as President of the Soviet Union and run for president in the United States, he would surely receive far more votes than Bush, the warmongering butcher.

The wave of Yanayev-style adoration that swept across America was inextricably linked to the country’s sluggish economy. The American government, of course, remained completely silent about Wallace’s report, offering no reaction. After all, Bush was still fuming, and who would be foolish enough to report on something that boosted the enemy’s morale?

Upon seeing the report, Yanayev made a special call from Moscow to congratulate Wallace. At that moment, Wallace was in the middle of a taping for 60 Minutes. When his assistant told him there was a call from Moscow, he decisively had the phone brought into the studio for an old-friends-style chat in front of millions of viewers.

“Hey, Mike, my friend. How have you been lately?” Yanayev greeted Wallace in his Russian-accented English. Holding the phone, he was still completely unaware, thinking it was just a private conversation.

Wallace gestured for the surrounding audience to be quiet. Everyone held their breath, listening intently as Wallace improvised. Holding the receiver, he replied, “Very well, of course, my friend. Guess where I’m talking to you from right now?”

“Eh? You’re not in your studio, are you?” Yanayev asked curiously.

Wallace, who had been holding it in, finally burst out laughing. “Haha, that’s right, I’m in the studio right now. Our call is being watched by millions of viewers across the country. Don’t you want to say hello to them?”

“Hello, everyone. I’m sure you already know who I am. Yes, I’m the Soviet Tyrant you all condemn verbally and in writing, though I don’t think I’m tyrannical in the slightest. Perhaps your American government has a skewed perception of the Slavic people. Though we can take down a polar bear with our bare hands and knock back a bottle of vodka in one go, that doesn’t mean we don’t love peace.” Yanayev’s humorous self-deprecation sent the entire audience into fits of laughter, making them feel as if the person on the other end of the line was just a witty old friend, not the leader of a nation.

The director behind the scenes watched this unfold, an involuntary smile of victory on his face. Tonight’s ratings for 60 Minutes would surely be the highest among all competing programs. With such a heavyweight guest, they might even set a new historical record.

“Does anyone here have anything they’d like to say to the Soviet leader? This might be the only chance you’ll ever have to interact with a nation’s president up close,” Wallace said, holding out the microphone to the audience.

Of course, many were eager to try. Nearly everyone in the audience raised their hands. Wallace picked a skinny young man with glasses and said to him, “Would you like to say something to President Yanayev?”

“Anything except questions about my private life. I’ll do my best to answer what I can,” Yanayev said cheerfully. “Hi, friend, what’s your name?”

“Kane. Just call me Kane, Mr. President.” The young man took the microphone and asked nervously, “President of the Soviet Union, I’d like to know, will you implement a democratic system like ours? Or will the leader’s power always be supreme? Is your country really a dictatorship, like our government claims?”

Yanayev chuckled. “Hey, friend. I think you have some misconceptions about the Soviet political system. Don’t always believe what the government says. What they say may be fact, but it isn’t necessarily the truth they want you to know. We have the Soviet Presidium, and like the United States, we employ a system of elite rule. As for the leader’s power you mentioned, on major issues, decisions can only be passed after collective discussion and a vote. It’s not something I can decide on my own. That would be unfair to those with different opinions. Furthermore, starting with my term, the position of Supreme Chairman will no longer be a lifetime appointment. We will introduce clear regulations on how many terms the Supreme Chairman of the Soviet can serve and how many years each term will last, opening a new era for leaders in office.”

“We believe democracy is a good thing. It means we can hear more voices from the grassroots and restrain our own actions. The Soviet Union has made mistakes in its history, and we have reflected on them. By the same token, I believe that democracy in the Soviet Union must be built upon a complete and sound rule of law. Whether it is the highest leader or an ordinary citizen, anyone who breaks the law must be tried. They will not be pardoned because of privilege, nor will a verdict be swayed by public opinion because they belong to a vulnerable group.”

“America’s remarkable democratic achievements are, to a large extent, due to its foundation in law. Of course, we must also decide on our system based on our own actual circumstances. Any talk of democracy divorced from reality is nothing more than a mirage. Take South Korea or South Vietnam, for example. They have American-style democratic systems, too, but that doesn’t stop their top leaders from being dictators. Any other questions?”

“I want to know, what’s going to happen to those soldiers scattered across Afghanistan? Is your government really going to rescue all of them?” the young man asked another question.

“Haha, I don’t know if you remember a movie from six years ago that tarnished the Soviet Union’s image, Rambo: First Blood Part II. It was the one where the main character, Rambo, was betrayed by his superiors while investigating missing soldiers from the Vietnam War. He said a very famous line then, one I still remember to this day: ‘I love my country, but does my country love me?’ Although I don’t know if America ever actually searched for its missing soldiers in Vietnam, I hope the plot of that movie never plays out in the Soviet Union. My visit to my friend Wallace this time was also to ask for help from Western humanitarian aid organizations to find those lost soldiers in Afghanistan.”

As Yanayev spoke, the audience grew quiet, waiting silently for him to continue.

“I want to say this to the boys in the desert who have waited day after day for the army to return for them: The war is over. Come home with me. Your motherland and your mothers have not forgotten you. They have been waiting for you to come home.”

Chapter 61: Welcome Home (2)

How many people had stayed up last night, glued to their televisions, watching Yanayev chat and laugh with the Western public was impossible to count. Wallace only knew that his show’s ratings had soared by eighty-five percent, trouncing every other political affairs program. That evening, while everyone at the Columbia Broadcasting System was popping champagne to celebrate, Wallace made an excuse to slip away from the party. In the quiet of his office, he dialed the number of a contact he knew at an international aid organization.

Beeep— After a brief ring, someone on the other end picked up. “Hello, this is Pete. Who’s this?” he asked, his tone slightly impatient.

“Hey, Pete, old friend, it’s Wallace. Sorry to bother you. Do you have a moment? Could you do me a favor?” Wallace asked his friend from the international aid organization. He leaned against his desk, tilting his head slightly to the left to hold the receiver with his shoulder. He freed up a hand to light a cigarette, calming his nerves from the tense broadcast earlier.

“Wallace!” The man called Pete immediately changed his tone. His portly frame was lounging on a sofa. He held a glass of liquor and replied in a hearty voice, “Go on, what’s the trouble? I’ll help if I can.”

“It’s like this,” Wallace said, his voice turning somber. He held the receiver in his left hand, a cigarette between two fingers of his right. “You guys are organizing humanitarian aid in Afghanistan right now, aren’t you? Distributing food to refugees. I was hoping you could do me a favor and ask around among the refugees, see if you can find any of the Soviet soldiers who went missing in Afghanistan back in the day.”

“You mean help the Soviet government find their missing soldiers?” Pete hesitated. He set his glass down on the table, his tone growing wary. “Wallace, you know we can’t rescue those missing Soviet soldiers even if we knew where they were. Our organization’s biggest sponsors are major American corporations. If they found out, it would be a huge problem. We’d be criticized, and they might even cut off our funding.”

Wallace silently switched on the phone’s speaker and, just as quietly, activated the portable recorder he carried. On the other end of the line, Pete had no idea that every word he said next would be recorded.

“Pete, I want to know what would happen if your financial backers found out your international aid organization was rescuing Soviet soldiers?” Wallace asked, pretending he hadn’t heard the first time.

Falling right into the trap, Pete carelessly repeated what he had just said. “I’m saying that because of ideology, our organization can’t help find missing Soviet soldiers. We can’t even keep an eye out for them. Because as far as our backers are concerned, they refuse to help these people. They’d rather watch Soviet prisoners get tortured to death by Afghan guerrillas. To me, the lives of a hundred Soviets aren’t as important as one American’s.”

After recording Pete’s words in their entirety, Wallace pressed the play button. He spoke calmly to the man on the other end, “If I were to make these words public, what kind of an uproar do you think that would cause, Pete?”

When he heard his own dismissive voice playing back from the recording on the other end, Pete panicked. He gripped the receiver, stammering, “My God, what are you doing, Wallace? Dammit, you know this can’t get out! The organization will be condemned by the public, and I’ll probably lose my job!”

“You can choose to help keep an eye out, or you can let the public supervise you keeping an eye out.” Wallace added, as if suddenly remembering something, “Oh, right. Soviet President Yanayev’s image has really resonated with the TV-watching public. I can’t imagine what might happen if you were to make the wrong choice on this issue.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll help you.” The man on the other end sounded like he wanted to cry but couldn’t. Between angering his powerful backers and losing his job, he would rather choose the former.

While America was still buzzing with surprise over Yanayev’s sudden interview, Moscow’s senior leadership, with special approval, established a special rescue committee to search for the missing soldiers. If his previous actions were meant to build the image of a strong leader, this rescue mission was designed to show Yanayev’s merciful side.

Others secretly complained that the search was meaningless, like finding a needle in a haystack. Where could they possibly find soldiers who had been missing for years in a country ravaged by unending war? Minister of Defense Yazov had raised this very issue, arguing that the search was a complete waste of money.

“Find an Afghan resistance fighter named Islamuddin. He’s one of Massoud’s guards. Of course, he had another identity before that: a soldier in the 101st Motorized Rifle Regiment. His original name was Nikolai Bystrov, and he’s an Uzbek.” Yanayev gave a name that stunned everyone present.

“One of Massoud’s guards? The same Massoud known as the ‘Lion of Panjshir’? He was our greatest enemy in Afghanistan,” Yazov asked hesitantly. He was stunned. How could the President have firsthand intelligence that even KGB agents likely couldn’t obtain? In Yazov’s mind, Yanayev suddenly became an enigma. Thinking back, it seemed he had been in control of every situation since the August Coup.

“Yes.” Yanayev nodded, speaking with an air of mystery. “Of course, Comrade Yazov, you don’t need to ask how I know this, because I won’t tell you. You just need to use our intelligence network in Afghanistan to find Islamuddin. He should have information on a number of missing Soviet soldiers. The vast majority of those soldiers never returned home; they used his connections to get to Pakistan, and from there, on to South Africa or Europe.”

“Understood. I’ll have the committee find a way to contact him. By the way, General Secretary Yanayev, there is one more thing to report,” Yazov said, a note of concern in his voice. “Regarding the deployment of Soviet troops in the member republics, most of them have adopted a passive attitude. They are unwilling to disclose the exact number of troops or details about their weaponry, and they are refusing to hand over command. Yes, they are stalling for time, refusing to let their republics become an inseparable part of the Soviet Union.”

Yazov’s report piqued Yanayev’s interest. He asked, “So you’re saying there are still significant separatist factions in the member republics trying to obstruct the great unification of the Soviet Union? The fate of the three Baltic states hasn’t made them more cautious. I’ve already granted them considerable economic autonomy in exchange for sacrificing their armies. Are they still not satisfied?”

Minister of Defense Yazov added, “Yes, Georgia’s resistance has been the strongest. Soviet troops sent to integrate their forces had a minor clash with the Georgian army. Fortunately, there were no casualties. Although they know unification is inevitable, they are still trying every trick to delay, as if they’re plotting something.”

How interesting. Yanayev’s eyes slowly narrowed as he carefully considered what Georgia’s President Zviad might do. As America’s lapdog and a vanguard of anti-Soviet sentiment, it seemed Zviad was more difficult to deal with than he had imagined.

Could these fellows be planning a war for independence? Yanayev’s eyes suddenly lit up. If Georgia fired the first shot in a war for independence, it would mean a series of rebellions from other member republics would follow.

But by the same token, if Yanayev successfully crushed Georgia’s rebellion, it would give the Soviet Union a perfectly legitimate reason to strip all member republics of their special rights.

“I understand, Comrade Yazov. For now, let’s temporarily slow down the integration process. We will wait for those frisky fish to leap out of the lake, and then we’ll catch them all in one net.” Yanayev had decided to set a trap for Georgia and wait for them to walk into it.

For the time being, the Soviet side reined in its actions, waiting for those self-righteous political clowns to reveal their hands before annihilating them in one fell swoop. You gray cattle, go on and cheer for a while longer. After these next few days, you won’t be smiling anymore.

As Yazov watched in confusion, Yanayev folded his arms and said in a cold voice, “The day the Soviet Union returns to the Northern Land will be the day all traitors die.”

Chapter 62: Welcome Home (3)

(Part 3)

In a desolate valley somewhere in Parwan Province, Afghanistan, yellow sand swept through the already bleak and deserted gorge. Withered, yellow weeds tumbled in the wind, rolling past coarse, weathered rocks, bullet-riddled ruins, and the steel husk of a colossal beast, buried in sand with only a lonely turret exposed.

Atop the turret was the half-scorched corpse of a Soviet soldier, its hand desperately reaching toward the azure sky. The soldier had died an unknown number of years ago, his blackened bones long since dried into withered remains. A figure in a white robe appeared in the desolate valley, a Kalashnikov rifle in his hands. As he passed the long-wrecked T-72 tank, he paused, climbed onto its rusted tracks, and used his bayonet to pick away the scraps of clothing stuck to the dry bones, trying to find something to identify the Soviet soldier. But it was no use; he found nothing.

Finally, the bearded man jumped down from the tank. He gave the corpse atop it a military salute he hadn’t performed in a long time and resolutely walked toward the end of the valley. There, he would meet the contact who was the destination of his long trek.

The man’s name was Islamuddin, but he was born Nikolai Bystrov. In 1982, at the age of eighteen, he was conscripted and sent to the battlefields of Afghanistan, full of passion. Weary of the war, Bystrov and two comrades deserted in 1983. They fled to a mountain valley but were discovered by Afghan mujahideen. In the ensuing firefight, his two comrades were killed, and Bystrov was wounded and captured.

As a prisoner, Bystrov tried to escape. He was caught and brutally beaten, all of his teeth knocked out. Later, he had to be fitted with a full set of dentures. He was then taken to the mujahideen stronghold in the Panjshir Valley, where he met their legendary leader, Massoud. Perhaps out of the supreme leader’s mercy, Bystrov was allowed to live. A few months later, he tried to escape again, was caught, and beaten half to death. After that, Bystrov accepted his fate. He began to learn the language of the Afghan people and adapt to the local customs. Soon, Bystrov was asked to convert to Islam. He agreed and was given a new name: Islamuddin.

In early 1984, Massoud learned from spies planted in Kabul that the Soviet and Afghan government forces were about to launch a new clearing operation against the Panjshir Valley. Captured Soviet officers and soldiers had two choices: be exchanged with the Soviet army as prisoners of war, or escape to other countries via Pakistan. Fearing punishment from law enforcement back home, all the prisoners chose to go to Pakistan. Only Bystrov asked to stay. He was assigned to be Massoud’s personal guard.

In the years that followed, he weathered countless life-and-death situations alongside the supreme leader, Massoud. Bystrov’s extremely conscientious work ethic earned him Massoud’s deep appreciation. Massoud would often say that he could only sleep soundly when Bystrov was on duty.

Over the years, Bystrov, now living under a new name, helped many Soviet prisoners leave this land of sorrow that had consumed their youth and their years. But fearing judgment back home, none of them chose to return to the motherland that had abandoned them. Instead, they scattered across the countries of Western Europe to live out the rest of their days.

At the end of the valley, a middle-aged man, also dressed in a long white robe, stood waiting, holding a camel. His gentle expression was a stark contrast to the grim surroundings.

“Islamuddin, my friend. You’ve come as promised.” Seeing Islamuddin appear, the man holding the camel smiled faintly and opened his arms for an embrace. But the other man’s reaction was anything but friendly. He raised his Kalashnikov rifle and aimed it at the man with the camel.

“Sorry, Major Vasily, but I’m no friend of yours,” Islamuddin’s tone was icy. “In fact, I stopped being a Soviet soldier the day the motherland abandoned those poor souls nine years ago.”

If his closest comrade hadn’t secretly told him about Major Vasily from the Kazakh Soviet Socialist Republic, Islamuddin would have assumed this was a plot against the supreme leader of the mujahideen.

“The motherland has indeed made mistakes, but it won’t keep making them, will it? The mistakes that were made need to be corrected. Is Islamuddin not even willing to give the Soviet Union a chance to reform?” Vasily sighed and continued, “The way Gorbachev treated you all back then was wrong, but you must have seen the video I sent you. Our new government leaders are actively working to rescue the missing Soviet soldiers. I heard you’ve been helping those men without asking for anything in return, which is why I wanted to seek you out for information. After all, we haven’t been enemies since 1989.”

Islamuddin kicked at the yellow sand, idly drawing a circle with the tip of his boot. After Major Vasily finished, he said dismissively, “But I can’t forget the crimes you committed against those poor soldiers. For instance, the twelve Soviet prisoners of war who died at the Badaber camp. I’d like to ask, do those high-level officials feel any guilt at all?”

“President Yanayev apologized to the entire nation on television.” Major Vasily pulled a newspaper from his coat and held it out for Islamuddin. “We should not forget these men. The motherland, and their mothers, are waiting for these children to come home.”

“Home?” The word made Islamuddin laugh, a desolate sound. He waved his hand dismissively. “Do I still have a home? My mother must have thought I was dead long ago. Ah, forget it. I happen to have five Soviet prisoners of war. They’re poor souls who spent nearly seven years in a POW camp and were just released. They were planning to head to Western Europe. I will bring them to you. In five days, right here, I’ll bring them over. You can take the five of them and leave.”

“Alright.” Seeing that he was finally making some progress, Major Vasily breathed a sigh of relief. He asked one more question, “What about you? Don’t you plan on going back to see?”

“No, I’m not going back.”

Islamuddin refused Major Vasily’s request. He gazed at the blue sky beyond the valley, his eyes, long clouded by the baptism of sand and wind, flashing with a hawk’s longing for freedom from its cage. But the light faded just as quickly, and his expression finally settled into a cold placidity, like the surface of a still lake.

“My heart is rooted in this yellow earth. The Bystrov of the past is already dead.”

Islamuddin turned and walked away alone, back into the canyon, disappearing into the dark depths of the swirling sand.

Chapter 63: Welcome Home (4)

(First update)

Five days later, Major Vasily met the middle-aged men at the rendezvous point as arranged. They had sallow complexions and were dressed in rags. The biting highland wind had long since carved deep lines into their faces, and their dull, cloudy eyes seemed to have lost all desire to live. But when they saw Major Vasily in his Soviet officer’s uniform, the flame of a will to survive kindled for the first time in their once-hopeless eyes.

These were the men from the POW camp who refused to convert to Islam or join the Mujahideen forces. Their only option was to perform the most arduous labor in the concentration camp. After witnessing their comrades shot on sight for attempting to escape, they had fallen into complete despair, becoming silent slaves, quietly counting down the days they had left to live.

To drag on a wretched existence or to die a wretched death—almost every day, a prisoner of war would make a different choice.

Major Vasily, who had come to meet them, looked curiously at the burlap sacks on their backs. He made a move to touch one, but they all stepped back in unison, staring at him warily. In halting Russian, one of them asked, “Stay back. What do you want?”

Vasily raised his hands to show he meant no harm. “I am Major Vasily, sent by the Soviet government to bring you home,” he said, his tone innocent. “I mean you no harm. I’m just curious about what’s in those sacks.”

“It’s nothing. Just the remains of our comrades who fell on the battlefield,” one of the POWs replied, his voice tinged with sorrow.

The tall POW at the front suddenly had a fire in his eyes. He barked, “Attention!” and all the men straightened their backs, their gazes fixed resolutely on Major Vasily. Then, in a single, synchronized motion, they raised their hands and gave him a crisp military salute.

“Lieutenant Kade of the Ninth Company, reporting, Sir! We did our utmost to hold Hill 3234. Of the one hundred and three men in our company, ninety-eight were killed in action and five were captured. There were no withdrawals.”

Lieutenant Kade’s voice was hoarse and rough, yet it remained as firm as ever. Accompanied by the whistling of the wind and sand, it sounded exceptionally desolate in the twilight. These soldiers, long forgotten on the battlefield, yearned desperately for a response from their motherland, dreaming that one day they could return to the embrace of the Soviet Union.

Major Vasily was overwhelmed with emotion. He pulled Lieutenant Kade into a tight embrace, fighting back tears. “The war is over, sons,” he said, his voice heavy. “I’m here to take you home.”

At the word “home,” Lieutenant Kade’s composure finally shattered. He fell to his knees on the yellow earth, covered his face with his hands, and began to sob uncontrollably. For the past five or six years, through all the inhumanity of the concentration camp, the one thought that had kept him alive was returning home.

Islamuddin turned his head away, unwilling to watch the life-and-death scene unfold. Perhaps, deep inside him, the Bestrov who had died long ago was remembering a summer when seas of vibrant flowers were in full bloom, and a girl named Sasha, in a white dress and playing a harmonica, was waving to him.

He was so young back then, with dreams and someone to love. Not like now, where he would jolt awake from a bad dream with only the cold receiver of his Kalashnikov rifle and the equally cold, silent moonlight for company. A single war had changed his fate, and the fates of countless young soldiers like him. Only occasionally would he dream of the comrades he used to sing with. In his dreams, they were still young, rifle in hand, as handsome as ice sculptures.

“Are you sure you’re not coming with us, Islamuddin?” Major Vasily asked after a moment’s hesitation, deciding to press him one last time. “After all, your mother, your homeland… they’re still waiting for you to come back.”

But Islamuddin just shook his head, his gaze drifting toward the distant horizon. He shouldered the rifle he had set on the ground and started walking, one deliberate step at a time. After five or six paces, he stopped and looked back. “No. If I go back, it’ll be even harder to find the rest of these missing soldiers. At least here in northern Afghanistan, I can still use my connection with General Sumad to get some Soviet POWs released from the camps. With me here, those soldiers still have a chance to go home.”

Islamuddin chewed on a blade of wild grass. “The entire area from here to the Tajikistan border is the northern territory of the Mujahideen alliance,” he said calmly. “Follow me. It’s much safer to have a military helicopter pick you up at the border than to get shot down here by a guerrilla’s Stinger missile. After all, the image of a Hind helicopter is etched deep into their minds, a nightmare they can’t shake.”

“Alright,” Major Vasily agreed. He knew, in fact, how difficult it would be to lead five Soviet POWs through the north. If he weren’t the head of the Tajik Republic’s intelligence bureau in Afghanistan, with a long-established network of contacts in the northern provinces, it would have been impossible for him to even venture this deep into the unknown heart of the warzone.

For the next few days, the group of seven began their arduous journey. Unlike the route through desolate, uninhabited lands that Vasily’s previous informant had taken, Islamuddin led them almost directly along the line of Mujahideen checkpoints. After he exchanged a few words with the guards in a fluent Afghan dialect, the sentries at the posts would let them pass unconditionally.

This turned what would have been a winding path into a straight line, shortening their travel distance considerably. Major Vasily was even able to rest and replenish their water supplies in towns and villages. In the evenings, he used the spare time to provide psychological counseling for the POWs, helping these men, who were about to set foot on their homeland’s soil again, transition from a nomadic, sun-up-to-sun-down existence and better adapt to modern life in Moscow.

Unlike his journey in, Major Vasily reached the border between northern Afghanistan and the Tajik Republic in only half the time. Seeing the border watchtower, he finally let out a sigh of relief.

Islamuddin stopped walking and took a sip of water from his canteen. He then pointed to the snow-capped mountains in the distance. “This is as far as I go. Once you cross those mountains, you’ll reach the airbase on the southwestern border of Gorno-Badakhshan. You’re more familiar with that than I am, Major Vasily.”

“Yes,” Major Vasily nodded. He glanced at his watch. “I’ve already sent a message via radio. A helicopter will be here to pick us up shortly.”

“Getting you here… my mission is complete,” Islamuddin said, adjusting his hat. He turned to Lieutenant Kade. “Congratulations. You can finally return to the embrace of your homeland.”

“Are you really not coming with us, Islamuddin? Going back has to be better than staying in this place of nothing but yellow earth and sandstorms,” Kade asked again. He felt a complex, bittersweet attachment to this “Soviet traitor” who had looked out for them more than anyone else in the POW camp.

“No. I still have a benefactor who’s waiting for me,” Islamuddin said as he walked away. His figure grew more and more distant. In the end, he only lifted a hand and waved his arm, without so much as a glance back, leaving them with nothing but the sight of his lonely retreating back.

Tears streamed down Islamuddin’s face as he whispered, in a voice only he could hear, “Take care.”

Then, a sudden wind swept across the tranquil cliffside, bending the wild grass to the ground.

Lieutenant Kade squinted and saw a Mi-24 Hind helicopter—an aircraft he had longed to see—rising into the air from behind the jagged cliffs. The long-unseen red star on its fuselage instantly blurred his vision with tears. All the men threw their arms in the air and cheered. In that moment, these prisoners, who seemed to have lost all passion years ago, erupted in jubilant celebration.

The Hind, equipped with six rocket pods, landed smoothly in an open clearing before them. The pilot in the cockpit waved to the POWs and spoke through a loudspeaker, “Soldiers, I’m here to pick you up. Welcome back to the motherland.”

Lieutenant Kade clutched the sack in his arms tighter. It held not only the bones of the soldiers sleeping beneath this yellow earth but also their long-departed souls. Kade happened to glance back, and in the brilliant light of the sun, he thought he saw the other ninety-eight fallen comrades of the Ninth Company. They were walking shoulder to shoulder, talking and laughing as they approached him.

He even saw his company commander, who had been blown in two by an enemy mortar long ago, waving at him and calling his name. Even knowing it was a hallucination, Lieutenant Kade smiled and waved back, tears tracing paths down his cheeks as he murmured to himself.

“Comrades… welcome home.”

Chapter 64: Welcome Home (5)

(Second update)

In the restroom, Lieutenant Kade slowly shaved his messy beard in front of the mirror. He hadn’t seen modern facilities for many years, having lived a primitive, guerrilla-style existence. So much so that he even hesitated for a moment when he saw the faucet handle, before slowly turning it to let the water run.

After washing his body and wiping his face, Kade could hardly believe that the haggard man in the mirror was once the dashing, spirited soldier who had entered Afghanistan six years ago. He took the long-unseen Soviet military uniform from the hands of the Tajik personnel, then put it on, buttoned it up, and donned his hat.

When Lieutenant Kade came out of the restroom, his four other teammates were waiting for him in the hallway. They were to board a military transport plane, specially dispatched from the Tajik Border Airbase, and fly to Moscow together.

Major Vasily straightened his uniform, then looked around at the others and said slowly, “Let’s go. In a moment, you’ll be facing the warm cheers of your motherland. Don’t look so dejected. You are not deserters or criminals. You are great Soviet heroes, understand?”

Everyone nodded. Kade wanted to break into a smile, but he found that after so many years of hard servitude, he had long forgotten what a smile even felt like. Major Vasily didn’t press him. He simply led the five of them to the long-waiting Il-76 transport plane and saw each of them to their seats. Only after confirming everything was in order did he disembark.

Then they watched Major Vasily wave goodbye until the cabin door closed tightly, separating them into two different worlds. On the tarmac, Major Vasily silently watched the plane move towards the taxiway, his heart filled with blessings for these soldiers who had endured so much suffering.

Kade sat in his seat and wearily closed his eyes. It was as if he had been in a long nightmare that had spanned years in the blink of an eye. Now, he could finally escape it, hoping that when he woke up, he could begin a new life.

In the vast cabin, there were only five exhausted Soviet prisoners. They leaned their heads against the seats, listening to the roar of the plane’s engines, and fell into a deep sleep. When they were jolted awake by a sudden shaking, they realized the plane was preparing to land at Moscow International Airport.

Looking out the window, Lieutenant Kade saw the tarmac was filled with a welcoming crowd. After the Il-76 transport plane came to a smooth stop, Lieutenant Kade walked to the cabin door, waiting impatiently for it to open.

First, a thin crack of soft light appeared at the rear of the cabin, spilling into the dim space. Then the opening slowly widened, and the light rushed into Kade’s vision like a surging tide, so bright he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Once he adjusted to the light, Kade could clearly see the boisterously cheering crowd. His mother, whom he hadn’t seen in years, was looking at him with tears streaming down her aged face. Standing beside her was a middle-aged man in a long black trench coat, smiling and waving at him.

Oh, so the motherland is already in winter. How long has it been since I last saw snow? he thought to himself, watching the snowflakes drift onto his shoulders.

The area was surrounded by armed guards, leading Kade to first assume that the man standing next to his mother must be someone with a rank of major general or higher in the military.

“Mama!” Kade dropped his luggage and ran over, throwing his arms around the old woman who came to meet him, hugging her tightly. He buried his head deep in his mother’s scarf, a scent familiar to him since childhood.

“I haven’t seen you in so many years. I thought I would never see you again, my child.” Kade’s mother looked up at him, noting how much thinner he was. Stroking his cheek with her rough hand, she said with deep sorrow, “My God, thank President Yanayev. It is he who gave us, mother and son, the chance to reunite.”

“Mr. President Yanayev? Are you saying this operation was personally arranged by the President?” Kade said, surprised. He glanced incredulously at the tall man beside him. “Excuse me, are you a representative sent by the government?”

The man smiled. He brought a hand to his face, took a deep breath, and said with a smile, “Er, you could say that.”

“Thank you for the help from the Party and the government. I thought we would never be able to return to our dear motherland. For all these years, I’ve wanted to tell everyone that the men of the Ninth Company did not disgrace the Soviet Army. We held the high ground, down to the last man.” Kade gripped the man’s hand tightly, overwhelmed with emotion.

“Son, let it go. The war is over. I hope that you and your mother will live well from now on,” the man standing before Kade said with a smile, patting his shoulder. He seemed to possess an indescribable charisma that instantly put Kade’s lingering nervousness at ease.

“May I be so bold as to ask your name?” Kade had hesitated over this question for a long time before finally blurting it out. His mother, standing beside him, lightly tapped him on the head and chided him softly, “You child, is that any way to speak to the President?”

“The President?” This time it was Kade’s turn to be dumbfounded. He never imagined that this approachable-looking middle-aged man was actually the supreme leader of the Soviet Union. And unlike Brezhnev’s high and mighty, arrogant demeanor, he didn’t seem to display the authoritative air a leader should have.

“Your mother is right. I am Yanayev, the President of the Soviet Union.”

As if reading his mind, Yanayev shrugged with a feigned look of helplessness. “The President was also born a commoner. I’m no different from you. In the Soviet Union, everyone is equal. There is no distinction of high or low, noble or humble, in status or in soul.”

Yanayev’s casual words earned him applause from everyone present. Kade, standing beside him, clapped the loudest. This time, it wasn’t the perfunctory applause one gives to a superior, but a heartfelt expression of respect for the supreme leader from the depths of his soul. Everyone believed that this President was the future hope of the Soviet Union.

Yanayev basked in the applause, satisfied. This was precisely the effect he wanted: to unite the hearts of the people. After the bungling of those two fools, Brezhnev and Gorbachev, what the Soviet Union lacked most was the power to rally the people’s hearts.

“Do you see? I am saving you, O great Soviet Union. Even if those damned intellectuals don’t understand, even if they think I’m a dictator, I am truly saving you from your decline,” Yanayev touched the hammer and sickle medal on his chest, his heart heavy. Through his efforts, the emblem of socialism had not fallen, but the flames of revolution were now but scattered sparks, on the verge of being extinguished.

The five Soviet prisoners of war stood in a line to receive medals personally presented to them by Yanayev. As he moved past each man, Yanayev patted his shoulder and gave him a heartfelt hug as a sign of encouragement. Finally, Yanayev stood before them and gave a deep bow to these men who had suffered so much.

“The motherland has failed you. On behalf of the government that forgot you, I apologize.”

The entire scene fell silent. Even the reporters didn’t know how to capture this moment. The Soviet government, which had always projected an image of being great, wise, and infallible, was now showing an unexpectedly humble side. How were they supposed to write tomorrow’s reports?

“Soviet policies are not always one hundred percent correct. We also encounter various problems in the course of our development. But it is not terrible to have problems. What is terrible is to try to make a clumsy cover-up after making a mistake. This is something we absolutely will not allow. Therefore, to these five forgotten soldiers, please accept our belated apology. The honor you deserve may be late, but it will never be absent.”

Yanayev’s voice was steady and powerful, carrying far and wide through the loudspeakers. After a brief silence, the crowd erupted once again in thunderous applause. Kade’s eyes filled with tears. He glanced at his comrades; they too were giving Yanayev their most fervent applause.

“Long live the Soviet Union!”

“Long live socialism!”

“Long live great Communism!”

It was unknown who in the crowd had started it, but slogans and cheers instantly rose and fell in waves, even drowning out the roar of the airplane engines. The people surrounded the Supreme General Secretary like stars around the moon, cheering him on with the greatest enthusiasm.

Chapter 65: The Berlin Arms Exhibition

1991. The Berlin Arms Exhibition.

A masterpiece of violent aesthetics—a model of the Hind helicopter gunship equipped with a 24-round rocket pod—and an American UH-1 helicopter fitted with four 7.62mm M134 miniguns, two products of the arms race, had their cold muzzles pointed at each other. A T-72 tank fitted with composite armor stood out remarkably before Merkava and M60 main battle tanks, as if ready to crush everything in its path at any moment. To one side stood a rugged MiG-21 fighter jet; its export version of the R-33 air-to-air missile attracted a crowd of arms trade representatives from other countries, who clicked their tongues in admiration.

Here, there were no so-called United Nations arms embargoes to abide by, no placard-waving protests from peace organizations. All trade was freely permitted. This was because the masterminds behind the exhibition were the five permanent members of the United Nations Security Council, who collectively controlled the global arms trade. These nations, which so often proclaimed their own righteousness, were the true puppet masters behind ethnic genocides and regional conflicts.

And these international arms exhibitions were the coveted paradise and private clubs of arms dealers. With the Cold War not yet over, transactions were often handled as cooperation between governments. All the chairmen of arms sales delegations, the very claws of a nation’s arms trade, held their positions for life.

When engaging in arms deals, they only needed to remember one ironclad rule: never sell weapons to the enemies of the country you represent.

Anyone paying attention would have noticed a man with messy hair in the exhibition hall. He looked neither like an arms dealer nor a procurement representative, but rather like an idle wanderer, gazing left and right with a keen interest in these killing machines.

Of course, those who knew his other identity would think differently. Viktor Bout. A rising star in the world of arms dealers. He had gone from an obscure Russian to an international arms merchant overnight, demonstrating a formidable talent for selling weapons. As a sales representative for a newly established Soviet foreign arms trading company, he had closed deals worth a staggering nine hundred eighty million US dollars in just one month, setting a new record. What was even more terrifying was that Viktor Bout did business with nearly anyone. As long as they could pay, even if they were from Colombia or were religious extremist forces, he was still willing to sit down at the same table, discuss business cheerfully, and shake hands on a deal.

Viktor’s creed was: as long as they weren’t enemies of the Soviet Union, who cared whose blood stained their hands?

And this aggressive “disruptor of the balance of interests” was particularly low-key. No one knew his true identity. Some of his peers had given him a nickname: the Merchant of Death.

Viktor Bout was at the Berlin Arms Exhibition not to hunt for targets, but to broaden his horizons with the Soviet delegation. Gennady Yanayev didn’t let Viktor get involved in these aboveboard arms deals at all. They were all handled personally by Chemezov, who negotiated with the government delegations. Yanayev had once told Viktor that his talent for deal-making should be applied to black and grey income streams, not wasted on these formal, hollow pleasantries whose outcomes were already foregone conclusions.

Suddenly, a man with slicked-back hair blocked Viktor’s path. He held up a small promotional booklet and began enthusiastically introducing his company’s products.

“Sir, sir! I’m a representative from International Missile Defense Company. Are you interested in our SA-7 surface-to-air missile? It’s an obsolete Chinese copy, probably not effective against modern military fighter jets, but more than enough to take down a commercial airliner.”

Seeing that Viktor seemed uninterested in the knock-off SA-7 missile, he changed his pitch. “The price is only eight hundred fifty US dollars. That’s right, a missile for just eight hundred fifty dollars. We’re practically giving it away.”

Viktor, trying his best to shake the man off, said with some annoyance, “Sorry, I’m not interested in obsolete products. Please step aside.” Then he pointed a finger toward the Indian delegation not far to his left. “Perhaps you should try pitching to that Indian delegation over there, the ones in the white turbans. Maybe they’d be happy to take such outdated weapons. So, for God’s sake, stop bothering me. I sell the Indian Army the SA-19 Grison anti-aircraft missile, something your anti-aircraft weapon, which is ten or twenty years out of date, can’t even compare to.”

“This guy is unbelievable.” The sales representative, his mouth dry from his rapid-fire pitch to Viktor, shot a glare at his retreating back. He decided to ignore the neurotic man.

Viktor took a closer look around. The delegations at the arms exhibition were divided into two groups. One circle was centered around arms dealers from various American companies, the other was the Soviet-made weapons delegation led by Chemezov. It was just like the theme of the exhibition itself: on the left were the war machines of NATO, and on the right, the products of violence from the socialist bloc.

Of course, there would always be some wavering opportunists, and Viktor’s job was to win them over and close a deal. For example, the representative from the Republic of Mozambique, who was still looking around. Viktor mentally rehearsed his Portuguese pronunciation, then walked over.

“Hey, my friend, how are you?” Viktor’s effusive attitude left the other party a bit baffled. He extended his hand for a polite shake and asked with some confusion, “Do I know you?”

“Has our great socialist ally already forgotten about their Soviet big brother?” Viktor said with a smile. His polite manner was perfectly measured, not seeming artificial in the least.

“Oh? Are you with the Soviet delegation?” The representative from Mozambique was completely flattered. He hadn’t expected a Russian to actually approach him. After all, the Americans had always snubbed him, finding the Republic of Mozambique’s order sizes too small and the profit margins on the weapons they procured too low to bother with.

“Yes, my friend. My name is Viktor, sales manager for the Soviet Foreign Arms Trading Company. Here’s my card.” Viktor ignored Yanayev’s advice, deciding to improvise with his gift of gab.

The man accepted Viktor’s business card and replied, “I am Nyusikal, of the Mozambique delegation. The thing is, we intend to procure a batch of firearms and anti-tank missiles, but many companies are unwilling to take my business because our offer is simply too low.”

“Kalashnikov rifles or RPG rocket launchers?” Viktor asked. His previous experiences in Africa had taught him just how ridiculously rampant firearms were in those countries. In a nation where you could trade a chicken for a gun, how much money could they possibly have?

“We need both,” Nyusikal said forthrightly, but his expression immediately darkened. “But we can’t afford the two hundred fifty dollar price per rifle, and you people don’t accept trades for other goods.”

At this, Viktor understood completely. It wasn’t that Nyusikal’s delegation had no money, but rather that other legitimate companies were unwilling to accept Africa’s underground currency: “blood diamonds.” But for Viktor, everything was much simpler. Even if Colombia paid in drugs, he could convert it to dollars on the American market. Of course, the last guy who tried to pay with drugs had been promptly chopped into several pieces by the retired Vympel Group members protecting Viktor and mailed back home.

Viktor’s unreasonableness was a message to everyone: when dealing with the Soviet Union, you play by my rules. Otherwise, we would dare to turn your base into ruins with thermobaric bombs.

“With others, perhaps not. But for me, diamonds are as good as currency.” Viktor winked and asked, “How many AKM rifles do you need, and how many RPG rocket launchers?”

Seeing how direct the other man was, Nyusikal didn’t hold back. “One thousand five hundred AKM rifles and three hundred RPG rocket launchers. We’ll need two hundred thousand rounds of ammunition. Payment in diamonds. How does that sound?”

“Of course, no problem,” Viktor readily agreed to Nyusikal’s request. But then, he added, “Ever since your president, Samora Moisés Machel, died in that crash in 1986, you’ve had some trouble handling the pressure from the Mozambican Republican Front, haven’t you? No matter how much military and economic aid the outside world provides, you’re still locked in a stalemate with the opposition.”

“That may be so, but Mr. Viktor, don’t you think what you’re saying is a bit of an interference in my country’s internal affairs? If you don’t want to do business with us, you can just ignore me. There’s no need to be so insulting,” Nyusikal said, frowning in displeasure, somewhat angered by Viktor’s insult.

“No, no, you’ve misunderstood, Nyusikal.” Viktor smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “What if there were a paramilitary operations company that specializes in intervening in regional disputes, one that gets paid to neutralize targets designated by its clients? Would you be willing to give it a try? Of course, if you’re not interested, you can just pretend I never said a word. But if you nod yes, I can pull some strings and introduce you to the person in charge.”

“A company like that actually exists?” Nyusikal was astonished. He had previously heard about South Africa’s Strategic Resources Corporation, which could help clients eliminate any enemy in exchange for a mortgage on their country’s natural resources, but its effectiveness was limited by the United Nations.

As if reading his mind, Viktor leaned closer and whispered, “As for the United Nations, you don’t need to worry about them at all. The backer of that company, which profits from war, is the supreme leader of a nation with a legitimate seat as a permanent member of the UN Security Council.”

Nyusikal swallowed hard, looking at the smirking Viktor with an expression of disbelief. He took a deep breath before speaking. “Are you saying this is a political intervention?”

“Political intervention? Oh no, my friend, you’re overthinking it.” Viktor’s expression turned sinister. He spoke one word at a time, “This is business, my friend.”

Chapter 66: Mozambique’s Worries

(Second update)

President Joaquim Alberto Chissano sank into deep thought after receiving a call from a representative of the Ministry of Defense. In truth, he had considered this possibility from the very beginning. The true masters behind this company hailed from the world’s most ferocious nation. The so-called private military contractor was, in reality, a disguised proxy for the Soviet Union’s military influence. This proxy, however, wasn’t interested in the lofty ideal of spreading communism across the globe, but in the capitalist practice where profit reigns supreme.

There’s no such thing as a free lunch. To defeat the National Resistance movement, President Hissano had to pay a steep price. The world’s largest reserves of tantalum, over six million tons of yet-to-be-fully-developed titanium deposits, and resource-rich gold mines were all clearly itemized in the treaty signed between the government and the company. After dismantling the resistance movement, the Soviet military contractor would have mining rights for at least five years, during which the Mozambican government would have no right to intervene.

What would happen if the government broke the contract? Hissano didn’t dare gamble Mozambique’s fate against the Soviet Union’s formidable military might in a game he was destined to lose.

But to defeat his opponent, these were not his main concerns. His only worry was whether this so-called military contracting company would seize control of the country while the Mozambican government was too weak to fight back. After all, this was a mercenary organization operating in a gray area, powerful enough to overthrow the government of a small European nation.

Hissano lit a cigarette and stared blankly at the night view outside the window. Years of incessant war had left Mozambique’s economy in shambles. The resistance front, backed by apartheid supporters in South Africa and elsewhere, was growing stronger by the day. If he ultimately couldn’t withstand the external pressure, his Liberation Movement government might be forced to the negotiating table with the resistance.

“Damn it, I can’t let that happen.” Hissano savagely stubbed out his cigarette. Pacing back and forth with the contract in his hand, he weighed his options: seek foreign aid at the risk of letting a wolf into the house, or wait for a slow, inevitable demise. He had to make a decision tonight!

Hissano took a deep breath, as if having made a momentous decision. He slowly picked up the phone and dialed the number. After a few short rings, the other party answered.

“Nyusikal, this is President Hissano. I’ve considered the contract, and you…”

The person on the other end remained silent, awaiting the president’s final decision.

At this point, President Hissano suddenly fell silent, as if the courage he had just mustered had vanished without a trace. His hand trembled slightly. Hissano slowly steadied himself with a chair and sat down. After long and careful consideration, he spoke in a pained voice, “I authorize you to sign the treaty with them.”

“But I have one condition,” President Hissano added, throwing in a last-minute bargaining chip. “They can only get the mining rights after the entire country is truly stable. If the situation isn’t stabilized, we refuse to pay.”

“Very well. I will not disappoint you, Mr. President,” Nyusikal said, holding the receiver, then added weakly, “But what if they go back on their word?”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t know either,” President Hissano replied, his voice laced with helplessness.

Viktor’s unilateral decision infuriated Chemezov. He had never intended to close a shady deal at the crowded Berlin arms exhibition, with so many prying eyes around. But Viktor’s words left him speechless: “Since I’m the one in charge of gray-area transactions, how and where I do business is my affair. All you have to do is say yes or no.”

Left with no choice, Chemezov had to call Moscow to ask if they should accept Mozambique’s request. Gennady Yanayev didn’t give a clear answer, merely telling them to make a judgment based on their intelligence experts’ analysis. If they thought the war could be ended quickly, they should take the deal. If, on the other hand, it threatened to become a quagmire, they should refuse.

Yanayev had made himself very clear. He wanted Chemezov to only take on what was within his capabilities and to abandon it immediately if it went beyond his control. This was no longer the era of generous communist aid under Khrushchev; it was about meticulously squeezing out every last cent of profit.

After a detailed intelligence analysis, Chemezov concluded that the resistance movement had managed to grow strong not because of any powerful military foundation—these opposition groups were often just a disorderly mob—but because they happened to have the advantage in numbers and terrain. That was how they had forced the Mozambican government army, which lacked main battle tanks and helicopters, into a steady retreat.

Being a decisive man, Chemezov immediately agreed to the deal. At the same time, following the instructions from his behind-the-scenes bosses in the Soviet Presidium, he had to secure the development rights to mineral resources that were either scarce in the Soviet Union or of immense strategic value.

This led to the harsh demand for the mining rights to tantalum, titanium, and gold.

“Why is it, Mr. President, that you’re so confident we can end the Mozambican civil war in a short time?” Prime Minister Pavlov, also one of the insiders on this matter, was puzzled by Yanayev’s confident attitude.

“Hmm? How should I put it… a gut feeling, I suppose,” Yanayev chuckled. He found it difficult to explain to Pavlov that after peacekeeping forces entered Mozambique in 1993, it would take only one year for the resistance front to be suppressed to the point of collapse, forcing them to the negotiating table, and that in 1994, Mozambique would successfully hold a presidential election, achieving a smooth transition of power.

“Mozambique is just the first breach we’re making, a test run,” Yanayev said, looking at a world map and drawing a circle on it with a red pen. “The resources of the entire African continent are a target we covet—I’m referring, of course, to mineral resources scarce in the Soviet Union, like gold reserves and rare metal deposits. The near-rise of South Africa back then almost changed the global situation. What we need to do is stir up chaos in Africa and seize resources in the process. Unrest in these resource-rich regions will lead to something the Western world would hate to see. In any case, we’re already the ‘evil empire,’ so we might as well add the title of ‘disturber of world peace’ to our name.”

“As for places rich in natural gas and oil like the Soviet Union, that would be the Middle Eastern countries. It’s not just us; America’s strategic think tanks must have noticed this as well,” Yanayev said. Shifting the standoff in Europe to a conflict in the Middle East would also indirectly relieve the political pressure on the Soviet Union in the west. This policy of diverting the crisis, which also aligned with historical patterns, would give their southern neighbors in the Asia-Pacific region a new opportunity for development.

“Drive up the price of oil,” Pavlov said, biting his lip. “No one wants to face another reverse oil shock strategy. For a long time to come, resources and arms will remain the twin pillars driving the Soviet Union forward. What we can do is accelerate our economic transition and reform while maintaining and steadily increasing oil prices. A single-pillar economy is fatally vulnerable to external shocks.”

Yanayev’s words also signaled that the Soviet Union’s focus would now shift to the Middle East. It was still 1991, and the era of Middle Eastern strongmen like Assad and Arafat had not yet come to an end. What Yanayev intended to do was exploit the various conflicts and turn the entire region into a powder keg waiting to explode.

“Western capitalists, are you ready to welcome a Middle East rife with conflict?”

Chapter 67: T-I-A (1)

Today’s first update

Unlike the snowy scenes in the high latitudes of Moscow, the Mozambique Channel was still in the midst of a sweltering summer, enveloped by warm ocean currents. The scorching sun was so bright it made it hard to keep one’s eyes open. So much so that the GRU soldiers, who had trained in the Siberian winter and were accustomed to the harsh, cold climate, found the searing heat somewhat difficult to bear.

Sergeant Gordon was one of the men who had set foot on this island nation. As a victim of the recent major military cutbacks in the Far East, he was unable to find a new post and had no choice but to leave his home and family behind to join a so-called private military contracting group. He was dispatched to Africa to participate in what was described as security work for mineral resource development. Gordon was the only man in his family; his wife and daughter depended on him to earn a living.

The military contracting company offered a daily wage of 30 US dollars, which was an enviable salary for a Soviet soldier. It was no wonder that men were willing to risk their lives, travel across the ocean to the southern end of the earth, and work security in a region rife with conflict.

Here, there was no need to wear a heavy helmet—just a peaked cap with a brown bear’s claw printed on it. The person in charge said they only needed to wear plain clothes, along with the company-issued caps and identification cards, to operate in this area.

Gordon took off his cap, glanced at a photo of himself with his daughter and wife, then carefully tucked it into the lining of the cap before putting it back on his head.

“Lisa, my darling baby, Daddy will definitely come home safe,” Gordon couldn’t help but smile as he recalled the adorable, reluctant look on his daughter Lisa’s face before he left. He waited for the ship to dock, ready to step into an unknown world he had never seen before, hoping to complete his mission successfully and return home with a handsome sum of money.

“Welcome to T-I-A. I hope it doesn’t become your nightmare, Sergeant Gordon. As a young father, you still have a long way to go.” The cold-faced team captain was standing right beside him. This man, who looked to be about the same age as Gordon, was the instructor in charge of leading the new recruits.

“What does T-I-A mean, Captain Arkasha?” Sergeant Gordon asked.

The captain, called Arkasha, turned his head. His straight eyebrows were like blades flanking the strong bridge of his nose, giving him a resolute and strikingly handsome look. Familiar with African history, he explained, “It’s English. An acronym for ‘This is AFRICA.’ It means this land is a paradise for adventurers. Also, Gordon, you need to remember one thing.”

“What is it?” Gordon asked.

“This is a region that symbolizes backwardness and savagery, but it’s also the birthplace of gold and jewels. What you call it depends on how you look at it,” Arkasha said with a hint of mystery, as if he had presented Gordon with a deeply cryptic riddle.

Once the ship had docked securely at the port, the soldiers, who had been tossing at sea for over two weeks, finally had the chance to set foot on solid ground. They scrambled down the gangplank, eager for a rather unique welcome from this strange continent. Only Gordon noticed the soldiers standing near the shipping containers, holding firearms and vigilantly guarding the surrounding area.

“Looks like this place isn’t very peaceful. The security perimeter is ridiculously tight,” Gordon cautiously observed the security around the port. There were six or seven pickup trucks, a common sight on the African continent, and dejected-looking African soldiers in camouflage. They reminded him of the soldiers who had returned from Afghanistan; only men who had just suffered a defeat wore such crestfallen expressions.

“Don’t stare. The National Independence Movement Organization attacked this place a few days ago, causing three deaths and two serious injuries. The Mozambican government sealed off the port afterward. It’s clear the rebels are slowly starting to infiltrate the southern provinces.”

With a cigarette between the fingers of his left hand, Arkasha explained the current situation in Mozambique to Gordon. “Right now, the opposition controls most of the northern provinces. In the south, they’re using riots to slowly infiltrate the capital. Besides guarding the mines, we have another task: maintaining order in the major cities until we get the signal to counterattack.”

Everyone else boarded the bus waiting by the roadside. Under heavy guard, they drove toward the camp that had been set up a week earlier. Along the way, the desolation of the Mozambican city was no less grim than the ruins of Lebanon in 1984. There were white walls peppered with bullet holes, intersections cordoned off with barbed wire, government soldiers holding Kalashnikov rifles with hostile eyes, and Black civilians who would run into the alleyways upon seeing the convoy, not forgetting to turn back and make an insulting gesture at them.

On the bus, Arkasha explained the completely different rules of war in Africa to the others.

“The rules of engagement here are simple. When the other party threatens your personal safety with a weapon, you can fire back. In short, we wait for them to fire the first shot, which gives us a legitimate reason to retaliate. So you need to adapt your previous combat mentalities as quickly as possible. The situation here is even more complicated than in Afghanistan. Every civilian holding a gun could be an enemy from the opposition.”

“And when you encounter a child soldier holding a gun, show absolutely no mercy. Otherwise, you’ll be the next one to die. The opposition has trained children around fourteen into killing machines, and they show absolutely no mercy. To them, a bullet from a child’s gun is even more lethal than one from a middle-aged man’s.”

After explaining the savage and brutal rules of engagement in Africa, Arkasha asked, “Any other questions?”

“I have one.” Gordon raised his hand. “When can we eliminate the enemy and go home?”

“According to the intelligence we have, there’s a decapitation strike next week. If it’s successful, we can dismantle most of the opposition’s high-level leadership. It will be much easier to pick off the leaderless disorderly mob one by one.” Arkasha scratched his head and spoke in a typically simple and brutal Soviet style, “If you ask me, why even send in ground troops? Just dropping a few thermobaric bombs would finish the job, and it’d be simpler.”

“We’re nominally here to maintain order. Fighting is just a side job,” Gordon kindly reminded Arkasha not to speak too freely, or someone might use it against him. However, the others didn’t seem to care much. Hadn’t they come all this way just to kill people?

Soon, the bus, escorted by armed pickup trucks, arrived at the camp codenamed “Retribution.” Gordon stuck his head out the window to look. In addition to an armored car guarding the camp entrance, there were sentry posts equipped with PKM heavy machine guns, their barrels aimed at any African who wasn’t white.

As the vehicles entered the camp, Gordon discovered that it was no less impressive than a Soviet overseas military base. Three parked Hind helicopter gunships were undergoing inspection, and a row of BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicles fitted with composite armor stood ready to deploy. In a country lacking heavy firepower, they were undoubtedly a terrifying superweapon.

The Soviet mindset was simple: when the enemy lacked sufficient firepower to counter them, there was no need to worry about minimizing losses. Just run them over with the tracks of their fighting vehicles. Presumably, the rebels lurking in the dark alleyways had yet to realize they were about to face a terrifying enemy nicknamed the Red Polar Bear.

Chapter 68: TIA (2)

The Mozambican Resistance Movement was primarily active in provinces like Niassa and Zambezia, controlling one-third of the country’s territory. If not for the Nkomati Accord signed in March 1984 between the Mozambican and South African governments, in which South Africa promised to cease its support for the resistance movement, Mozambique would have struggled in the abyss of civil war for much longer. Military aid from countries such as Zimbabwe to the Mozambican government was crucial. The two-decade-long conflict between the twenty-thousand-strong resistance movement and government forces had resulted in over one million deaths.

Although the Mozambican government and the resistance movement began peace negotiations in Rome, Italy, in July 1990, they had not made significant progress. President Hissano had always considered the resistance leader, Dhlakama, a grave threat, but his government forces lacked the ability to unify the country. That was why he placed his hopes in the military action group established by the Soviet Union.

According to Chemezov, they were all elite soldiers recently retired from the army, more than capable of dealing with a militia that had never undergone formal military training. This was why they were launching an operation against the resistance leader Dhlakama, based on reliable intelligence.

Past Sofala Province was the Maladike Diamond Mine in Zambezia. This had always been one of the opposition’s main sources of revenue. A constant stream of diamonds was unearthed here, then passed through the hands of black-market diamond dealers to Europe, becoming blood diamonds that funded the war.

The hot African summers were often accompanied by sudden downpours. The recently rain-washed mine was a muddy mess. All the forced laborers washed gravel in pits where yellowish-brown mud submerged their calves, hoping to find a coveted diamond. Almost daily, laborers collapsed from malnutrition, and others were shot for attempting to steal diamonds.

Most of the people here were poor folk captured by the resistance militia, spending their lightless days in this death camp. The pits were surrounded by African child soldiers holding rusty AK-47s, their faces showing a ferocity that defied their age as they glared menacingly at the miners’ every move.

Gordon, following Arkasha, lay in ambush in a nearby patch of jungle, observing the activity around the mine. This decapitation strike was being led by Colonel Kozlov, with Arkasha serving as the captain of the assault team.

“If you want to live to a hundred, don’t touch the diamonds,” Arkasha whispered to Gordon from their hiding spot in the tall grass. “It’s a long-standing proverb in Africa. It expresses the greedy and pathetic desires of these chimpanzees.”

Gordon shifted his rifle slightly for a quicker aim at a nearby sentry. He looked at the children wandering around with their rifles raised, a strange sense of pity rising in his heart. “These kids are so pitiful,” he said softly.

“Pitiful? Let me give you some advice, my friend. Don’t feel any pity for these kids holding rifles. They are trained killing machines.” Arkasha spat out the blade of grass he was chewing. “Until they drop their guns and surrender, you keep your finger on the trigger. The moment they dare to point their guns at you, open fire.”

“Don’t we wait for them to fire the first shot before we shoot back?” Gordon asked, confused.

“This is the rule for dealing with underage African child soldiers.” Arkasha slowly narrowed his eyes, his expression turning somewhat savage. “These people have taken drugs before battle. They don’t know the meaning of surrender, so we grant them a bullet.”

As an afterthought, Arkasha added, “You’ve only been here a week. You have no idea what kinds of cruel things these so-called children have done. Believe me, it’s a sight you’ll see once and never want to see again.”

————

“Mr. Dhlakama, welcome to the Maladike Diamond Mine. As you can see, the diamonds produced by our great mine each year are enough to continue buying bullets and guns to fight the government forces.”

The man in charge of the mine standing next to Dhlakama was a powerfully built black man with a prominent scar on his face. He was Dhlakama’s trusted general, Molela, known to the Mozambican government as a mad devil for his extreme cruelty. He had orchestrated bloody massacres not only against government troops but also against civilians.

“Very good. The government forces are starting to soften, preparing to negotiate with us. We must have more weapons and men to secure more political seats in the talks.” Dhlakama clasped his hands behind his back, looking with some pride at the bustling scene, envisioning the day he would undergo a complete transformation and become the nation’s president.

“Commander Molela, something’s not right.” A soldier in green camouflage ran over from behind, holding a radio. He said breathlessly, “The sentries report two helicopters approaching rapidly from the southeast.”

“You mean helicopters?” Dhlakama took a startled step forward, not even noticing his leather shoe sinking into the mud. “Damn it, since when did the government forces get their hands on something like helicopters?”

Realizing something was wrong, Dhlakama turned to Molela anxiously. “Get your men to withdraw from this place with the diamonds, quickly. I have a bad feeling about this.”

The words had barely left Dhlakama’s mouth when two Hind helicopter gunships suddenly shot out from a bend in the valley to the southeast, flying toward the mine with their powerful rocket pods. In one of the helicopters, Colonel Kozlov, wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses, spoke to the pilot over the intercom, “Disregard the civilians below. Use the rockets and kill them all.”

“Yes, Colonel.” The pilot, authorized to use his weapons, took aim at the militia who were attempting to fight back with Kalashnikovs. The twenty-four-rocket pods unleashed their fury on the mine below. A fiery ball of earth and flame exploded in all directions, and the blast wave, thick with muddy water, threw everyone to the ground.

The brilliant fireworks turned living people into burning corpses. The land blessed by the rockets turned a crimson red, soaked in blood. Those who were lucky enough to escape the rockets didn’t realize that the PKM general-purpose machine guns were waiting for them, instantly riddling them with holes. Those still stubbornly resisting tried in vain to pierce the Hind’s thick armor with their rifles.

The men, high on drugs, finally realized their flesh and blood was no match for the helicopters’ onslaught. In a panic, they dropped their guns and ran desperately for the rear.

“They’re heading for the gap in the canyon to the northwest. Ambush team, be ready. Leave no one alive,” Colonel Kozlov ordered. Then, he spoke to the others. “Sniper, Dhlakama is heading your way. We just need to incapacitate him, don’t kill him.”

“Roger that.” The sniper adjusted the PSO scope on his Dragunov sniper rifle. Dhlakama’s panicked face appeared clearly in the reticle. The sniper’s mission was to leave no one alive except for Dhlakama.

The sniper took a deep breath, his finger slowly tightening on the trigger. The instant Dhlakama’s lower leg aligned with the crosshairs, he fired.

The target in his scope instantly fell. The men around him froze, looking around with their rifles, not knowing what had happened. The sniper gave them no chance, firing again and again. The next few men weren’t so lucky; their heads were blown off one by one. In the end, only the resistance leader was left in the scope, clutching his leg and writhing in agony by the side of the path.

“Colonel Kozlov, mission complete.” The military personnel lying in ambush by the path swarmed forward, firmly subduing Dhlakama, who was still trying to escape. The sniper pulled his eye away from the scope and let out a long sigh of relief.

“Excellent. We’ll bring him over once we’ve dealt with everyone here,” Colonel Kozlov shouted as he strafed the ground. Wherever the two airborne reapers passed, bodies littered the ground. The Hind helicopters circled at low altitude, strafing the mine in continuous runs. Any militia who failed to escape were turned into mangled corpses.

“Colonel, a portion of the militia and refugees have escaped to the gap in the northwest,” the helicopter pilot reported to Colonel Kozlov.

“No matter. Another unit is waiting to welcome those nasty chimpanzees,” Colonel Kozlov said, the PKM machine gun in his hands finally falling silent.

Colonel Kozlov set down the PKM, a smile on his face as he looked at the small building where the diamonds were stored. That was one of the primary objectives of this raid. According to their intelligence, the contents had not yet been moved. It held a staggering amount of “blood diamonds.”

Chapter 69: T I A(3)

The remaining militia fled to a gap in the valley to the northwest, intending to escape through the road that led to the outside world. Just as these men were celebrating the fact that the deadly reaper behind them had not given chase, the surviving militiamen once again felt the terror of a Soviet armored unit.

The woods on both sides of the muddy road began to tremble. Birds perched on the branches were startled into flight, as if some terrible monster was about to charge at them from within the jungle. The low-lying trees at the front were snapped by steel tracks. To everyone’s astonishment, a BMP infantry fighting vehicle soared out at a wild 45-degree angle, brutally crushing everything in its path and kicking up a cloud of mud and dust that blinded all.

“What in the world is that monster!” The resistance militiamen, who had never seen a BMP infantry fighting vehicle, thought they had seen the devil himself.

For the first time, these men, who were used to pointing their guns only at the innocent, experienced what the Soviet Red Army called infantry-tank coordination. The 30mm 2A42 autocannon tore the men before it to shreds, while soldiers hidden in the bushes also opened fire on them. The militiamen who couldn’t escape in time fell in droves onto the yellow earth like harvested rice.

Gordon watched with his own eyes as the helpless African children fell before him. He wanted to tell Arkasha to stop the attack, but how could the minds of soldiers in a killing frenzy possibly calm down? Those people didn’t even have time to drop their guns and surrender before their lives were taken by bullets. As the gunfire grew sparse, so too did the number of people who could still speak. By the time the dust and smoke cleared, no one was left standing.

The air was filled with the smell of gunpowder mixed with sulfur. The battle, from start to finish, had lasted less than a minute. A perfect decapitation strike had ended in a resounding victory for the Soviet paramilitary personnel, with zero casualties.

“Check and see if anyone’s still alive,” Arkasha ordered, holding his Kalashnikov rifle in his right hand while gesturing with his left for the personnel in the bushes to come out and clean up.

Gordon walked onto the road, which was densely littered with bodies. Some were resistance soldiers, some were unarmed villagers, and some were children under the age of eighteen, their wide eyes staring up at him, their dilated pupils mercilessly proclaiming their deaths.

“My God, what have we done?”

Looking at the field of corpses, a remorseful Gordon spoke with self-reproach. He dropped the gun in his hand and ran to a child who was still breathing his last. The child’s Kalashnikov rifle had been tossed aside. A gunshot wound to his abdomen was bleeding profusely, and his whole body was convulsing. His lips parted and closed slightly, as if trying to say something.

Gordon pressed his hands against the wound and shouted to the soldiers who were searching the area, “Is there a medic? We have a live one here!”

Arkasha, who had been talking with someone, turned his head. He saw Gordon trying to stanch the bleeding of a child soldier. He shook his head helplessly and walked over, his left hand unfastening the strap of the holster on his belt. When Gordon saw Arkasha walking towards him, he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, but to his utter shock, Arkasha’s next move was to pull out his pistol and, right in front of him, fire a single shot into the child soldier’s head.

The shot completely extinguished the boy’s life. Blood splattered onto Gordon’s face. He never would have imagined that Arkasha could be so clean and decisive.

“Bastard! Do you know what you’re doing? This is a violation of the Geneva Convention!” Gordon stood up and angrily grabbed Arkasha by the collar, raising his fist to punch him in the face, only to have his wrist caught by Arkasha’s hand.

“Don’t be naive. These people aren’t protected by the prisoner of war protocols. In fact, we aren’t protected by the Geneva Convention either,” Arkasha said coldly, pointing a finger at the body behind Gordon. “You were saving him, but do you know what he was trying to do before he died?”

Gordon turned around and saw that the body behind him had, in its final moments, managed to get a finger on the trigger of its Kalashnikov rifle. Had Arkasha been even a second slower, Gordon would have been lying on this land forever, just like them.

In the moment of Gordon’s hesitation, Arkasha flung his hand away. He then grabbed Gordon’s collar and dragged him towards the other side of the valley, saying as they went, “Didn’t you want to see the truth? I’ll show you the whole truth right now.”

At the end of the road, a large pit was vaguely visible. Even before they got close, the thick stench of rotting corpses assaulted them. Gordon instinctively covered his nose. When he finally reached the edge of the pit, the sight before him made him bend over and vomit.

It was a mass grave, filled with bodies. There were men and women, and even infants only a few months old. Due to the hot weather, many were already in a state of advanced decomposition. Swarms of black flies covered the corpses, and white maggots writhed endlessly, feasting on the decaying flesh.

“These are all people they captured from the mines a few months ago.” Faced with the nauseating scene, Arkasha appeared unusually calm. He even lit a cigarette before explaining the origins of the dead to Gordon. “After they were done torturing the poor women, they dragged them and the useless infants straight to this place and shot them. As for the men, they were usually the ones who died from serious illness or overwork. It was much easier to just dump them here and cover them with dirt. They have an endless supply of slaves, anyway, so they don’t care about a few lives.”

“And the executioners responsible for these refugees were those very child soldiers. Do you still think those underage animals are pitiful now? There are no saints in Africa, because they’re all dead. That kind of thing only exists in the Western world, among those who’ve never experienced war, standing on the moral high ground and pointing fingers at us. These people have no idea why someone would kill for a bag of grain, nor are they willing to understand that their own elites are the masterminds behind these disasters. And what we have to do is re-establish order in this chaotic country. You didn’t kill a child; you killed a pitiful and detestable casualty of this civil war.”

By the time Arkasha finished, Gordon was no longer speaking. He slowly squatted on the ground, his thoughts in turmoil. The communist education he had received for so many years seemed to crumble in that instant. The Soviet iron fist smashing down on the enemy suddenly seemed to have taken on a new meaning.

“Speaking of saints, a few days ago, members of a peace organization calling for a resolution to the conflict through love and peace were flying a helicopter over opposition-controlled territory. They were shot down with an RPG. I heard all the members died. After they were dead, they were stripped naked and hung from a tree. Heh, how ironic. So, do you think treating the enemy with tolerance and mercy is of any use?”

As his story ended, the cigarette in Arkasha’s hand had nearly burned down. He flicked the ashen stub into the large pit, then patted the shoulder of the squatting Gordon, consoling him, “Remember the first thing I said to you when we met? TIA. This is Africa. You need to change the way you think. This place, filled with violence, has no need for bullshit ballot-box democracy—otherwise, you get the civil war we have now. They are only willing to listen to the warlord with the most weapons and the most men. As long as there is an iron-fisted leader, Mozambique will not fall.”

Gordon, who had buried his head in his arms in silence for a long time, finally looked up. He extended a hand to Arkasha, who understood and grasped it, pulling Gordon to his feet.

Gordon took one last glance at the corpses and said, his expression somewhat blank, “In that case, let’s execute the rest of the resistance members together.”

Arkasha drew the pistol from his belt, handed it to Gordon, and said with a smile, “It would be my pleasure.”

Chapter 70: T I A (4)

(First update of the day)

After his wounds were given basic treatment, Dhlakama was dragged by several soldiers to Colonel Kozlov. Pale from excessive blood loss, he was forcefully pushed down into a chair. His trusted subordinate, Molela, was not so lucky. His body was thrown directly into a mass grave, awaiting the post-battle cleanup when a fire would destroy all evidence of their crimes.

Colonel Kozlov, with a cigar dangling from his lips, gloated as he sized up the dejected leader of the resistance movement. He tossed a box of cigars in front of him and said, “Care to try one, Your Excellency Dhlakama? Cuban cigars. But before we negotiate, allow me to introduce myself. I am Colonel Kozlov, sent by the government. I’m Russian.”

Just as Dhlakama reached for the cigars on the table, a series of gunshots suddenly rang out behind him, making him jump. He turned his head to see the captured militiamen lined up against a wall, being shot one by one by a man with a blank expression, as if it were as mundane as eating or drinking.

“This is not exactly a glorious operation. We don’t want anyone else to live, besides you. To be precise, we don’t want anyone else to know that you are alive. However, I did find this,” Colonel Kozlov said, leaning back comfortably in his chair. He took out a small black pouch and tossed it onto the table. The diamonds inside spilled out, glittering and sparkling brilliantly as they reflected the sunlight.

“This is only part of it. I’m surprised you managed to collect so many blood diamonds. Not only will these diamonds cover the costs of our operation, but they’ve also made my troops a small fortune. Thank you for your generosity, Dhlakama,” Colonel Kozlov said with false sincerity.

“Hmph. What will you do next? Kill me, seize the diamond mines, and then sign an agreement with the government forces? They’re a bunch of despicable politicians. They’ll find a way to trip you up sooner or later,” Dhlakama said with a cold laugh. He nonchalantly picked up a cigar from the table, let a nearby soldier light it for him with a lighter, and took a deep drag.

“The government’s terms do indeed state that we only get the mining rights after we kill you, but…” Colonel Kozlov’s tone shifted as he sized up Dhlakama, continuing slowly, “as you can see, we have no intention of killing you. Instead, we’ll keep you alive to blackmail the government. In other words, if the government forces are unwilling to hand over the mining rights, we’ll switch our support to the resistance movement.”

Kozlov’s bluntness left Dhlakama dumbfounded. He dropped his cigar and stared at the colonel with a strange expression for a long time. He found it hard to believe that the enemy who had slaughtered his army one moment was sitting at the negotiating table the next, talking about switching support to the opposition. He suddenly couldn’t fathom what Colonel Kozlov was thinking.

“Heh, don’t you people call yourselves the Communist International? Your former President Machel advocated for scientific socialism; he was a member of your Communist bloc. And now you abandon your allies in the blink of an eye. How will the other socialist countries view you?” Dhlakama said mockingly, seemingly forgetting his own predicament.

“I thought all opposition leaders were frogs in a well with no foresight, but Your Excellency Dhlakama’s insight has clearly exceeded my expectations.” Colonel Kozlov looked at Dhlakama, who wore the expression of someone accepting a compliment, with a hint of appreciation. Yet his gaze grew ever more sinister and cold, like he was staring at an animal that could be slaughtered at any moment.

“Since you’ve brought up communist allies, I have some time to explain to you just what kind of people these so-called allies are.”

Colonel Kozlov spoke in a flat tone, “We spent a fortune developing Siberia to produce oil, natural gas, aluminum, and all sorts of other products. The cities the Soviet Union built there had kindergartens and hospitals. People didn’t have to fear freezing to death in unheated rooms in the winter. They no longer sold women and animal pelts there. But now, they’re telling the Communist Party to get off their land.”

Kozlov paused slightly after mentioning each nation, giving his listener time to think. He glanced at Dhlakama’s unchanged expression and continued on his own.

“We spent a fortune building up the three Baltic states. Now they have farmlands and large power plants. The Baltic countries produce the best electronics and high-quality cars, as well as famous perfumes. Yes, we did all that. But now those ungrateful people have turned to the Western countries that only ever gave them empty promises, denouncing us as shameless aggressors.”

Kozlov suddenly seemed uncharacteristically sentimental. The Soviet Union had painstakingly cultivated a group of communist allies, only for all of them to turn into white-eyed wolves who defected to the Free World.

“We spent a fortune in Central Asia building laboratories, radio stations, the Baikonur Cosmodrome, as well as hospitals and stadiums. We built satellites and missiles, and helped the people there develop agriculture, growing enough wheat and cotton to supply the rest of the country. And while they were enjoying the fruits of my labor, those political oligarchs told us to get off their land and selfishly pocketed what I had built.”

“We spent a fortune supporting Ukraine’s heavy industry, building the world’s largest planes and ships, as well as tanks and automobiles. When they were able to enjoy the fruits of all my hard work, the Ukrainian government told the Soviet army to get off their land and denounced us as wicked devils.”

“We naively forged an Iron Curtain from Szczecin on the Baltic to Trieste on the Adriatic, but it couldn’t stop the backstabbing from our internal allies.”

As Colonel Kozlov spoke, he drew a revolver from his hip, loaded a single bullet into it, spun the cylinder a few times, and aimed it at Dhlakama’s head. He said in a cold voice, “We certainly did raise some white-eyed wolves back in the day. But later we figured something out: only when a nation’s own strength is great enough to crush other powers will they willingly bow their heads in submission. That’s far more reliable than the diplomatic relations we forged with vast sums of money.”

“So now, we’re not the hounds of socialism, but greedy, blood-sucking Ivans. Don’t even think about using vested interests to threaten our company, Dhlakama. Our boss is the leader in the Kremlin in Moscow. With a single nod from him, forget the resistance movement, the entire country of Mozambique could be wiped off the map in three minutes.”

Colonel Kozlov placed his finger on the trigger. “I’ll give you three chances to speak,” he said. “What terms will you offer if we support you, until your resistance front gives us an answer that satisfies us?”

“Five years of unconditional mining rights for metal ores,” Dhlakama said, staring at the dark muzzle of the gun. A fine layer of cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He was suddenly afraid, because he didn’t know if the man sitting across the table from him was joking or had genuinely gone mad.

Click.

The firing pin struck an empty chamber. Dhlakama instinctively cried out, thinking he was a dead man. But it was clear there was no bullet in that chamber. Colonel Kozlov continued, “Russian Roulette is all about the thrill. You have two chances left. What terms will you offer if we support you?”

“Unconditional mining rights for all minerals for over ten years,” Dhlakama, eyes squeezed shut, practically cried out the words. His back was already soaked with sweat. Perhaps death itself wasn’t frightening; what was frightening was being played with by fear.

Click.

Another strike of the pin on an empty chamber. Dhlakama slumped in his seat, nearly collapsing. Two soldiers had to pull him upright again. Colonel Kozlov tutted, “I never thought the leader of a grand organization could be so afraid of death. This is your last chance. Speak. What other terms do you have that can move me?”

“The previous terms, plus unconditional overseas military basing rights for the port.” Dhlakama was panting heavily. His fragile heart couldn’t take this kind of torment; he felt he could have a heart attack at any moment. His voice was faint as he spoke, and combined with his earlier blood loss, the image of Colonel Kozlov before him began to blur.

“Now that’s more like it.” Colonel Kozlov put the gun away, satisfied. He moved closer to Dhlakama and opened his tightly clenched left fist. A single bullet fell out onto the table in front of him. “Actually, there were no bullets in the gun just now,” Colonel Kozlov said. “But thank you for your generous assistance, Your Excellency Dhlakama. We’ll take the ten-year mining rights and the opportunity for a Soviet overseas military base.”

Chapter 71: T I A (5)

Of course, Kozlov had no intention of actually helping Dhlakama become the ruler of Mozambique. These brutes, who knew only how to kill and not how to govern, would be nothing short of a disaster for the country. Naturally, political instability would also impact the mining industry, and that was not something Kozlov’s superior, Chemezov, wanted to see.

Thus, Dhlakama’s promises became a bargaining chip to use against the government forces. Whenever President Hissano tried to pull any tricks behind his back, Kozlov would bring out Dhlakama as a sharp blade to threaten them. Chemezov was a pragmatist, of course; he paid no mind to the verbal pledges of the opposition. The only terms of interest to him were those laid out in black and white in the signed agreement with the Mozambican government.

As for the lives of other peoples, he couldn’t care less. Everything for the Soviet!

Colonel Kozlov deliberately flew to Maputo in a Hind helicopter, a display of his formidable military strength meant to contrast with the incompetence of the government forces.

Aboard the helicopter, a somewhat scorching wind brushed against Colonel Kozlov’s face. The white clouds and blue sky outside the cabin door seemed within arm’s reach. Africa, unlike the impending winter of Siberia, was like an eternal summer. In high spirits, Kozlov watched with satisfaction as the government forces’ pickup trucks patrolled the highway below. Lacking any heavy firepower, he held them in complete disregard.

When President Hissano heard that Dhlakama had been killed, he was so overcome with joy he could have wept. He couldn’t believe the Soviets had assassinated the supreme leader of the resistance movement in less than three weeks—a feat the government forces hadn’t managed in decades of fighting. Without a leader to command them, half of the militia’s military strength was effectively neutralized.

So, when President Hissano stood on the steps of the government building to welcome Colonel Kozlov, he was all smiles. As Kozlov descended from the helicopter and walked toward him, Hissano even gave him a warm embrace.

“On behalf of all the people of Mozambique, I thank you, Colonel Kozlov. You have eliminated a devil and brought a bright future for us all.” President Hissano’s effusive smile did not fool an old fox like Kozlov. He was already calculating what sort of trap Hissano would try to spring on him next.

Colonel Kozlov’s reply was rather brusque. “Heh, you flatter me, Mr. President. Let’s get down to discussing how we can fulfill the agreement we made earlier.”

Colonel Kozlov alone followed Hissano into the presidential office. He sat down casually on a large sofa, a rug made from the hide of an African lion spread out before him, its eyes glaring fiercely up at him.

President Hissano asked, “Would you care for a cup of coffee, Colonel Kozlov? I have coffee ground from the finest cocoa beans in all of Mozambique.”

Colonel Kozlov shifted his gaze from the lion hide to Hissano. He tapped his fingers on the table and shook his head. “No, thank you. I came to see you today, Mr. President, to be brief. Regarding the matter of the precious metal mines, I’d like to ask when you plan to grant us the mining rights.”

Colonel Kozlov had analyzed the situation. Although Mozambique was expected to stabilize within six months, extinguishing every last pocket of fighting would likely take much longer. Rather than wait, it was far more efficient to start mining while the war was still ongoing. Of course, the Mozambican government, which was keen on delaying, did not like this approach.

“Oh?” President Hissano stopped pouring the coffee. He lifted his cup, blew on the steaming liquid, and then spoke in a measured tone. “But you only just assassinated the resistance leader, Dhlakama. That’s a slight departure from our agreement, isn’t it? Furthermore, I hear your troops are now in control of the Maladic diamond mine and are not even allowing our forces to intervene. What is the meaning of that? The agreement states that you will only receive the mining rights after the entire country is liberated. Being so impatient… that’s not good, is it?”

President Hissano’s words were a needle hidden in cotton. He not only skillfully evaded Kozlov’s question but also turned the tables, accusing him of not adhering to the agreement. It left Colonel Kozlov feeling a sense of frustration with no outlet.

Unfortunately for President Hissano, he was dealing with an unreasonable polar bear. Colonel Kozlov leaned back against the sofa, crossed his legs, and said faintly, “Are you saying, Mr. President, that you intend to break the rules?”

“We have always been ones to follow the rules. There’s a saying in Mozambique: ‘He who breaks his promise will be cursed by the devil.’ But I get the feeling you Russians don’t share that sentiment.”

“Very good. Very good.” Colonel Kozlov slapped his thigh, stood up, and walked over to Hissano. “Perhaps, Mr. President, you have failed to recognize one thing. We are bringing enormous profits to Mozambique’s mining industry. We aren’t like the opposition—we will actually pay salaries. Besides, after so many years of war, Mozambique’s economy is in a terrible state, is it not?”

“Since the Mozambique government refuses to honor its promise, then don’t blame us for being ruthless.” Colonel Kozlov stood and walked toward the main door. Just as he reached it, he paused deliberately and turned back. “What kind of predicament would the Mozambique government face if we were to give our full support to the resistance movement?”

“But Dhlakama is dead. Having lost their spiritual leader, they are no longer a threat to us. Wiping out the remaining resistance members is just a matter of time. Soon, those people will be mired in internal conflict, fighting over the position of supreme leader.” President Hissano crossed his legs and said smugly, “Simply put, we don’t need you anymore.”

“And what if Dhlakama isn’t dead?” Colonel Kozlov added out of the blue.

“Hmm? Dhlakama isn’t dead?” President Hissano said dismissively. “How is that possible? I saw his body with my own eyes. If you want to threaten me, don’t you think you should find a better excuse?”

“And yet, the fact is, he is not dead.” Colonel Kozlov pulled a stack of photos from his coat and tossed them in front of Hissano. They showed his enemy, Dhlakama, with an injured leg but looking very much alive and spirited in a field hospital.

“I knew an old fox like you would pull something like this, so I deliberately kept Dhlakama alive. Oh, and by the way, Dhlakama is a much more interesting person than you are. The terms he offered… they are truly tempting.”

“You!” Hissano slammed his fist on the table, glaring indignantly at Colonel Kozlov. But Kozlov paid him no mind, continuing as if to himself, “The Portuguese enslaved you for so long, yet it seems you still haven’t learned the spirit of a contract. But Dhlakama, that native, honors his promises far better than you do. If our forces support him, he’s offered ten years of mining rights for all minerals, plus permission for us to establish an overseas military base.”

As a final touch, Colonel Kozlov added, “The opposition is far more generous than your government. It really is a tempting offer.”

“You are truly despicable!” President Hissano pointed at Colonel Kozlov, seething through gritted teeth, yet he didn’t dare lay a finger on him. Soviet Hind helicopters were circling nearby, and his government forces were powerless against them.

“Yes. I just love that look on your face—the one that says you hate my guts but can’t do a thing about it. Now, shall we sit down and talk about Dhlakama, or shall we talk about the mining rights?” Colonel Kozlov’s expression turned chilling as he added, “Or is the Mozambique government planning to declare war on us today?”

President Hissano stared at Kozlov for a full minute. He sighed, his tone softening. “Fine. I’m willing to discuss the mining issue from our previous contract. But you must hand Dhlakama over to me!”

“Mining rights? Given your recent attitude, my terms have changed. My condition now is eight years of mining rights. If you accept that, then we can discuss the other matters.” Kozlov immediately raised the price on the spot, presenting even harsher conditions.

Hissano was helpless. The black president had never before witnessed the historic stubbornness and scheming nature of the Slavic people, but after this incident, he would never forget it.

“You Soviets,” Hissano said, his fists clenched in resentment, “you’re bigger robbers than the opposition.”

Chapter 72: Coercion

December 8, 1991. The Soviet Union was calm. There were no three relaxed-looking national leaders appearing in the village of Viskuli, in the Belovezh Forest of Belarus. In fact, while Kravchuk and Shushkevich were still alive, Boris Yeltsin was already lying eternally in the Novodevichy Cemetery. The butterfly effect had changed the course of history. The Belovezh Accords, a prelude to the dissolution of the Soviet Union, had become a pipe dream that would never be realized.

At this time, Kravchuk was still the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet of Ukraine, not the President of Ukraine. Shushkevich had also only recently become the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet of Belarus. Yanayev had finally managed to stabilize the chaotic domestic situation and seize control of most of the military power. At last, he could free up his hands to purge the pro-Western forces within the various member republics.

Furthermore, in just two short months, through arms deals and foreign trade companies, he had managed to raise a war chest for a limited time. If war were to break out, he refused to let the Soviet Union’s already terrible economy pay for the military expenditures. This huge sum alone could sustain the first few months of a conflict.

In Yanayev’s own words, “If we don’t teach the separatist forces in the member republics a lesson, the Soviet Union will forever live under the shadow of disintegration. It is better to suffer a short, sharp pain than a long, dull ache. The Soviet Union would rather end its leadership in the glorious tragedy of war than be carved up by a group of shameless scoundrels who would squander its past brilliant achievements.”

In the Soviet dictionary, there were no words for retreat or compromise.

Without a doubt, Kravchuk and Shushkevich were the first two in the line of fire. Because Ukraine and Belarus still held seats with voting rights in the United Nations, this was not a good thing for Yanayev, who was constantly worried they would use those rights to create a major incident.

Thus, Kravchuk and Shushkevich were summoned by Yanayev to Moscow from Kyiv and Minsk, respectively. Of course, Yanayev concealed the details of their trips from each other; their emergency summons were only half a day apart. Yet, while they were on their way to the Kremlin, Yanayev got into an argument with Pavlov in the presidential office.

Pavlov paced back and forth, his expression anxious. If he had previously supported Yanayev’s policies one hundred percent, he was now on the opposing side. The uproar from the constitutional amendment revoking the right of member republics to freely secede from the Soviet Union had not yet subsided. Causing another storm by canceling their United Nations seats would be no less serious than another August 19th crisis.

“I absolutely disagree with this, President Yanayev. You are playing with fire. The situation in the member republics is already bad enough. If we provoke the opposition’s nerves any further, there’s no telling if they’ll all defect to the Western camp,” Pavlov said analytically, pushing up his glasses. “The previous high-pressure policies only temporarily suppressed the nightmare of separatism. They are merely gathering strength in the shadows, waiting for the next opportunity to strike back. And your actions will be the trigger for that counterattack.”

“Comrade Pavlov, I’d like to ask, since we know they will strike back, why don’t we act first? Do you want to see another Almaty incident, another Tbilisi crisis, or another Black June of Fergana?” Yanayev’s voice rose as well, his patience for Pavlov wearing thin.

“But the domestic situation is still unstable! We cannot strike at the member republics under such unstable conditions. God, things are bad enough already. Are you hoping to pour oil on the fire?” Pavlov practically roared, slamming his hands on the desk in front of Yanayev.

“The Soviet Union will never be stable if we don’t completely root out the vermin within the member republics,” Yanayev declared, for the first time adopting the posture of a hardline dictator. “Ethnic relations have become the battering ram destroying the Soviet Union, and those damn scoundrels are constantly inciting the emotions of the local people, demanding the expulsion of Russians. If we don’t take action, this entire country will no longer belong to the Soviet!”

“Dammit, Yanayev, what on earth are you planning? You keep hitting the opposition’s raw nerves. Are you trying to force them into a civil war?” Pavlov was so furious he began to speak recklessly, completely forgetting that the man standing before him was the Supreme General Secretary of the Soviet Union.

“Watch your words, Comrade Pavlov,” Yanayev said, turning his back in displeasure, leaving Pavlov with an inscrutable view of his back. “Since the vermin have already become a force to be reckoned with, then my intention is precisely to pressure the opposition, to force them to do something out of line, to oppose our policies. Only with such a pretext can we march into the member republics and control the situation openly and legitimately.”

Yanayev turned his head and waved to the man who had been standing at the door all along. “General Rodionov, please come in.”

Pavlov, too, turned his head, his face a mask of astonishment at the name. General Rodionov, former Commander of the Transcaucasian Military District, was bowing slightly to Yanayev, his expression neither servile nor overbearing, just as resolute as when he had faced an unjust trial three years ago.

“General Rodionov will resume his duties as head of the Caucasus Military District. Not as the Supreme Commander, of course, but as the leader with the authority to command everything in the event of a riot within the district’s jurisdiction,” Yanayev explained to Pavlov, revealing why he had brought Rodionov back.

“Also, Patiashvili will be reassigned to the Central Government. I want him to serve as the future Chairman of the Georgian Soviet,” Yanayev said, speaking of such momentous events as casually as drinking a glass of water.

“You’re sending them a signal, Yanayev,” Pavlov said, swallowing. “Or rather, you are deliberately letting the President of Georgia, Zviad Gamsakhurdia, see this, to further provoke him into taking more extreme actions.”

“What nonsense are you talking about, Comrade Pavlov? General Rodionov is a loyal member of the Soviet Party. What I am doing now is merely compensation for the travesty of a trial he endured three years ago. The ones who should have been sent to the gallows back then were Gorbachev, Shevardnadze, and Zviad, not Rodionov and Patiashvili, who successfully thwarted the rebels’ plot.”

For the first time, Pavlov saw the usually calm Yanayev erupt in anger. To be honest, Yanayev was indeed incensed by the Tbilisi tragedy of April 9, 1989. Those who had successfully stopped the Georgian nationalist extremists, like Rodionov who deployed the army, and Patiashvili, Chairman of the Georgian Soviet, were found guilty. Meanwhile, the得意小人 (despicable opportunists) who had gained power escaped judgment and shifted all the blame onto the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, framing the Tbilisi incident as an event where “the brutal Soviet army suppressed Georgian patriots.”

If Yanayev had been there at the time, he would not have hesitated to give Zviad and Tchanturia, the leaders of the national movement who instigated the riots, a 7.62mm bullet.

“If you are unwilling to support our actions, you are free to be an indifferent bystander. I am perfectly willing to play the part of the villain,” Rodionov said calmly to Pavlov, also hinting that he should not provoke Yanayev any further.

“Very well, President Yanayev. Take care. Whatever decision you make, I will support you.” Pavlov turned and left, but after just two steps, he turned back and said with some self-mockery, “What else can the Central Government do now besides support your every move? We are all just trying to prolong the life of this regime that’s on its deathbed. Who knows which day this great building will suddenly collapse, and we architects are just doing some patchwork repairs.”

Pavlov was somewhat melancholic. These were words he had buried deep in his heart for a long time. Although it wasn’t appropriate to say them in public, after going through life and death with Yanayev these past few months, he had long come to see him as a reliable friend.

For the first time, Pavlov saw that Yanayev’s eyes were as bright as stars, as if the difficulties before him were nothing more than a temporary mist obscuring his vision. Yanayev spoke to him in the firmest tone possible, “You are wrong, Pavlov. For you, this is merely about maintaining the country’s status quo. For me, the Soviet Union will be reborn in the crucible of war!”

Chapter 73: Your Choice

(Second update complete)

Kravchuk, Chairman of the Supreme Soviet of Ukraine, arrived at the Kremlin, travel-worn. Before he even had a moment to rest, he was led directly to President Yanayev’s office. He was wondering what on earth was happening when he spotted Shushkevich’s back in a corridor along the way.

“Shushkevich, my friend,” Kravchuk called out from behind. The other man turned around, revealing a face pale and drained of color, and managed to force a smile. Seeing this, Kravchuk’s heart sank, and he quickened his pace to catch up.

Walking side by side, Kravchuk whispered to Shushkevich, “Why has Yanayev summoned the two of us to the President’s office? We’ve both kept to ourselves and haven’t done anything out of line since the August incident.”

“Heh, as if you or I could ever figure out what that Yanayev is thinking. What happened to all those people who thought everything was fine?” Shushkevich walked on, cursing in a voice so low he could barely hear himself. “To think, we got rid of the coward Gorbachev, only for the Soviet Union to get a madman like Yanayev. And somehow, his reckless disregard for the consequences has temporarily stabilized the country.”

“Perhaps, as the rumors say, the Kremlin is now home to an evil genius like Stalin,” Kravchuk said, adding as an afterthought, “But so what? Can he truly stand against the will of tens of millions of people?”

The office door was shut tight. The two of them stopped outside, waiting quietly. Shushkevich was a bit curious. Hadn’t the President specifically summoned them? Why could they hear someone else’s voice talking to Yanayev inside?

Just as the two men were letting their imaginations run wild, the door opened. The first to emerge was Pavlov, looking dejected. He gave a perfunctory nod to the two union republic leaders. When the second person came out, Kravchuk suddenly looked up, only to see a person he never wanted to lay eyes on again in his life. General Rodionov, former Commander of the Caucasus Military District, was staring at him with the cold, hostile gaze one reserves for an enemy.

“Chairman Kravchuk, it has been a long time. The last time we met was three years ago, I believe,” General Rodionov said, his words like a needle hidden in cotton. Perhaps out of a guilty conscience, his words made Kravchuk feel uneasy all over.

“I remember the hearing at the Congress of People’s Deputies of the Soviet Union in 1989 as if it were yesterday. You expressed your opinion then, insisting that those rioters were peaceful demonstrators and that the army had beaten innocent civilians. And that I was to be held responsible for the eighteen protesters who died in the Tbilisi incident, was I not? But looking at the situation today, I can’t help but recall a maxim from the Bible: ‘They that sow the wind shall reap the whirlwind.’”

Rodionov took a step forward, closing in on Kravchuk, and threatened with a sinister curl of his lips, “Kravchuk, the disaster you sowed back then will soon be upon you.”

Kravchuk gave a cold snort, pretending to be unconcerned by Rodionov’s words. But as he stepped into the office, his mind raced, trying to figure out what Yanayev was planning. He glanced at Shushkevich beside him, who returned his look with the same complicated expression. Rodionov’s presence here was definitely not a good sign for them.

“Ah, Comrade Kravchuk and Comrade Shushkevich, welcome. I have been waiting for you for quite some time,” Yanayev, ever the consummate politician, could still feign a cheerful welcome for his enemies, even as he scorned them in his heart.

Kravchuk, an economics professor who advocated for a market economy, the issuance of a national currency, and expanded foreign trade, yet had presided over a continuous decline in production and skyrocketing inflation. And Shushkevich, a physics professor from the Belarusian Academy of Sciences who had risen to power on democratic slogans, now trying to meddle in international politics. It was truly laughable.

“President Yanayev, is there something urgent that you summoned us for so hastily?” Kravchuk glanced at Rodionov, who had just stepped outside, then turned back to meet Yanayev’s chilling eyes, and couldn’t help but shiver.

“I want to ask you a question. In late 1988, the Supreme Soviet of the Estonian Soviet Socialist Republic passed a declaration of sovereignty. Are you aware of this?” Yanayev asked.

Kravchuk and Shushkevich exchanged a glance, then answered in unison, “We are aware.”

Seeing their honest reply, Yanayev, who was still reining in his temper, continued, “It was that same year that the trend then known as the ‘parade of sovereignties’ swept across the entire Soviet Union. It wasn’t just the union republics striving for independence, but also autonomous republics, krais, national districts, and even some regions that had never really existed before. During this wave of sovereignty, the greatest blow to national unity was the 1990 declaration on the state sovereignty of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic by its Supreme Soviet. It directly declared that Russia’s highest legal authority superseded federal law. Do you understand the danger in that?”

Yanayev’s questions grew more pointed. Kravchuk swallowed hard and managed to say that he did not.

“I’ll tell you where the danger lies. It means you place yourselves above the Soviet Constitution! A single member republic believes it has the right to impose its will on the whole. This notion of a part superseding the whole possesses a destructive power that cannot be underestimated. This is what I wanted to discuss with you!”

By the end, Yanayev’s voice had risen by several decibels. Even people passing by in the corridor stopped, glancing curiously at the supreme leader’s closed door, wondering what kind of argument was taking place inside.

“But if the member republics have no expression of sovereignty, how can Soviet democracy be demonstrated…” Kravchuk muttered in rebuttal, his head bowed.

“To hell with your fucking hypocritical democracy! Democracy, my ass!” Nearly overwhelmed by rage, Yanayev suddenly realized he wasn’t speaking Russian. He quickly corrected himself, “Ahem, sovereignty is not a banner for you to wave for independence, to oppose the sovereign integrity and territorial integrity of the Soviet Union. To put it more seriously, what you are doing is promoting separatism. It is treason.”

The charge of treason was a heavy one. By using it, Yanayev was threatening the two men before him.

It was the first time Kravchuk had seen Yanayev like an enraged lion, roaring in a language he couldn’t understand at all. With his head still down, he glanced at the silent Shushkevich, signaling with his eyes for him to do something.

Taking the hint, Shushkevich looked up and said, “President Yanayev, what is it you mean, then?”

“What I mean? It’s very simple.” After beating around the bush for so long, Yanayev finally laid his cards on the table. “The Soviet Union has three votes in the United Nations, does it not? I am now going to revoke the legal seats of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic and the Byelorussian Soviet Socialist Republic in the United Nations to form a highly unified Soviet decision-making power. I have summoned you both here today to announce this matter to you.”

It was an announcement, not a discussion. Yanayev’s attitude made everything clear. The days of independence the member republics had fought for since 1988 were coming to an end. The Soviet Iron Curtain would once again control everything, forging a new, unbreakable union.

“As for whether the two of you choose to submit or perish, that is up to you.”

Yanayev leaned back in his chair, studying the two union republic leaders, their expressions flickering between grim and pale.

Chapter 74: Sowing the Seeds of Disaster

The question of “to be or not to be” was not one faced by Hamlet alone. The supreme leaders representing their national interests also had to make such choices, especially when dealing with a head of state as tough and unreasonable as President Yanayev. Kravchuk and Shushkevich felt they were clearly out of their depth.

The issue of the Soviet Union’s “one country, three votes” policy was a long-standing one. On April 25, 1945, the United Nations Conference on International Organization opened in San Francisco, and both Ukraine and Belarus were invited to attend. Due to the Soviet Union’s special contributions in the war against Fascism, the small and medium-sized countries in attendance raised no objections. On June 16, representatives from fifty nations signed the United Nations Charter, with Poland signing later. On June 25, the representatives of Ukraine and Belarus signed the charter, becoming founding members of the United Nations.

The entry of Ukraine and Belarus into the United Nations as member republics of the Soviet Union violated neither the United Nations Charter nor the Soviet Constitution. Legally speaking, there was nothing improper about it.

Of course, Kravchuk was the first to object. Ukraine’s legal seat had never been shaken since the founding of the UN. How could it be abolished just because of something Yanayev said? He retorted, “President Yanayev, this is outrageous. Our status was established when the United Nations was founded. Whether or not it is abolished is not for you to decide with a single sentence.”

Yanayev’s unilateral act of amending the constitutions of the member republics had already aroused the dissatisfaction of their leaders. They were merely biding their time, intimidated by the thunderous methods Yanayev had displayed during the Baltic crisis. They were waiting for an opportunity—an opportunity for all of them to unite and oppose him.

“That’s right. At the very least, we should call a meeting with the leaders of the other member republics to decide, shouldn’t we?” Shushkevich, standing in the same camp as Ukraine, echoed the sentiment. For now, the two of them could only try to stall Yanayev to win the support of the other member republic leaders. Even Yanayev’s anticipated strong opposition was within his calculations.

“As you wish. You can discuss it however you like.” Yanayev’s attitude was surprisingly nonchalant—so nonchalant that it stunned Kravchuk and Shushkevich. They wondered to themselves what on earth he was thinking. Was he giving his enemies a chance to catch their breath? Was Yanayev truly mad or just playing dumb?

Only Yanayev himself likely knew what he was thinking and what kind of scheme he was deploying.

“And if I insist on having my own way in the end? Are you planning to unite against me, or will the Soviet Union annex all the territories of the member republics by force?” Yanayev’s voice was calm, but his words sent a chill down their spines.

“The Western world is behind us.” At that moment, Kravchuk finally tore off all pretense and laid his cards on the table with Yanayev. “If you really dare to resort to war, aren’t you afraid of turning the member republics into the Soviet Union’s Afghanistan graveyard? We can receive a continuous supply of arms, but what do you have?”

“The Soviet Union doesn’t wag its tail and beg like you do. We never rely on handouts from others. The Communist Party’s support comes from the people who trust us.” Yanayev’s voice was sonorous and forceful as he sternly rebuked Kravchuk for his shameless act of kowtowing to the West.

“Then we shall wait and see.” Shushkevich threw down the gauntlet. Now that the negotiations with Yanayev had broken down, there was no need for him to maintain a hypocritical facade and offer up flattery. “There’s no point in us wasting any more time here. Farewell, President Yanayev.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” Yanayev couldn’t even be bothered to stand up, simply watching the two men scurry out of his office.

After Shushkevich and Kravchuk were gone, Surkov, who had been observing from behind the scenes, finally emerged from the shadows where he had been hiding. As Yanayev’s most capable aide, Surkov had personally witnessed the confrontation between Yanayev and the leaders of the other two member republics.

Surkov pressed a hand to his forehead, a sense of weariness in his voice. “To dare to destroy the old order and let everything be reborn from the ruins… no one has ever conceived of such an astounding line of thinking. Even if Stalin saw your entire plan, he would probably say that this man is a complete lunatic.”

“And yet you still support my idea,” Yanayev said with a wry smile. He had discovered that thinking like a Russian bear was truly simple, crude, and direct. Only they would dare to detonate a 30-kiloton nuclear bomb underground to successfully seal a raging gas well fire at Urtabulak in Uzbekistan on September 30, 1966, when it couldn’t be extinguished. It was no wonder that during the Fukushima nuclear crisis, Russian experts suggested simply detonating a nuclear bomb to eliminate the radiation. In the entire world, only the warrior nation would dare to play like that.

Of course, when faced with the various problems of the member republics, Yanayev’s first impractical thought was to simply nuke them—it was simple and effective. But of course, he would not commit such a villainous act that would nail him to the pillar of historical shame. Nuclear weapons could only be a trump card, one that could be shown but never used.

“Although it seems terrifying, it might just be worth a try. In any case, President Yanayev, you have been walking a tightrope ever since August. More conventional methods would only allow the Soviet Union to drag on for a while longer. Completely shattering the cage of the old order, on the other hand, could foster the rebirth of something new. During the October Revolution, we grew a new flower from the ancient corpse of the White Tsar. And now, we shall achieve a new bloom from the withered stamen.”

It was doubtful that anyone else in the world would agree with the thoughts in Yanayev’s mind right now. Only Surkov firmly supported Yanayev’s seemingly insane and absurd plan, which was, in reality, a move to go for broke.

Was it a keen eye for talent, or was he just as mad? Even Surkov, who had always been known for his calm and rational demeanor, was a little uncertain.

“There is one more problem. The Soviet Union has a total of sixteen fixed strategic missile launch sites. Twelve are in Russia, two are in Kazakhstan, and two are in Ukraine. Kazakhstan has a total of one thousand strategic missile warheads deployed, and Ukraine’s territory has a total of nine hundred and twenty land-based strategic nuclear warheads. Although we have them under top-secret protection, so secret that not even the member republics know their exact locations, but…”

Surkov took a deep breath and continued, “If a traitor appears among the leadership of one of those bases, they could collude with the opposition in a matter of minutes, then turn their guns on us. It would be disastrous if those nationalist madmen found out the location of even one of them.”

“But the authority to launch is in our hands. Even if I handed them the briefcase, do you really think they would have the guts to press the button and launch?” Yanayev didn’t want to continue on this subject. These things were all within his calculations. He silently tallied the trump cards the opposition had left to resist the Soviet Union.

Yanayev stared out the window at the sky, which was obscured by dark clouds. The cold had transformed the world outside into a silvery, snow-clad landscape. But the tranquil, snowy scene brought him no peace of mind. On the contrary, the turmoil in his heart grew stronger and stronger. Finally, for no apparent reason, he said one thing.

“It seems winter is coming.”

Chapter 75: Eve of the Uprising

If anyone could force the leaders of several Soviet republics to pick up the phone and exchange information, it could only be Gennady Yanayev in far-off Moscow. Kravchuk and Shushkevich, who had returned from the Kremlin full of resentment, immediately called Georgian President Zviad to inform him of the situation and tell him to be prepared.

Zviad, still half-asleep, was jolted awake by the news relayed by Kravchuk. He sat up in bed, clutching the phone as he spoke in an agitated voice, “Is what you’re saying true? Yanayev plans to revoke Belarus and Ukraine’s seats in the United Nations? Doesn’t this make it obvious that he’s starting to move against the union republics?”

If Zviad had been fretting about his inability to find allies before, Yanayev had now pushed two union republic leaders directly into his anti-Soviet camp.

“Yes, President Zviad,” Shushkevich said. He could clearly hear the delight in Zviad’s voice and understood what schemes the Georgian leader was hatching. After all, the Almaty incident had created the first fissure in the Soviet Union’s dissolution, while the events in Tbilisi had sent the Soviet Union’s ethnic relations spiraling into a bottomless abyss.

“I think it’s time we talked about how to oppose Soviet rule. I wish I could drive all these bloodsuckers out of Georgia, just as they once exiled us Georgians to the frozen wastes of Siberia,” Zviad said, making no effort to hide his loathing for the Soviet Union. Harboring a twisted resentment for the historical nationalist policies of Stalin, Georgian separatists vented all their fury on the Abkhaz and Ossetian peoples within their borders.

“We’ll still use the ethnic issue to our advantage. After the major riots of 1989, the Soviet Union was clearly treading carefully when it came to the republics. The more unyielding our stance, the more helpless Moscow will be,” Shushkevich said, as if he had forgotten his current identity as the Supreme Chairman of the Belarusian Soviet. Openly voicing his disgust for the Communist Party of the Soviet Union was tantamount to treason. However, in 1991, an era where being a member of the Party had become a mark of shame, Shushkevich’s words hardly seemed astounding.

“Haha, Shushkevich, you don’t have to tell me. That’s what we do best,” Zviad replied. He was the sort of character who had risen to power through street politics—inciting the masses to besiege government buildings, publicly denouncing Yanayev’s oppressive actions, and styling himself as the savior of Georgia.

One wondered what expressions the people would wear if they knew Zviad had been receiving US dollars from America.

“I’ll arrange for people to demonstrate in front of the Central Committee building of the Georgian Communist Party’s First Secretary right away. We’ll continue to stoke the flames against the Soviet regime, just like the mobile propaganda teams we formed with Kostava and Tsereteli three years ago. The moment the troops from the Ministry of Internal Affairs take action, we’ll have a legitimate reason to start an uprising.”

“An uprising?” Hearing this, Shushkevich’s expression remained calm, but his mind was in turmoil. He lowered his voice and asked, “President Zviad, what do you mean by that? An open armed confrontation with the Soviets?”

Shushkevich had always insisted on non-violent resistance against the Soviets. The entire regime was already on its last legs anyway; breaking free from the red chains was only a matter of time. Zviad’s approach, however, felt superfluous. If the conflict became too intense, they would lose control of the situation.

“That’s right, an uprising,” Zviad said with satisfaction. “The time is ripe. So what if the Soviet Union has a powerful military? The Georgians have a steady stream of funds and arms from the United States. We can engage them in limited conflicts, or we can play at guerrilla warfare. I refuse to believe that an army that couldn’t even conquer a bunch of mountain tribes in Afghanistan has much combat strength.”

Zviad’s confidence stemmed from the Kalashnikov rifles, rocket launchers, and even helicopter gunships that NATO’s integrated military command was continuously shipping into the country across the Turkish border. The Soviet army’s failure in Afghanistan also made him believe that if he could drag the Soviet Union into the mire of a prolonged war, the severe economic decline would force them to the negotiating table, where they would truly cede Georgia from their territory.

To this end, Zviad had also been secretly colluding with people from the Chechen Republic and had persuaded Bush to provide financial and military aid to Chechnya as well. Zviad was no fool. Georgia alone might not be enough to make the Soviet Union sit down for serious negotiations. But what if you added Chechnya, the three Baltic states, Ukraine, and the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic? Would a besieged and isolated Yanayev still be able to maintain his earlier hardline stance?

“Using force won’t solve the problem, President Zviad. I still hope you can…” Stanislav Shushkevich, Supreme Chairman of the Belarusian Soviet, expressed his concern. The relationship between Belarus and the Soviet Union wasn’t as fraught with tension as some of the other republics. After all, Belarus and Russia shared a long and deep history, and there was a stronger sense of ethnic identity between them.

“I’m sorry, Shushkevich, but my mind is made up. In fact, this is something I’ve been thinking about for many days. Only by using a new, powerful alliance to militarily intimidate the Soviets when Moscow is at its weakest will they yield. If you choose to stand by and watch, feel free. It’s late, you should get some rest. Goodbye.”

The busy tone buzzed from the other end of the line. Shushkevich sighed and hung up. A bad feeling suddenly welled up inside him—it was as if everything was playing out exactly according to Yanayev’s script.

Blindness and willfulness always came at a price. Just like the war in 2008, Georgia paid a heavy price in South Ossetia and came to terms with a certain fact: the underlying strength of a great power doesn’t just vanish with its dissolution, falling to a level where a third-rate nation can bully it at will. But this was 1991, and with NATO’s backing, Georgia had the courage to look down on everyone.

That very night, Zviad summoned Kostava. The two discussed how to stage a demonstration in front of the Soviet government building. Although it was now just a symbolic structure of the Soviet Union, Zviad didn’t mind adding a raging fire to this soulless shell.

What they were discussing was no longer the antics of street politicians, but a meticulously planned uprising. First, they would incite students, teachers, and workers to take to the streets and protest, smashing anything that symbolized the Soviets. Then, they would storm Soviet government offices and beat the staff. When the police moved in to clear the site, pre-trained soldiers in plain clothes would counter-attack with firearms. After defeating the first wave of military police, they would quickly storm military bases to seize weapons and arm the uprising! Then, he and the leaders of the Chechen republic, with whom he had already been in contact, would launch a rebellion, leaving the Soviet army too overwhelmed to respond.

All of this unfolded smoothly and methodically in Zviad’s mind, where it had been rehearsed countless times, so much so that he had the illusion that it was all going a little too smoothly.

For him, the moment that would decide the fate of the Georgian people would be in the grand uprising just a few days away!

Chapter 76: The Great Upheaval Begins

The start of any major upheaval is inevitably triggered by a social incident. In Georgia, the separatist forces, having gained control of the television stations and newspapers, launched a propaganda offensive. They vehemently criticized Moscow’s decision to revoke Ukraine and Belarus’s seats in the United Nations. Although this matter had nothing to do with Georgia, it was used to attack the Soviet Union’s ethnic policies, lumping them together with Gennady Yanayev’s constitutional amendments.

One report in a Georgian newspaper even quoted from Lenin’s December 1922 work, “On the Question of Nationalities or ‘Autonomisation’,” selectively taking passages out of context to support its own views.

“Practical history has shown us that it is almost always we of the great nations who are to blame… we who inflict innumerable acts of violence upon the smaller nations, sometimes even inflicting innumerable acts of violence and insult without even noticing.”

But these people forgot that Lenin’s policies had been earnestly implemented during the Soviet era. The Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic was predominantly inhabited by Russians, yet their circumstances were worse than those of Russians in other Soviet republics. Russia produced more material wealth than it needed, channeling the surplus to elevate the ethnic border regions. The standard of living the Georgians now enjoyed was the fruit of Soviet labor. Yet now, these people, like a pack of ungrateful wolves, wanted to drive the Russians completely out of Georgian territory.

The deluge of reports deliberately misled public opinion. Unfettered by press controls, they seized the opportunity to attack Soviet policy, reveling in their newfound voice. The media brazenly repudiated the current Soviet ethnic policies. They even called Yanayev a heretic protecting the Soviet Union, a great-power chauvinist, a despicable and tyrannical scoundrel, and a typical Soviet bureaucrat. And the Georgian people seemed to have forgotten that the ones whose rights were truly violated were, in fact, Belarus and Ukraine.

Thus, a very strange phenomenon emerged. The Georgians, who had no connection to the incident, were even more agitated than the Ukrainians and Belarusians. Under the careful incitement of those nationalists, a demonstration began to brew.

At just after seven in the morning on December 13th, a group of young people began to gather in front of the Party Central Committee Building in Georgia. They were mainly students from Tbilisi University, the principal university in Georgia, numbering around two hundred. They held up banners opposing the decision of the Moscow Central Committee plenum, expressing their dissatisfaction with Yanayev’s policies.

Among them were several caricatures depicting Yanayev as a fierce and brutal figure, with captions below: “The brutal Russian Tsar only dares to maintain his rule in Moscow through suppression,” and “This is Georgia, get the Communist Party off our land!”

Slogans and banners rose and fell. The student leader stood before a statue of Lenin, striking the bronze figure fiercely with a stick to show his discontent. With one arm raised, he shouted for the other students to join him in denouncing the cruel and excessive Soviet. Swept up by the leader’s fervor, the impassioned students were filled with righteous indignation, as if they themselves were the victims of Soviet persecution.

“Tear down the statue of Lenin, the symbol of this evil regime!” someone in the crowd shouted, and the others instantly echoed the call. They found ropes, tied them around the neck of the Lenin statue, and pulled with all their might. The bronze figure, its left arm outstretched symbolizing an embrace of a bright future, was toppled to the ground by the combined efforts of a group of ignorant people. The students climbed onto the statue, performing various humiliating acts upon it, their triumphant expressions seeming to declare a great victory for democracy.

The deafening crash as the statue hit the ground seemed like the sigh of this great practitioner of Communism at the ignorance of later generations.

By around 10:25 AM, the number of protesters had swelled to over five hundred. Strangely, however, the Ministry of Internal Affairs troops were slow to appear and stop the demonstration, which was increasingly spiraling into a riot. There weren’t even any police. Perhaps the Tbilisi incident three years prior had made them hesitant to act for fear of repercussions.

At this moment, Georgia’s President, Zviad, appeared on television. As the son of the classic Georgian writer, Gamsakhurdia the elder, he had basked in the halo of a martyr for the democratic movement since the beginning of 1988. Since taking office as the so-called President of Georgia, he had been painted as the nation’s future savior.

The cameraman gave Zviad an “OK” gesture, signaling that he could begin his speech. Zviad nodded, faced the camera, and struck the pose of a natural political performer. He started his speech by first issuing a statement of support for the students’ pursuit of democracy and freedom, then pivoted to his anti-Soviet rhetoric.

“My dear compatriots, we should not remain in this union of the communist empire known as the Soviet Union. After the First World War, the Russian Empire collapsed. After the Second World War, the foundations of the communist empire were shaken. And after a third war, it will collapse completely. This empire is bound to fall. It will be the last empire in the world to collapse, and humanity can finally breathe a sigh of relief.”

“The Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic should no longer exist. What exists is Georgia, restored to its historical status as a sovereign nation. It has been enslaved by the Russian Communist Empire. We demand an immediate withdrawal from the Russian Communist Empire of the Soviet Union. After seceding, the Russian imperial army must immediately withdraw from Georgia and abolish all its privileges here. United Nations troops should be stationed in Georgia to ensure our security at all times. Afterward, Georgia should join NATO as a military ally. The United States is a symbol of peace, the defense of human rights, and democracy. An independent Georgia should take the American system as its model and its direction for development. Your efforts will grant the Georgian people an independent and free nation. This moment is drawing ever closer. We must rise up and fight for it. World opinion will support us. We can escape the empire’s tyranny.”

“I hope we can all unite and fight to the end for the liberation of Georgia!”

Zviad’s shameless kowtowing to the West was on full display for all to see on television. Yet, astoundingly, he could still hold his head high like a proud rooster, basking in the glow of the camera flashes.

This speech undoubtedly incited the agitated student crowd. They began to engage in more extreme actions—smashing the windows of the Central Committee Building with rocks and sharp objects. The Party Central Committee Building could no longer function, and its administration was paralyzed. The staff inside had no choice but to evacuate through a secluded route at the back.

They gloated, declaring their victory like clowns making their grand entrance, ruthlessly trampling the achievements of the Soviet construction underfoot, methodically destroying everything in their path. The worst part was that these people had nothing to build, only a talent for opposing for the sake of opposition. Their feverish, irrational minds were dragging Georgia into an abyss.

Now, the Soviet in Georgia faced the most severe test in its history!

Chapter 77: Old Soldiers Don’t Die, They Just Wither

(Second update)

But Zviad’s brazen trampling of Soviet sovereignty also aroused the indignation of some true patriots. The veterans of the Soviet Red Army, who had once fought for a great ideal in the Great Patriotic War, were old now, but when they saw the bronze statue of Lenin being pulled down on television, they could bear it no longer. They voluntarily took to the streets to condemn the shameless actions of the separatist forces! Even when faced with the menacing student rioters, Corporal Ivauri, a Soviet veteran who had lost an arm in the Battle of Stalingrad, felt no fear.

With graying hair, Corporal Ivauri stood in his military uniform, facing the throng of students with a solemn expression. There was no one around him, just as he had been in 1942, fearless in a snow-swept foxhole against the Nazi iron heel. The Order of the Red Star on his chest glinted in the sunlight.

“All of you, stop! Children, look at what you are doing!” Corporal Ivauri reprimanded them sternly. He took a step forward, standing before the marching students. The more righteous his indignation, the more isolated he appeared. His empty sleeve swayed in the wind, as if telling a story of distant comrades and old wounds.

Ivauri had a faint, illusory feeling, as if he were back on the battlefield of the great war. After all his comrades had fallen, he was the only one left, aiming his PPSh submachine gun at the invading Nazi enemy.

“Old man, what are you doing? Get the hell out of my way.” The student at the front paid him no mind. What threat could a decrepit old fool possibly pose to them? He gave Ivauri the middle finger and said with contempt, “What does a damned old man like you know? We are saving this country, saving it from the ravages of the Soviet beasts. If you dare to oppose us, you’re a traitor.”

“A traitor?” At these words, the veins on Ivauri’s forehead bulged. He could no longer suppress his outrage. With his right hand, he grabbed his empty left sleeve and strode up to the student, who was a head taller than him. “Do you see this?” he said, his voice trembling with anger. “When you weren’t even born, I was going through fire and water for this country, dedicating my youth to it! I lost an arm in the war in 1942. It was with the blood of our generation that we bought the peaceful life you enjoy today, and yet you arrogant children, who overestimate yourselves, want to destroy everything your fathers fought for!”

“You can call me a damned old man, you can call me a disabled cripple, but you cannot call me a traitor. I love this country!”

Ivauri’s lips trembled. In that instant, he remembered a moment from the smoke-filled battlefields decades ago. During a brief ceasefire, he and his Political Commissar were sitting together, chatting about the future. He had asked the Commissar what his greatest wish was. The Commissar, who wore glasses and had a scholarly air about him, answered, “I hope that our children will never have to experience the sorrow of a war like this. I hope they can grow up happily in a peaceful world and become useful members of society. For such a beautiful future, I am willing to give my all.”

Ivauri would never forget the look of longing in the young Commissar’s eyes as he said this, as bright as the North Star. He also remembered the look on his face during their final charge, when an enemy bullet struck him in the heart and he fell to the ground. The Commissar’s last words still echoed in Ivauri’s ears—not the Communist mantras from wartime propaganda, but a simple, unadorned sentence. He spoke it with a smile and then closed his eyes forever.

“Commissar, you said it was for the children, for the future. But look at what these children are doing. They are trampling on everything we fought for.” Ivauri wiped his reddened eyes with his hand, his mouth twitching slightly.

At first, the student leader was bewildered as to why this old geezer had suddenly blocked his path. But when his gaze swept over the Order of the Red Star on the old man’s chest, he understood—this man was a former soldier of the Soviet Red Army. Just as he was about to bypass him and move on, an idea popped into his head.

Since they were opposing the Soviet regime, why not make an example of this old man?

He made a gesture to the restless crowd behind him to be quiet. The chattering, noisy group slowly fell silent. He turned to the students and said, “Everyone be quiet and listen to me.”

The student leader pointed at Ivauri. “Aren’t we here to oppose the Soviet regime?” he yelled. “Look! Before you is a lapdog loyal to that brutal, tyrannical party! A slave who has loyally kowtowed to Communism for decades! Classmates, it is lapdogs like these that are the stumbling blocks to Georgia’s democratic progress! We must not let people like this go! What should we do?”

“Down with the Soviet lapdog!” the students behind him chanted in unison, hurling the most vicious insults at Ivauri, completely ignoring the fact that he was an old man in his declining years.

“That’s right! Down with the Soviet lapdog! Long live the Georgian Democratic Front!” the student leader repeated the slogan. Noticing a student beside him holding a bottle of milk, he snatched it and walked up to Ivauri.

“What do you think you’re doing!” Ivauri glared at him fiercely. Honestly, he wanted to slap the boy across the face, but the discipline that had been so deeply ingrained in him in the army held him back. Ivauri did not lay a hand on this arrogant young punk who overestimated himself.

Without a word, the student leader lifted the milk bottle high above Ivauri’s head and poured its entire contents over him. The white liquid trickled down from his hat, over the shining red star, over his solemn and neat uniform, over his cloudy, tear-filled eyes, and over a heart filled with disappointment and sorrow.

After emptying the bottle, he tossed it aside and flashed a victory sign to the crowd behind him. But as he turned back, he was met with a hard punch to the face. Ivauri had lunged at him like an enraged lion. As the crowd gasped, the strong young student gathered his strength and shoved Ivauri forcefully. The humiliated old veteran was no longer as young and powerful as he had been when he slit Nazi throats. The student leader pushed him straight to the ground. The medal on his chest fell into the mud, covered by a layer of dust that obscured its gleam in the sun.

The student leader wiped the blood from his nose, walked over, and planted a foot on Ivauri’s chest. “To hell with you,” he sneered. “Get the hell out of my way. An old man like you still wants to fight? Don’t you see how many of us there are? You’re all alone. What gives you the right to talk to us like that, you lapdog!”

Ivauri stared back at him with defiant eyes. When his hand touched his chest and he realized his medal was gone, he struggled to get up, desperate to find the honor that had once been his.

The sharp-eyed student leader saw the fallen Order of the Red Star. Before Ivauri could reach it, he stomped on it and kicked it hard into a black, stinking gutter by the side of the road. The medal, caked in filth, sank into the stagnant water.

“A lapdog should act like a lapdog. Stop acting so high and mighty,” he said with a cold laugh, then gestured for his classmates to keep moving, telling them not to bother with this man anymore.

The column of students marched on. Some who passed Ivauri shook their heads with pity. Others walked past him with cold indifference, letting out a sneer. And still others spat on him.

Everyone had forgotten those years of war and fire. This old man belonged to a company that had been wiped out to the last man—except for him—defending their country. The blood and banners of their fathers had earned them nothing but desecration and humiliation.

“Company Commander, Political Commissar, I’ve truly failed you.” Ivauri wiped his eyes with the back of his dirty hand, his tears flowing uncontrollably, leaving black streaks on his face, just like the dirt-smeared faces of the young soldiers during the Great Patriotic War. Only this time, having fallen, he would never get up again.

And on that day, everyone who passed by saw an old man in a filthy military uniform sitting on the street, his head buried in his arms, sobbing.

Chapter 78: The Conflict Continues

(First update)

It was not just old Soviet veterans like Ivauri; many others who went to voluntarily stop the opposition’s protest marches were met with verbal abuse and physical attacks. Some were even shoved and injured. Feeling outnumbered and weak, these groups turned their gazes toward Moscow, for the first time ardently hoping that the Soviet government would step in and see justice done for them.

Meanwhile, in the areas where South Ossetians and Abkhazians lived, even more terrifying things were happening. Georgians, incited by extreme nationalists, gathered in Abkhazia. They slandered and distorted the so-called “atrocities” of the Abkhaz people in Georgia to everyone they met. Then, the angry crowds began to gather, calling for a cruel “retaliation” against the Abkhazians. Mobs reappeared on the streets, beating and smashing things as they went. The homes of Abkhazians were set on fire, and women, clutching their children, stood before the burning houses, their wails heart-wrenching.

Police officers from the district precinct tried to stop the angry young people, but the mob grew larger and larger, eventually numbering in the thousands. The police force was too small and was completely powerless. The rioters rampaged through the suburbs, and the incidents of assault, vandalism, and looting continued to escalate. The homes of South Ossetians and Abkhazians were ransacked, and everyone lived in fear. It later progressed to the point where they threw burning torches and Molotov cocktails through windows, setting the houses ablaze.

The Abkhazian authorities took emergency measures, evacuating some people into the District Party Committee building and sheltering several hundred elderly Abkhazians, women, children, and disabled individuals. A temporary shelter was established in the main hall of the District Party Committee. The crazed mob, no longer satisfied with just burning houses, launched a full-blown assault on the building, demanding that all the Abkhazians be handed over. When the First Secretary of the District Committee and Chairman of the District Executive Committee, Kadyrov, realized it was impossible to hold the building, he volunteered to step out and offered himself as a hostage in an attempt to negotiate with the Georgians outside and buy time.

When those around him warned Kadyrov not to take such an unworthy risk, he simply turned back and smiled at the old, the weak, the women, and the children behind him, hoping to calm them. His eyes swept over each terrified face as he did his best to reassure them in a calm voice, “I am a Communist Party member. When there is danger, I must be at the forefront to ensure the safety of everyone present. Please believe me, the police and the army will come to save you. Do not be afraid.”

To make such a choice among a group of leaders who feared death took immense courage. He was, of course, well aware of what fate awaited him in their hands. The middle-aged Abkhaz man took one last look at the people he sought to protect, then raised his hands and walked resolutely toward the Georgians holding torches outside the door, shouting loudly in Georgian, “Don’t be rash! I am the First Secretary of the District Committee! I’ve come to negotiate with you!”

But revealing his identity did not help Kadyrov in the slightest. Someone in the crowd immediately shouted to burn the Georgian traitor. The furious rioters grabbed Kadyrov by the collar, threw him brutally to the ground, and began to punch and kick him.

“You can beat me, but don’t harm the elderly and children inside,” Kadyrov pleaded weakly as he covered his head, taking their kicks and blows. His plea was drowned out by the slogans the crowd was shouting.

Kadyrov’s ordeal ended in utter humiliation. The crowd threatened to tear him to pieces and then burn all the Abkhazians inside alive. Though his face was bruised and swollen, Kadyrov remained defiant and continued trying to reason with them. But all he got in return were more fists and feet, eyes swollen shut, and five of his teeth knocked out.

The riots continued. For the non-Georgian people on Georgian soil, it was as if they had entered the coldest moment just before the dawn.

There was another, even more heinous crime. These young thugs stopped a car carrying four Abkhazians fleeing the rioting in Orachi village, among them a girl not yet sixteen. They first beat the four of them brutally, then set their car on fire. The pack of beasts then wantonly violated the young girl for several hours before dragging the four, who were half-dead and barely breathing, into a field. They tied them up and, fearing they would be identified later, cruelly doused them with gasoline and burned all four alive.

When Ryzhkov heard the news of the riots, he immediately dropped the work at hand and was the first to volunteer to fly to the refugee area, even though things there had not yet calmed down. Ever since the Fergana incident in Uzbekistan, he was always the first to appear on the front lines of such disaster zones. If the Soviet people remembered, they might vaguely recall two photos published on the front page of The Eastern Truth three years ago when that riot occurred. One showed a smiling Gorbachev waving to the Germans from a balcony in Bonn, while the other showed Ryzhkov standing before the burned-out home of a Meskhetian Turk in Fergana, shocked by the tragic scene before him.

Ryzhkov was surrounded by women and children and the heart-wrenching sound of wailing. He arrived at the entrance of a barracks in the refugee camp, where a committee of Abkhazians was waiting to speak with him.

“Has the Motherland abandoned us? Has it abandoned us Abkhazians?”

The first words from the woman representing them struck Ryzhkov’s heart with an unexpected pang of pain. He shook his head and struggled to say, “No.”

“Then why, three years ago during the Tbilisi riot, when the Georgians said they would exterminate us, did no one come to save us? And why, three years later, when the same kind of riot is happening, has no one come to save us again?” The woman’s tone was calm, but her words stabbed at Ryzhkov’s chest like a sharp knife.

Three years ago, it was indeed Gorbachev’s deliberate inaction that caused the Tbilisi incident to slide into an irretrievable abyss. Today, however, the delay in rescue was due to disagreements within the Central Government’s high command.

He desperately wanted to tell the woman that Moscow was doing everything it could to rescue them, but in the end, Ryzhkov merely swallowed hard and could only force out the words, “I’m sorry.”

The woman shook her head. Even though she had lost her five-year-old child in the riot, her response was still calm. “I don’t need an answer from the Motherland. I only hope that Moscow will step forward and render a just verdict for those of us who died innocent. This is what the Motherland owes us.”

“We must dispatch the army to maintain stability! We can’t wait any longer!” After returning from the refugee barracks, Ryzhkov’s reply to the inquiry from Moscow was practically a roar. He knew full well that every riot was a sign of the Soviet Union’s decline, a sign of the people’s hearts being lost.

In Moscow, Yanayev threw Ryzhkov’s report and the photos taken at the scene onto the table at an emergency meeting of the Central Government. He addressed the grim-faced officials before him, saying, “Every second we delay, countless tragedies like this will occur. The dead, the massacres—are you sure you want to continue sitting here in silent protest, just watching as innocent people die?”

The meeting hall was silent. No one voiced support, and no one voiced opposition. After Yanayev had revealed his entire plan for dealing with the union republics at the start of the meeting, the only response was a silence filled with heavy breathing. They dared not agree because the plan was too insane, and they dared not object because even if they did, Yanayev would not listen.

As if completely unconcerned with the atmosphere in the room, Yanayev directly issued an order over the phone to General Rodionov, the supreme commander of special operations for the Caucasus Military District. “Deploy your troops into Georgia immediately. I will have the forces of the Georgian Ministry of Internal Affairs assist you. From this moment on, you are the supreme commander of the Caucasus Military District. Yes, until I announce the end of the state of emergency.”

“If, as the General Secretary says, an armed conflict occurs, how should we handle such problems?” This was General Rodionov’s only concern. The Ministry of Internal Affairs had more experience dealing with riots, but if it escalated into an armed conflict, he would need Yanayev’s authorization.

Yanayev was well aware of this. So, in front of everyone, he deliberately spoke loudly to Rodionov, “If civilians really block your way, just run them over with the armored vehicles. They are not the people we are protecting, but enemies of the Soviet! Traitors to Communism!”

Yanayev and Rodionov had already secretly devised a blitzkrieg operation behind everyone’s backs. The target of the plan was the President of Georgia, Zviad. The goal was to eliminate the source of the tyranny with the swiftest means possible.

“President Yanayev, if we do this, we will face moral condemnation. The West will have even more of an excuse to attack us on human rights issues,” Shenin said with concern.

“Then let the West attack! Let them verbally condemn us! Since the founding of the Soviet Union, has there been a single day they haven’t attacked our human rights record? When have their newspapers ever not distorted the truth about us? We are suppressing these separatist elements! We are this ruthless and inhumane! So what? After all that talk, is NATO going to send planes and tanks to liberate them?”

The irrationality Yanayev displayed at this moment was identical to his demeanor when facing the leaders of the three Baltic states. His indignation toward the extremist nationalist forces in the union republics was boundless. He was one step away from placing his hand on the button of the nuclear briefcase to threaten these inhumane beasts.

“Anyone who tries to destroy our unbreakable union will face the judgment of Communism!”

His furious gaze burned with the flames of hatred, a fire that would eventually burn those separatist enemies to ashes!

“We will not forgive, nor will we forget!”

Chapter 79: The Soviet Returned From Hell

(Second update)

On the orders of Minister of Internal Affairs Pugo and Minister of Defense Yazov, mechanized units from the Georgian Ministry of Internal Affairs and field troops from the Caucasus Military District were to be transferred to Tbilisi and the Abkhazian Autonomous Republic to enforce martial law. In accordance with Ministry of Defense directives, First Deputy Minister of Defense Varennikov would also personally travel from Moscow to Tbilisi with Colonel General Rodionov. Their mission was to assist the Caucasus Military District’s special operations command and, if necessary, take direct charge of the military conflict.

The Central Government and the military were prepared for war. A continuous stream of BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicles drove toward Tbilisi, along with some fire trucks and ambulances. Unlike three years ago, when only officers were issued firearms, this time everyone was armed and equipped with Cheryomukha-3 and K-15 tear gas grenades. The directive from Moscow was clear: if the rioting crowds dared to charge the army, they were to open fire immediately.

Moscow, having lost all patience with the union republics, had finally torn off its friendly mask, revealing its ferocious face.

Armored vehicles poured out of the Caucasus Military District barracks and headed for downtown Tbilisi. The armed forces of the Ministry of Internal Affairs were also mobilized to help maintain order. The city center of Tbilisi was already in chaos. The Ministry of Internal Affairs lacked the manpower to secure every intersection; they could only establish a perimeter around the city to prevent the demonstrations from growing.

The moment the armored vehicles entered Rustaveli Avenue in Tbilisi, they were blocked by protesters. Using large trucks, trolleybuses, and commandeered public buses from who-knows-where, the rioters had constructed a barricade. Hiding behind it, they hurled stones, metal objects, and pieces of wood at the soldiers, screaming insults at the Soviet army, “Get out, you Soviet lapdogs!”

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov, who had clashed with these same people three years prior, was decisive. He ordered the troops to charge the barricade directly. He even bellowed at the commander of the lead BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicle, “What? You can’t break through? Then use your cannon to blast it to pieces and run it over! I’ll take responsibility for anything that happens. I don’t care if they live or die, but you will reach the square by two in the afternoon. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you myself!”

The soldiers on the infantry fighting vehicle were ordered to dismount. They jumped down from the roof and positioned themselves on either side of the tracks, ducking to avoid the stones flying at them.

As the rioters hiding behind a truck bragged to each other about how they had sent the Soviet army fleeing with Molotov cocktails during the Tbilisi incident three years ago, they were completely oblivious to the approaching danger. The 30mm autocannon of the infantry fighting vehicle was aimed at the large truck in the center.

“I personally stabbed a Soviet paratrooper to death back then,” said the leader of the rioters drunkenly after downing half a bottle of Vodka. “These soldiers are all cowards. We beat him more than a dozen times with clubs, and he didn’t even fight back. Something about emphasizing discipline, what a load of crap. I spit on it. In the chaos, I grabbed the combat knife from his chest and plunged it right into the bastard’s heart. I can still remember the look on his face as he died. Afterward, none of us who caused trouble faced any punishment. I showed those Russians with my own actions what happens when you dare to cause trouble on Georgian soil.”

The men around him looked on with envy, as if they too could soon become Georgian heroes by slaying Soviet soldiers. They had forgotten that the Soviet troops back then were not afraid of them, but were constrained by discipline.

“Look, they’ve stopped. A few trucks were enough to block them. Pfft, it’s just like you said,” one of them spat on the ground and gave the middle finger to the Soviet soldiers hastily dismounting from their vehicles.

“They’re just a bunch of useless trash. May God bless us.” The rioter with a cigarette dangling from his lips smugly raised his bottle. He hadn’t finished his sentence when a deafening roar erupted, and his raised left arm was blown into two pieces. A large hole had been torn through the truck he was leaning against, and through the opening, he could see the muzzle of the cannon still pointed right at them.

He clutched his gushing wound, writhing and screaming on the ground. When the others tried to stand up and see what had happened, they were met with a hail of bullets. The general-purpose machine guns on two side-by-side BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicles opened fire on the vehicles simultaneously. The first man to poke his head up had half of it sheared off, collapsing in a pool of blood. The people around him stared, dumbfounded, the Vodka-fueled haze in their minds instantly vanishing.

Were these really the same Soviet soldiers from three years ago, the ones who wouldn’t fight back?

“No, they’re a band of devils!” one rioter who had narrowly avoided the bullets muttered in terror.

The rest began to panic. Someone shouted, “Run!” and the disorderly crowd dropped their clubs and fled. Everyone knew that if you weren’t fast enough, you were dead. But human legs could never outrun bullets. Before they had gotten far, the fuel tank of one of the barricading vehicles was hit. The cluster of vehicles at the intersection instantly exploded. A brilliant fireball rose before them, and the massive shockwave sent everyone who hadn’t escaped in time flying.

A teenage boy was thrown violently to the ground by the blast. His entire body ached as if it were about to fall apart, and he couldn’t get up. He turned his head to see if the others were alright, but the scene he witnessed was seared into his memory, something he would never forget for the rest of his life.

Those who hadn’t escaped the sea of fire were engulfed in flames, like mobile fireballs, their screams blood-curdling. The sizzling sound of burning flesh filled the air. They took only a few steps before collapsing to their knees, one hand propping them up, the other stretched out, their eyes filled with despair as they looked at their fleeing comrades. They were swallowed alive by the fire, burned to death, turning into piles of black char.

The boy faced an impassable sea of fire. The truck’s paint sizzled and peeled in the flames, releasing a foul, scorching stench, along with a bizarre aroma of cooked meat. Just when he thought it was over, the charred husk of the truck in front of him was suddenly rammed by something equally massive. The entire truck was sent rolling across the wide road like a burning meteor falling from the sky before being flung aside.

The fearless BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicle drove straight through the inferno, completely ignoring the rioters still struggling in the flames. It passed nonchalantly between the charred corpses, like a black specter from hell that itself feared the coming of an even more terrifying ruler.

The boy, who had never seen such a horrifying sight, clapped a hand over his mouth, too terrified to make a sound. The BMP-2 had successfully cleared a safe path for the Soviet troops behind it. Wearing gas masks, the Soviet soldiers walked directly through the raging fire. Gripping their Kalashnikov rifles, they were indifferent to the stares of others, even as the rioters saw them as terrifying demons crawling out of a burning hell.

Yes, they had returned. The Soviet army from hell had once again set foot on this land where they had once been so gravely humiliated!

All who disrupt the Soviet order will be punished—with their land, and with their blood!

Chapter 80: Your Will, We Shall Inherit

Rumors that armored vehicles had run over and shot innocent civilians on Tbilisi’s Rustaveli Avenue spread like wildfire. The survivors, who had scrambled away in terror, trembled as they tearfully recounted to those around them how Soviet soldiers had opened fire on the so-called “innocent civilians,” and how the steel tracks of the armored vehicles had mercilessly ground over the corpses. Some citizens, unaware of the truth, were incited and filled with righteous indignation. They took up arms from their homes, preparing to take to the streets and denounce these “brutal Soviet soldiers.”

The situation in Tbilisi continued to deteriorate, becoming even more severe than the **** incident three years prior. Perhaps the higher-ups in Moscow hoped for the situation to worsen, giving them the pretext they needed to conduct a Great Purge.

In any case, from the moment the first rioter was shot, the Moscow authorities had completely torn off all pretenses with the Georgian union republic. If you won’t listen to reason, then don’t blame me for being unreasonable. At the same time, Yanayev’s oppressive tactics served as a warning to others. He was cautioning the other restless union republics that if they didn’t know their place, this would be their fate. Even if the Soviet Union ultimately collapsed, it would drag them all down with it.

Faced with the Moscow authorities’ desperate, all-or-nothing gamble, everyone would become cautious and timid. They only hoped to break free from Soviet control, not to perish in the flames with this Evil Empire.

Wasn’t Yanayev’s idea of mercy simply to crush his opponents when they didn’t behave?

The BMP-2 armored vehicles, split into several groups, continued their advance toward the city center, as fearless as ever. Upon seeing the Soviet troops arrive, the unarmed civilians in the vicinity scattered in terror, some hiding in roadside alleys, others fleeing into buildings, as if a moment’s delay would mean being torn to shreds by the armored vehicles. The entire street emptied in an instant.

Perhaps the thunderous methods used on Rustaveli Avenue just minutes before had become a weapon of fear, seared into the heart of every Georgian, leaving behind an indelible shadow.

As four BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicles passed through the Lunacharsky district, the commander riding atop one of them noticed an old man in a filthy Soviet military uniform on the side of the road. He was fumbling in a muddy ditch, completely oblivious to the grime staining his face and hair. His hands were red and swollen from being submerged in the icy, muddy water for so long, yet he continued his search. Out of curiosity and respect for a Red Army veteran, the commander ordered the advancing IFVs to a temporary halt. The war machines, under orders to press forward, came to a stop. The driver of the first BMP-2, not understanding the commander’s intentions, poked his head out of the cockpit and asked, “Captain Valenin, why did you tell us to stop? If we don’t hurry, we won’t make it to the building.”

“What’s the rush? Just wait a minute,” Second Lieutenant Valenin chided the driver. He then jumped down from the IFV and walked over to the dirt-covered old man. “Hello, old gentleman,” he asked softly. “What are you looking for in such a filthy ditch?”

“My Order of the Red Star is gone,” the old man said, sitting on the ground, heartbroken. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and whimpered, “A group of protesting students snatched my medal and threw it into this gutter. I just wanted to stop those kids from doing something foolish. Is the stable life we fought so hard for, with our blood and our lives, so worthless to them?”

The old man on the ground looked up, his muddy face streaked with tears. The silent lament of the Soviet veteran, now in his declining years, tugged at Valenin’s heart. His gaze fell on the old man’s empty sleeve, and in that instant, he understood.

An indignant Second Lieutenant Valenin walked back to the IFV, slapped its hull, and shouted, “Alright, everyone, listen up! Get your asses off this vehicle, now! You’ve got a job to do!”

“What is it, Captain? Aren’t we supposed to be advancing?” someone on the vehicle asked, confused.

“Advance? Of course, we’ll advance. The enemy is right ahead of us. But before you do, I want you all to look up and see this old gentleman.” Second Lieutenant Valenin pointed his finger at Corporal Ivauri, who was still searching for his medal. When everyone’s eyes were on the old man, he said, one word at a time through gritted teeth, “Do you see? This is how these rioters treat our Red Army veterans, how they trample on everything we’ve built, and they have the gall to do it in the name of freedom and justice! For people like that, tell me, don’t they deserve to be taught a lesson?”

“Yes!” everyone answered in unison.

“Have you all not eaten? Louder, I can’t hear you! Do they or don’t they?” Second Lieutenant Valenin raised his voice and repeated the question.

“Yes!” the soldiers on the vehicle repeated, their reply louder and more unified this time.

“Good. This ditch isn’t deep. Everyone, get down. We find that Order of the Red Star before we move on! If Soviet soldiers can’t even protect their own people, what kind of heroes are we!”

Second Lieutenant Valenin’s command was not to be questioned. The young men, fired up with passion, quickly jumped down from the IFV and joined the search for the medal. Ignoring the winter cold and the filth of the mud, they began to feel around in the ditch. No one complained, and no one feigned compliance, because they all knew they were doing this for the people. With their numbers, the Soviet soldiers quickly found the lost medal in the muck.

“Look, I found it!” a young soldier shouted, holding the medal high like a treasured prize. The others stopped searching and gathered around, praising him. He carefully wiped the mud off with his sleeve, then cupped it in both hands and presented it to Ivauri. “It’s okay,” he said with a smile. “The medal isn’t damaged, just a little dirty. Don’t be sad anymore, senior.”

Faced with the young soldier’s warm smile, Ivauri’s eyes suddenly blurred. Murky tears streamed down his cheeks. He had so much he wanted to say, but in the end, he could only manage an emotional “thank you.”

Second Lieutenant Valenin used a clean towel to wipe away Ivauri’s tears and the dirt from his face. “You’ve suffered, senior,” he said in a heavy tone. “I know not everyone can understand our lofty ideals. There will always be scumbags who mock us, but no one can deny their greatness. You all did your best in the Great Patriotic War of 1942. Now, it’s our turn to take the banner from your hands and continue the advance.”

“Don’t cry, senior. We will inherit the unyielding will with which you once fought.”

Ivauri was speechless. It was as if standing before him was his Company Commander from the war, who had taken the red flag with the hammer and sickle from a fallen standard-bearer during their final charge, leading them all in a most tragic and heroic advance. He vaguely remembered his Company Commander planting the flag in the ground just before he died. Even after taking several bullets and breathing his last, his hands remained clenched tightly around the flagpole. His body remained standing, never falling.

“Alright, boys, don’t just stand there. Let’s get ready to move out and deal with those bastards,” Second Lieutenant Valenin said, climbing back onto the first IFV. Once everyone was seated, he slapped the driver’s hatch and yelled to the person inside, “Let’s go, it’s time to move out. Otherwise, we’ll be late.”

“Forward, Comrades,” the others shouted in unison.

The lead BMP-2 started up and continued its advance. Some of the Soviet soldiers on top smiled and waved goodbye to Ivauri, just like the young faces heading to the front lines in 1942, forging ahead into an unknown, perilous future. But the old veteran, Ivauri, knew that no matter how dangerous the road ahead was, these determined young soldiers would not retreat. Because in them, he saw the shadows of his comrades who had fallen in the war.

When they had waved goodbye to their families and set off for Stalingrad, didn’t they have the same determined expressions?

“Company Commander, Political Commissar, did you see?” Ivauri said to himself, his gaze fixed on the direction they had gone. “The Soviet has not fallen. Our will is still being inherited.”

Your will, we shall inherit.

The words echoed in his ears, lingering for a long, long time.

Chapter 81: Liberation Square

The armored units of the 4th Motorized Infantry Regiment entered the square half an hour later than scheduled. They had encountered roadblocks set up by rioters in the streets, which caused their skirmish line to halt intermittently. It wasn’t until three-thirty that the motorized infantry regiment made contact with the furious crowd on the right side of the Government Building, attempting to clear the site and drive the assembled people from the square.

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov, in command of the on-site operation, stood atop the lead T-72 tank. He addressed the crowd through a loudspeaker, advising them to leave the square and warning that the unsanctioned assembly could not continue, or else they would use military force to clear the area violently. His expression was resolute, conveying an attitude of “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

But the response from the large, menacing crowd was a chorus of boos. Some people threw stones and bottles at Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov, shouting, “Soviet thugs, get out of Georgia!” However, because the distance was quite great, the projectiles only struck the shields and helmets of the soldiers in the front line, causing no casualties.

Left with no choice, Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov had to ask Ilya II, the Supreme Patriarch of Georgia who was highly influential among the people, to come from the Georgian Cathedral to speak to the crowd. The shield phalanx opened a path, and the aged, frail Ilya II walked out, supported by Balanknov, and stood before the assembled masses.

Ilya II pleaded with them to stop the assembly and go home peacefully as the military requested. He warned the ignorant and fearless crowd with some anxiety, “There is real danger here. It’s only a matter of minutes. Listen to me, you must leave quickly.”

“Pah!” A man at the front made an insulting gesture at Ilya II. “Get lost, old man! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, being here? What did the Soviets promise you? You refuse to be a man and willingly serve as a lapdog for the Russians.”

“That’s right, a lapdog! You’re a lapdog for the Soviet authorities! You’re not fit to be the Patriarch of the Eastern Orthodox Church! Get out! We’ll elect a new Patriarch who supports democracy,” someone began to curse at Ilya II for speaking on behalf of the Soviet. It was as if anyone who spoke for the Soviet Union was a traitor to Georgia.

“Go back! We don’t want a Patriarch like you! Get lost!” One of them picked up a stone and threw it at Ilya II. Quick on his feet, Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov rushed in front of Ilya II and blocked the stone. Fortunately, it didn’t hit the Patriarch’s head, only striking Balanknov on the back. The sharp stone was still painful. Balanknov bit his lip and frowned, cursing “bastard” under his breath.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov. Thank you for your trouble. It seems these people are unwilling to listen to my advice,” Ilya II said apologetically. He genuinely wanted to stop their irrational behavior, but the fanaticism that had been stirred up in them could no longer be calmed. A calm tone could not get through to such a paranoid group.

“It’s nothing, Your Holiness,” Balanknov said, forcing a smile.

Perhaps only after they had truly felt the terror of the machine of violence, stained with the blood of their comrades, would they be willing to sit down and listen to the army’s advice to leave.

Ilya II shook his head, made the sign of the cross on his chest, and said penitently, “Merciful Lord, I have done my best. Please forgive this flock of lost lambs.”

“Forgiving them is God’s business. Our only job is to send them to meet God.” Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov looked with a trace of regret at the triumphant fools before him who didn’t know what was good for them. He picked up his communications phone and issued the final order to clear the site to all military units present.

“Violent clearing operation! Use batons and bullets to drive these people from the square! Defend the Soviet!”

After receiving the order, the front line began to advance as a single-line shield phalanx to disperse the troublemakers. But the cunning opposition elements had formed fighting teams composed of athletes skilled in combat and able-bodied men. When the clearing began, they charged to the front line and were the first to clash with the shield-bearers. Using wooden clubs, metal objects, knives, and javelins, they began to resist fiercely and tenaciously. The soldiers at the very front were no match for them. The line was instantly halted, unable to advance a single step.

However, the military personnel were not to be outdone. The riot guns in the hands of the soldiers behind the shield phalanx were not for show. Their barrels aimed at the rioting crowd, the armed men at the front were instantly knocked to the ground by the riot guns, unable to move. The rioters charging from behind couldn’t stop in time and trampled right over their comrades. In an instant, the air was filled with wails and howls of those being trampled.

“Fellow students, with me! Beat these Russian beasts to death!” A student leader took the lead, shouting as he charged forward, calling for others to follow him and attack the soldiers.

Some hot-blooded students were driven mad with rage by the scene before them. They desperately rushed forward to beat the soldiers, snatch their batons, and smash their shields. The student leader was holding an iron bar, about to shout for his hesitant comrades behind him to keep charging, when a baton slammed hard into the back of his head.

Second Lieutenant Valenin, holding the baton, spat at him. “Bastard,” he said with contempt. “You should have stayed in school studying instead of getting involved in this mess. You deserved that.”

The beaten student leader squatted on the ground, clutching his bleeding head. The noisy crowd around him seemed to quiet down, as if the sound had been filtered through a sponge. He wanted to call for help, but found that his vision was blurring. Then his stomach was kicked hard—he didn’t know if it was by one of his own or by a soldier. The student leader, who had been so glorious a moment ago, now collapsed silently, letting the people around him trample over his body.

The clearing operation became a stalemate. The military and the demonstrators were currently evenly matched. Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov had no choice but to order his troops to use Cheryomukha-3 and K-15 tear gas grenades, throwing them at the citizens who refused to leave. The acrid smoke made people choke, their eyes streaming with tears, unable to see.

The impromptu protesters hadn’t known the army had prepared such a gift. Unprepared with gas masks, they had to drop their weapons and fall back. Lacking cohesive command, the once high-spirited opposition fell into disarray in an instant.

The well-prepared soldiers had already donned their gas masks. Although some were injured, the vast majority were still combat-ready. Relying on their orderly, single-line shield formation, they continued to advance. They used their shields to push back the crowd and their batons to drive them away, forcing them completely out of the square.

The resistance fighters gradually lost their strength and were forced to retreat step by step. Although some were still throwing stones and bottles at the soldiers, they had little fight left in them. Just as Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov thought victory was in his grasp, the unexpected happened.

A terrifying burst of gunfire came from the opposition’s side, jarring everyone’s nerves. Both the retreating opposition and the advancing soldiers froze. They saw the soldiers at the very front collapse when the shots rang out, falling into pools of their own blood. Those around them quickly tried to apply pressure to the wounds, calling for medics from the rear to provide emergency treatment.

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov’s smile vanished. He saw someone on the opposition’s side clutching an RPK light machine gun and charging toward them. The machine gunner was surrounded by a group of men holding Kalashnikovs and Tokarev pistols. They ran menacingly toward the military line, calling for those around them to charge with them while shouting, “Kill all the Soviet troops!”

The routed opposition began to rally again. Bolstered by firearms and ammunition, the rioters charged the military lines with even more abandon, shouting that they would fight the Soviet army to the death.

Seeing this, Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov’s heart sank. The one thing he had most feared had happened. What these people were doing was no longer the theatrics of street politics—it was an outright uprising!

Chapter 82: Crush Them!

(First Update)

Before Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov arrived in Tbilisi to take charge of the situation on the ground, Gennady Yanayev had made a private phone call to him from the Kremlin, revealing a shocking piece of intelligence: the opposition had likely acquired a shipment of firearms from abroad to use against Soviet troops. He therefore instructed Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov to bring live ammunition when clearing the site to avoid heavy military casualties.

The source of this intelligence was, of course, the “Merchant of Death,” Viktor Bout. Under Moscow’s protection, he had been thriving in the international arms trade and had made a number of influential friends around the world. Naturally, this secret intelligence about the weapons was provided to him by those friends, which he then relayed to the higher-ups in Moscow.

Upon receiving this information, Yanayev did not immediately confront the Georgian President. Instead, he held his hand, waiting for them to show their true colors before taking them all down at once.

Although somewhat skeptical of the intelligence’s authenticity, Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov followed his orders without question. Before departing from the military base, he commanded all combat personnel to prepare live ammunition, ready for an armed conflict with the militants at any moment.

And now, the warning from Moscow’s leadership had proven true. The insurgents, Kalashnikov rifles in hand, held the guns at their hips—one hand on the grip with the stock pressed tight against their arm, the other gripping the handguard—and sprayed fire at the troops. The remaining soldiers pulled their wounded comrades back in an orderly retreat while returning fire with their riot guns. They all took cover behind the armored vehicles and tanks to avoid being hit.

The frenzied militants, taking advantage of the troops’ retreat, began shooting the wounded soldiers on the ground. Whether they were still struggling or grievously injured and motionless, all became targets for their wrath. Some soldiers who rushed forward to attempt a rescue were also gunned down. The cunning militants used a cruel tactic of targeting rescuers to relentlessly assault the Soviet soldiers’ psychological defenses. Those who wanted to charge forward recklessly were held back by their comrades.

Thankful that he had heeded Moscow’s advice, Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov finally gave the order for a violent clearing of the site. He recalled asking how to deal with armed rioters, and on the other end of the line, Soviet General Secretary Gennady Yanayev had replied in the harshest of tones.

“Shoot armed militants on sight. If you run out of bullets, crush them with the tanks!”

To prevent their weapons from being seized by the populace, the soldiers’ rifles loaded with live ammunition had been kept under guard at the rear. But now that the rioters had shown their true colors, those very rifles had their targets. The enraged soldiers, after receiving their firearms, immediately counter-attacked. Other than the initial phase when the Soviet troops were unarmed and suppressed, the disorderly mob of armed men never got another chance to overwhelm the Soviet army.

Four T-72 tanks began to advance, their general-purpose machine guns suppressing the charging militants. A man carrying an RPK machine gun was cut down instantly, and the other militants were pinned by the sweeping fire. Some were killed on the spot, while the survivors scrambled for cover, trapped and unable to move. The soldiers quickly dragged their wounded comrades lying on the ground back to a safe area.

Once the tanks’ machine gunners had suppressed the enemy’s fire, the soldiers who had been sheltering behind the T-72s emerged. Fanning out on both sides of the tanks, they advanced, firing as they went. It was a perfect demonstration of infantry-tank coordination.

Realizing the situation was dire, the militants tried to flee, but the machine-gun fire kept them pinned down. They could only cower behind their cover, unable to move. Beyond their cover was open ground; taking a single step out meant certain death.

The steel treads rolled forward. Before the massive, multi-ton steel monsters, the armed militants seemed as pitiful and insignificant as ants. The psychological blow was devastating; these rifle-wielding men were no match for the tanks.

“Don’t shoot! We surrender!” Realizing they had no chance of winning, someone finally threw his rifle out from behind cover. He raised his hands and said, trembling.

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov decisively ordered his men to cease fire. Seeing the shooting stop, the other cowardly militants emerged one by one from their cover, tossed their rifles aside, and raised their hands high, begging the Soviet soldiers not to shoot.

Although the Soviet soldiers’ eyes burned with the flames of hatred and their index fingers were unwilling to leave the triggers, their iron discipline reminded them that without an order from a superior, they could not aim their weapons at unarmed prisoners, no matter how many of their comrades the enemy had killed.

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov walked over. He glanced around at the cowering militants, none of whom dared to raise their heads and meet his eyes. Besides feeling scorn for their cowardice, Balanknov let out a cold laugh and asked, “Who’s your leader? Step forward.”

The men looked at each other and remained silent. No one was willing to admit to being the organizer, for they all feared being executed on the spot by the Soviet soldiers.

“If someone is willing to step forward and confess, I can let him live. But if nobody confesses, I’ll have to execute all of you right here.” Balanknov’s tone was severe. He rested his hand on the holster at his waist, ready to draw his pistol at a moment’s notice.

Terrified, the men instinctively took a few steps back, only to be stopped by the soldiers behind them prodding their backs with their rifles. They turned their heads to look at a silent man at the very back.

“It was me.” The man at the back squeezed through the others and walked up to Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov, admitting frankly, “I planned this attack against you.”

“Young man, I admire your courage.” Balanknov nodded with a smile, then raised his hand and, in full view of everyone, clenched his fist and slammed it into the man’s left cheek. Caught completely off guard, the man was knocked to the ground by Balanknov. He spat a mouthful of blood mixed with several teeth onto the ground, unable to get back up.

“Whoa!” The surrounding soldiers exclaimed. It was rare for them to see their commander strike someone directly. Some even clapped and cheered.

Just then, Balanknov noticed a Nazi SS swastika embroidered on the man’s left sleeve. He flew into a rage, drew the dagger from his waist, and planted his foot on the man’s body, saying hatefully, “Get up, you degenerate.”

He used the knife to cut the swastika patch from the man’s sleeve, then held it in front of his face. “Look at me. What is this? Huh? A swastika, isn’t it? You Nazi scum. I should have put a bullet in you and sent you to hell just now, not given you a light punch.”

If Moscow hadn’t demanded irrefutable proof of the Georgian government’s involvement in the uprising, Balanknov truly would have shot him in the head. He pinched the man’s cheeks, pried his mouth open, and stuffed the swastika patch inside. “Eat it,” he said as he shoved it in. “That’s right, you bastard. Eat all of it.”

Still fuming, he kicked the man in the stomach. After venting his anger, he grabbed him by the collar, threw him towards the rear, and called for his soldiers to “take care” of this prisoner. After the prisoners were hastily tied up, a soldier at his side asked Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov what to do with them.

“What to do?” Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov said sternly. “In this operation, we killed several armed insurgents. There were no prisoners except for the leader who surrendered. Do you understand?”

The inexperienced soldier hesitated, then asked in a low voice, “Do we really have to do that? They’re prisoners. Won’t we be court-martialed for this?”

Balanknov clapped him on the shoulder, trying to keep his tone calm as he spoke to the green soldier. “Court-martialed? That’s a joke. Just remember the supreme leader’s directive: in Soviet prisoner-of-war camps, there are no Nazi-worshipping prisoners. Not ever.”

Chapter 83: Rescuing the Building

(Second update complete)

The liberation of the square marked a temporary victory in the effort to maintain stability. The protesting crowds had been violently dispersed by the army. And the Soviet soldiers were not as inhumane as the rumors claimed; the injured civilians were carried away on stretchers by the soldiers and taken to the nearest hospital for emergency treatment. Due to the sudden influx of patients, the hospital’s blood bank declared an emergency. Upon hearing this news, soldiers who were not on duty rushed to the hospital to donate blood. Even some of the wounded soldiers asked to give blood transfusions to the injured civilians.

Some soldiers already in the hospital voluntarily offered to leave their wards to make more beds available for the newly admitted patients. They limped out of the hospital on crutches. There was no blind hatred, no indifferent inaction. This army of the people displayed its most magnificent and selfless side. Even though the citizens being stitched up in the hallway had wanted them dead just a minute before the riot, they now gave the soldiers who were leaving the hospital in silence their most enthusiastic applause.

Only a socialist army could so strictly implement the noble ideal of serving the people.

There was sorrow as well as joy. Just as a temporary breakthrough was achieved in the Tbilisi incident, armored troops officially entered the Abkhazia Autonomous District to impose martial law. Unlike in Tbilisi, not only were armored units deployed, but helicopters were also sent out on twenty-four-hour patrols to promptly discover and strike at roving gangs.

When the army entered the District Party Committee building, they encountered a crowd armed with clubs. Thinking the army wouldn’t dare to shoot first, they tried to charge forward and attack the soldiers on the armored vehicles. To their surprise, the soldiers on the vehicles opened fire on the crowd directly, without a shred of hesitation. When the front rank of people fell like harvested weeds, they finally panicked and retreated, quickly scattering until not a soul was left, save for a few pathetic wretches moaning on the ground, unable to escape. The armored troops successfully reached the entrance of the District Party Committee building, where they found Kadyrov lying on the ground. They immediately began administering emergency aid to Kadyrov, the First Secretary of the District Committee, who had been left there for four hours.

“The patient has a high fever and damage to his internal organs. He needs immediate medical attention,” a doctor said anxiously. This was the most severe case of organ failure he had ever seen; another moment’s delay and the man might not be saved.

But Kadyrov seemed completely unconcerned. Seeing that the army had arrived, he grabbed the hand of a commander passing by him and said in a weak voice, “Quick, go save the children inside. They’re all terrified. You must save them.”

“I will, Secretary Kadyrov. You just lie down and rest now. We will take over your work from here,” the commander said, comforting Kadyrov so he could recover in peace. In his mind, he cursed the bastards for being so vicious, daring to beat a local Soviet official black and blue.

A group of soldiers struggled to push open a door that was heavily barricaded with tables, chairs, and all sorts of objects. The building’s power had been cut by the rioters, and the inside was pitch-black. Besides the tables and chairs scattered about in disarray, there were the low whimpers of people in the darkness.

“Don’t be afraid, children. Come on out. We are from the Soviet army. We’re here to rescue you,” a soldier said in their familiar Russian, conveying that he meant no harm to the children and the elderly. He didn’t take a step forward, simply stood his ground and waited for them to emerge.

Terrified elderly people led a group of small children out from the shadows. They were all children under six. They looked toward the door cautiously and asked, “Are those people gone? They were so scary.”

“We chased them all away. Come on out,” the commander said, his heart aching as he picked up a child and walked outside. Perhaps their camouflage uniforms gave them a sense of security, as the children willingly followed the armored vehicle’s commander out of the District Government building. After a twelve-hour siege, the children were finally safe.

Lying on a stretcher and about to be loaded into an ambulance, Kadyrov saw this scene and smiled with relief, as if their safety was the one thing that made him happiest. Kadyrov suddenly felt sleepy. He was still unaware that the delay in receiving optimal treatment now meant he was facing total organ failure. As he slowly closed his eyes, the numbers on the heart monitor began to drop steadily.

“His heart rate is falling! We’ll start treatment right here in the ambulance,” the medic ordered. “Get a shot in the arm ready! Our patient is fading fast, hurry!”

Most parts of the autonomous district were liberated peacefully, but a small cluster of people making a last stand occupied a building. Among them were the thugs who had burned four Abkhazians to death in the wilderness. Having acquired a batch of firearms, they used the complicated terrain of a cement factory to wage guerrilla warfare against the attacking Soviet soldiers. For a time, the number of Soviet casualties was higher than that of the armed militants. From their high ground, the enemy could even shoot at the Soviet forces with impunity, and there was nothing the soldiers could do.

Several of the Georgian nationalists who had stabbed the Abkhazians to death gave the Soviet soldiers below the middle finger, firing back and cursing them as useless trash.

Just then, a tremendous roar came from the sky. The commanding officer of the attack looked up to see two MI-24 Hind helicopter gunships hovering above them. A pilot spoke to the ground commander over the radio, “Comrades, leave it to us. There’s no need to be polite with scum like this. It’s best to give them a taste of our rockets.”

The commander ordered all soldiers to retreat to a safe distance and then to secure the perimeter.

Seeing that their forces had fully withdrawn to a safe distance, the Hind helicopter gunships’ rocket pods took aim at the abandoned cement factory building. The helicopter pilot could even see a few figures scrambling in panic on the roof. He pressed the button and said calmly, “Time to send you to hell.”

The two Hind helicopters simultaneously unleashed their fury upon the building. Rockets were fired continuously, as exhilarating as a grand fireworks display. The entire structure was torn to shreds under the baptism of rockets. After the last rocket was fired, the building collapsed with a deafening roar, turning into a pile of rubble.

The once-arrogant militants were buried forever beneath the rubble.

The abandoned building became their tomb.

“Enemies eliminated. Our mission is complete. Let’s head back.”

The helicopter gunships circled the ruins a few times to confirm there were no survivors before leaving with confidence. The Russian way of thinking was just that simple: if we can’t take it, we’ll just destroy it all with rockets. Only those with minor crimes were worthy of standing before a judge in court. For an offense this severe, the violent machinery of the Soviet Union would send them straight to hell, without any mercy.

All rioters will face the just retribution of the Soviets. No exceptions.

Chapter 84: Internal Strife

After the intense yet brief battles during the day, the Soviet army had essentially dispersed all the demonstrators, capturing over seventy armed rioters and killing more than twenty. Soldiers of the 4th Motorized Infantry Regiment had also unexpectedly discovered an arms cache in an abandoned warehouse. Inside were more than a dozen fully loaded rifles and even an RPG rocket launcher. The regiment’s members immediately reported this discovery to their superiors.

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov quickly relayed this news to General Rodionov. The high command, decisive when a decision was needed, immediately imposed the highest level of martial law and a curfew on Tbilisi. Soviet troops and armored vehicles patrolled the major streets, maintaining order. Just as everyone thought the smoke was clearing and Georgia was settling down again, an even more violent conflict was brewing, poised to become Tbilisi’s true nightmare.

It all began with a massive explosion in the Chavchavadze district, a sound so loud it startled awake residents in nearly half of Tbilisi. People rose from their beds and, with a sense of unease, peered through their curtains, worrying that something far worse was about to happen. The bright light of a fire stood out starkly against Georgia’s dark night sky.

Tonight, a palpable sense of panic gripped all of Tbilisi. Enough blood had been shed during the day. Those who had been fervently passionate about Georgia seceding from the Soviet Union were gradually cooling down. Yes, after paying a terrible price, they were beginning to feel afraid. For the first time, they realized just how terrifying street politics could be. The promises of their movement’s leaders and the fantasies they once cherished had become blurred after being crushed by the Soviet’s violent machinery during the day.

Was this really the life they wanted?

After the Georgian demonstrators dispersed, the rioters, under the cover of darkness, began a new round of sneak attacks. First, an armored vehicle enforcing martial law at a crossroads in the Chavchavadze district was hit by a rocket, resulting in six Soviet soldiers killed or wounded. After the successful strike, the assailant immediately dropped the RPG launcher and vanished into the darkness. It was all done with a practiced and skillful ease, as if rehearsed countless times.

At the same time, rioters caused disturbances in other areas. A residential building was set on fire by a group of masked thugs, the flames illuminating the entire block. The owner of the house was a Soviet official and a Communist Party member who had served the citizens of Tbilisi for decades. The rioters had burst into his room without any warning, and the old man was no match for these able-bodied thugs.

After knocking the unarmed old man unconscious with an iron rod, they doused him with gasoline and burned him alive along with the entire house. Outside, they erected a wooden sign with a sentence written on it: This is the fate of any Georgian who serves the Soviet army. At the end, there was a conspicuous swastika. The extreme nationalists were using this bloody and cruel method to warn any wavering Georgian residents not to even think of stopping their resistance.

The extreme nationalists had completely torn off their mask of benevolence, replacing it with naked threats against the residents of Georgia.

By the time the fire trucks arrived, the flames had already engulfed the building. The wooden house collapsed into a blazing ruin under the fire’s fury. A gray-haired woman sat before the inferno, wailing her heart out. The rioters had grabbed her by the hair and forced her to watch as they burned her husband to death. Afterward, they threatened the kind Georgian lady, forcing her to become a medium for spreading fear throughout Tbilisi.

If they found anyone else voluntarily helping the Soviet army identify Georgian separatists, their end would be the same.

If the entire city was steeped in the terrifying shadow of the extreme nationalists, there was one group of people who were overjoyed by the current situation, even popping champagne to celebrate. They were the instigators of this tyranny—the so-called President of Georgia, Zviad, and his interest groups.

More than twenty-four hours had passed since the Soviet army had entered Tbilisi, and in that time, he had not once appeared in public to explain anything. He had been secretly plotting these unsavory actions all along. The daytime protests were defined as a spontaneous act of the masses. So much so that when Moscow sent someone to ask him to come forward and reason with the people, Zviad simply claimed he was too ill to travel.

Zviad’s actions repeatedly tested the Soviet Union’s bottom line. The high command in Moscow did not want to see a complete falling-out with Zviad that would lead to armed conflict, but he interpreted this forbearance as compromise and weakness, continuing to recklessly test the authorities’ tolerance.

Kostava and Chanturia were key planners of the riots. They were also Zviad’s allies—or more accurately, allies of convenience. This group of conspirators, each with their own ulterior motives, had gathered together out of the necessity to face a common enemy—the Soviet Union. But in their hearts, they were all making their own little calculations on how to gain the most political benefit.

However, the political acumen of Kostava and Chanturia was clearly inferior to the wily and calculating Zviad. They would never have guessed that in this plan, which Zviad had proposed and they were responsible for implementing, the true instigator had silently erased his own involvement.

Zviad wore his signature false smile, but his heart was coldly sizing up the two fools before him. They thought they were merely the executioners and that even if it all ended in mutual destruction, their punishment would be far lighter than that of the mastermind, Zviad. But Zviad was far more cunning and inscrutable than both of them. As the force behind the scenes, as long as he left no trace, all Moscow’s high command would end up with were these two scapegoats. No matter how you looked at it, Zviad would be the final winner.

“Tonight is a night of terror for the Soviet army, but it is also a night of freedom for Georgia!” Chanturia’s excitement and agitation were plain to see. He raised his glass to Zviad and Kostava, toasting, “We will use the cover of night and gunpowder to make the arrogant Soviet army truly feel it. Let us drink to the great victory of Georgia!”

“Cheers!” The other two raised their glasses as well. Only Zviad took a small sip before putting his glass down, sighing as if weighed down by heavy thoughts.

“What’s wrong, Zviad?” Chanturia was slightly tipsy. He patted the Georgian president on the shoulder. Although Zviad was nominally the supreme leader, among the three veteran figures of the independence movement, they considered themselves equals.

“I am very worried,” Zviad said, deliberately feigning a look of concern. “Tonight’s battle isn’t over yet, but we’re sitting here drinking and celebrating. Isn’t it a bit too soon?”

“Oh? What do you mean?” Kostava asked calmly. He stared at Zviad’s face, his eyes slowly narrowing as if trying to read something from his expression.

“My suggestion is that I continue to negotiate with Moscow to secure greater benefits for Georgia’s independence, while you two continue to be responsible for the fight against the Soviet army and lead the Georgian people to victory,” Zviad said, deliberately setting a trap for the two to fall into. “To achieve the greatest benefit with the smallest sacrifice.”

After observing the Soviet Union’s actions over the past twenty-four hours, he had seen through the intentions of Moscow’s high command. The army—no, the supreme leader—would absolutely not allow Georgia to become independent, no matter the cost, even if it meant mutual destruction.

Zviad didn’t want a real revolution; he just wanted to accumulate enough political capital. Continuing the armed uprising was far riskier than peaceful negotiations. What Zviad wanted to do was to use their tyranny and negotiate with Moscow as a third party. Finally, after pocketing all the gains, he would discard them once they had served their purpose.

“But Zviad, there’s one thing I’d like to stress. Why shouldn’t we be the ones to conduct the peace talks? The three of us are in this together, after all,” Kostava added probingly. He had long been displeased with Zviad’s bossy attitude and seemed to have a faint inkling of Zviad’s true intentions.

Zviad was momentarily at a loss for words, unsure how to answer.

Kostava continued to press him, “Or do you have other plans, Zviad? Are you preparing to make some under-the-table deal with Moscow?”

Chanturia, standing to the side, was still completely bewildered. He watched the tense confrontation between Kostava and Zviad, swallowed, and asked, “What are you two arguing about?”

“Nothing. We are discussing the final disposition of leadership after all this is over.”

Zviad’s tone turned cold, a strange curve playing on his lips as he stared at Kostava.

Chapter 85: The People’s Army

No one knew what kind of conspiracy Zviad, Kostava, and Chanturia had plotted in that villa. When Kostava and Chanturia finally emerged, their faces were paler than they had ever been. Kostava, in particular, looked as terrified as if he had just seen a demon. Zviad’s schemes were indeed far more profound than the other two’s, but this was limited to his cunning. In terms of political acumen, the fact that Zviad was ousted by the public not long after the dissolution of the Soviet Union showed the true extent of his abilities.

At that moment, Tbilisi was engulfed in the flames of war. After the brief victory during the day, the Soviet army, unfamiliar with the city’s layout, was met with a nightmare in the darkness, finding themselves at a disadvantage against the armed militants and their guerrilla tactics. The abundance of nineteenth-century architecture in Tbilisi meant that the armed militants could use narrow alleyways inaccessible to armored vehicles to launch surprise attacks and raids at their leisure, and then retreat just as calmly after the fact.

Clearly, General Rodionov and the other high-ranking officers had not considered the difficulties the night would bring for the army. It was now impossible to occupy every district and every crossroads with just a single infantry fighting vehicle and a few soldiers. The number of armed militants was unknown, and with their heavy weaponry, they could easily overwhelm the small, scattered groups of Soviet soldiers.

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov was even more anxious than General Rodionov and the others, for he was the frontline commander directly facing the insurgents. Every passing second meant more wounded soldiers in the field hospital. He had no choice but to order his troops to pull back their lines and occupy the key transportation hubs in the major urban districts, waiting for more armored units to enter the city at dawn before dealing with the armed militants.

However, in the latter half of the night, Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov noticed that the militants’ surprise attacks had become less frequent. Although they had killed and captured some of the criminals, it was far from enough to make them stop. He didn’t know what was happening, but he could use this opportunity to catch his breath.

Soldiers stood guard around the camp with their rifles at the ready. To maintain order, Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov had even sent out half of his personal guards, leaving the command camp half-empty.

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov was completely engrossed in the detailed map of Tbilisi spread out on the table before him. He was so focused that he didn’t even notice the cigarette dangling from his lips had burned almost to the end. It wasn’t until the heat burned his fingers that he came to his senses and quickly dropped the cigarette butt.

Facing the complex, winding streets of Tbilisi, he frowned and muttered to himself, “The lack of manpower is the most fatal flaw. If a rebellion that should have been crushed quickly drags on until tomorrow, no one knows what might happen.”

At that moment, at the entrance to the temporary camp, the remaining half of the guards were cautiously watching the dark corners for any suspicious individuals. While things had not yet gotten as bad as in Afghanistan, where you shot first and asked questions later, the situation was continuously deteriorating.

The foremost guard noticed several figures faintly appearing up ahead, holding flashlights and shining them around. The whole of Tbilisi had been plunged into darkness ever since the power plant was destroyed by armed militants.

The soldier aimed the sights of his Kalashnikov rifle at the approaching group and reported the situation to the others over the radio. Upon hearing the guard’s report, the entire camp went on high alert, as if facing a great enemy. Everyone quickly assembled at the outermost sentry post, assuming the armed militants were preparing to raid the command post.

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov noticed the commotion outside his tent. He came out, grabbed a soldier, and asked what was happening. The soldier replied that a group of unidentified people had appeared outside the camp, and everyone was moving to the sentry posts to stand guard.

Balanknov’s face filled with suspicion. Logically, the armed militants would not appear so brazenly before the Soviet army. Could this be a trap? At this thought, he hurried back into his tent, grabbed his pistol, and followed the guards out, cursing under his breath.

Outside the sentry post, at least ten soldiers with rifles were aiming at the approaching group. The person at the front was holding a megaphone, shouting in Georgian for the crowd not to come any closer, or they would open fire.

But the procession remained unmoved, continuing to approach the military camp. The rules of engagement dictated that they could only return fire after the enemy fired first. A soldier raised his rifle to fire a warning shot into the air, but Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov reached out and stopped him.

“Wait, don’t shoot yet. Let’s see what they want,” Balanknov said. The premonition in his heart grew stronger. He had a feeling that these people, who were openly revealing their position in the darkness, were not the thugs the Soviet army was supposed to be fighting.

As it turned out, Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov’s premonition was correct. The people approaching the camp were not vicious armed militants, but a crowd of women holding crying children, elderly men leaning on canes, and some burly young men. Some were even wearing their pajamas, a heart-wrenching sight, like refugees who had migrated from a distant land.

Balanknov noticed that some of them were carrying weapons like iron rods. He warned his guards not to make any sudden moves, not even to rest their hands on their triggers. He alone jumped out from behind the sandbagged sentry post and walked toward the crowd.

Before Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov could even speak, the person at the very front beat him to it. “Are you the person in charge of the army?”

“I am Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov. And you are?” Balanknov replied perfunctorily, nonchalantly placing a hand on the holster at his waist while keeping his other hand behind his back, signaling for his troops to act on his gesture at any moment.

“I am the resident representative of the Rustaveli district of Tbilisi. My name is Yevgeny.” The man named Yevgeny looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, with dark circles under his eyes and messy hair. He scratched his head and said, “On behalf of the residents of the Rustaveli district, I implore you to quickly put an end to this tyranny. We don’t want to live in fear like this anymore.”

“That’s right,” a woman holding a small child sobbed softly. “These people aren’t peacefully demonstrating, they’re a gang of robbers, a bunch of shameless hooligans. They broke into our home with guns, stole our jewelry, and even injured my husband!”

“We support the army in taking down these rioters!” someone shouted, leading the call.

“Yes!” the others echoed, but a single glare from Yevgeny silenced them. Undeniably, this resident representative held significant sway in their eyes.

Hearing their pleas, Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov looked troubled. He rubbed his head and said, “I can understand how you feel, but as it stands now, the Soviet army has far too few troops to maintain public order, and these bandits are using guerrilla tactics that are impossible to defend against.”

“We, the residents of Tbilisi, can assist you. As long as you can drive out these people who are disrupting our normal lives, we will be grateful to you.”

Yevgeny said with some guilt, “We see it clearly now. Those so-called democrats are a bunch of shameless and despicable scoundrels. They used our emotions to incite everyone against the Soviet army, but look what these people have done—burning down people’s homes, robbing residents of their property. They are the real robbers, the real devils.”

“So I beg you to stand up and uphold justice for us. The citizens of Tbilisi will also do their best to cooperate with your work. As long as you can catch all the bandits, we’re begging you.”

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov suddenly realized this was a good opportunity. He was prepared to agree and let the residents help. But he had one condition: he only needed the young men to help maintain order. The elderly, women, and children were better off staying at home. He also guaranteed that he would dispatch soldiers to protect the women and children on their way home and promised that this incident would be over soon, and their lives would not be greatly disturbed.

Just as Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov was talking with Yevgeny, another group appeared before them. It was also composed of the elderly and children; they were residents of the Lunacharsky district. These anxious residents all hoped the Soviet army could maintain order for them. After personally witnessing their friends being beaten, robbed, and even burned alive by armed thugs, the unarmed citizens of Tbilisi turned their pleading eyes to the once-despised Soviet army, hoping they could help these poor people.

As for the incident during the day’s rally where Soviet soldiers were beaten, the representative from Lunacharsky wanted to bow and apologize to Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov, but was stopped by him.

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov surveyed the now somewhat crowded gathering and said with impassioned fervor, “The Soviet army is the People’s Army! We do not need apologies from the people we protect. Safeguarding your lives and property is our sacred duty. We only need to aim our guns at those who disrupt the peace. They will surely face the Soviet’s harshest judgment!”

Chapter 86: The Darkness Will Eventually Disperse

(First update)

With the citizens of Tbilisi helping to maintain order, the stationed Soviet army found the task much easier. The roving rioters were like rats in the street before the numerous citizens of Tbilisi, with nowhere to hide. Some militias carrying SKS rifles even joined the fight against the rioters, and some were even retired soldiers who had fought in the Afghanistan War. They were organized into combat units to help enforce martial law in the city blocks.

The greatness of the Soviet army was by no means an empty slogan. It was a great army composed of men like Vasily the sniper, Bapulov the soldier, Sula the tank crewman, and workers from the Red October Factory, who fearlessly advanced into enemy fire when the Motherland was in its gravest peril. Just like the citizens of Tbilisi who were now standing up to defend their homes.

After a night of fierce struggle, the rioters gradually vanished. With the help of the citizens, the Soviet soldiers quickly stabilized the situation in Tbilisi. After a tally, the Soviet soldiers and armed citizens of Tbilisi had killed a total of one hundred seventeen people and captured fifty-nine rioters. The rest, knowing the tide had turned, chose to drop their weapons and flee.

The sky was turning white, and the coldest part of the night was about to pass. In the square in front of the government building, piles of confiscated Kalashnikov rifles and a few RPG rocket launchers were stacked high. Soviet soldiers were either sleeping soundly on the ground in the square or sitting around, chatting and laughing while eating bread. All this food had been voluntarily brought by the citizens of Tbilisi to thank the Soviet army for helping them restore peace.

After the events of last night, they had finally seen clearly who was truly on the side of the people of Tbilisi.

The remaining fifty-nine rioters stood in a line with their hands up, like defeated prisoners of war. Many of these crestfallen individuals were still very young, some even university students from Tbilisi University who had believed the so-called slogan of fighting to liberate Georgia and joined the armed riot groups.

“Move it, you pieces of trash. Get going.” The Soviet guard shoved them forward and spat in one of their faces. Having been up all night, the soldiers were already full of pent-up anger, which only intensified upon seeing these rioters. They wished they could just punch them in the face.

The Tbilisi university student, being pushed by the Soviet soldier, had apparently never suffered such humiliation. When the soldier shoved him, he flew into a rage, glared, and shoved back. He even gave him the middle finger. “Don’t touch me, you garbage, you lapdog of the rulers.”

The student’s loud defiance did not achieve the effect he desired. Instead, he was viciously struck on the bridge of his nose with a rifle butt. He cried out, clutching his nose as he fell to the ground, tears instantly welling up in his eyes. The people around him looked on with pity, but no one stepped forward to speak up for him. And these self-centered young people got their first taste of what the iron fist of Communist tyranny was.

“You bastard, I’ll kill you.” The student tried to struggle back to his feet to continue resisting. Having been the center of attention at home his whole life, he couldn’t bear such humiliation. The hot-blooded young man had just gotten up when he was kicked in the stomach and knocked down again.

At this, the Soviet guard dropped all pretense, chambered a round, and aimed the rifle at the student’s head. “Resist again,” he said coldly, “and see if I don’t shoot you on the spot.”

The dark muzzle was pointed at the student’s head. Faced with a bullet, he instantly calmed down. But he continued to glare fiercely at the Soviet soldier, as if daring him to actually shoot.

The Soviet soldier was about to teach this clueless guy another lesson when a hand suddenly clapped his shoulder. The soldier turned and saw his commander, Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov, standing behind him. He had witnessed the entire dispute between the two.

“What’s going on? Why the fight?” He glanced at the student on the ground, who was beaten and unable to get up. Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov asked the soldier amiably.

“Are you the commander of these men?” the Tbilisi student, still unable to grasp the situation, snorted and cut in. Seeing Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov’s amiable demeanor, his attitude became arrogant, showing no trace of a captive’s behavior.

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov shook his head with a touch of resignation. These spoiled university students were always so self-centered. As soon as someone incited them with so-called “freedom and independence,” they would get hot-headed, lose all perspective, and unknowingly join the ranks of those betraying the Motherland. And with their weak concept of the rule of law, they had no idea of the severity of their actions.

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov nodded and said, “I am the commander of this operation, Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov.”

“Good. Then I want to know how long you’re going to detain me before you let me go?” the student asked a question that made Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov not know whether to laugh or cry.

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov crouched down, bringing himself to eye level with the seated student. He asked, “Son, what’s your name?”

“My name is Yakov,” the student replied.

“Yakov, why did you join this uprising?” Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov asked another question.

“For the freedom and democracy of Georgia.” Yakov’s tone grew impassioned as he spoke. He clenched his fist and said, “Jefferson said the flower of liberty must be watered with the blood of patriots and Tyrants. We are fighting for Georgia’s freedom!”

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov sneered. “I’ve also heard a quote from Oscar Wilde: Patriotism is an evil virtue. Is this what you call fighting for Georgia?”

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov grabbed him by the collar and hauled the pathetic young man to his feet. He dragged Yakov over to a row of bodies covered with white cloths and asked grimly, “Is this also one of the goals you’re fighting for in Georgia? Do you know who they are?”

Yakov shook his head. Being naturally aloof, how could he possibly know who lay beneath those shrouds?

“Fine, I’ll tell you.” Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov pulled him in front of a body. He ripped off the white cloth and forced Yakov’s head down toward the corpse, making him open his eyes and see clearly.

A pale, bloodless dead face came into close contact with Yakov’s. The terrified student screamed, trying to push it away, but Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov held his arms firmly, making him unable to move.

“The body in front of you is Lisa. At two o’clock last night, you rioters broke into her room. After shooting her parents, you violated this poor child on her bed, then smothered her to death with a pillow. She was only twelve years old! You animals deserve to die a thousand deaths.”

The more he spoke, the angrier Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov became. He tore the shroud off another body, revealing a charred corpse. Only a sparse row of teeth and empty eye sockets remained, staring helplessly at the sky.

“This is Oleg, a Communist Party member who served the citizens of Tbilisi faithfully for decades, a true patriot. At one o’clock last night, you people broke into his home, knocked him and his wife down, and then set the house on fire, burning them alive. And you even put up a sign with a Nazi symbol on his doorstep. Tell me, do you people deserve to die or not?”

“I didn’t kill these people. This isn’t the result we wanted,” Yakov said remorsefully, wiping away tears.

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov was much stronger than the student. He lifted Yakov like a little chick, the veins on his arm bulging from the force. “You selfish people have no regard for the rule of law, no morals, no respect for anything. Only so-called disorderly freedom and anarchism. To be honest, I really want to put a bullet in the heads of you arrogant young people who overestimate yourselves. But I’m a soldier; I don’t have the authority to decide if you live or die. But you’d better remember one thing: all of you will be brought to justice by the Soviet people! Do you understand?”

Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov’s words were more devastating than any bullet. Yakov could only sob quietly, unable to speak. Shame? Remorse? Lieutenant Colonel Balanknov couldn’t be bothered to figure out what this person was thinking. Everyone must take responsibility for their own actions and pay the price for their mistakes.

As for whether these people would be judged by a bullet or exiled to the frozen coal mines of Siberia, that would depend on the mood of the trial judge.

Chapter 87: Arrest and Defection

(Second update)

“President Yanayev, we have brought the situation in Tbilisi under control. The riots are now gradually subsiding.” Minister of Defense Yazov brought this good news to Yanayev as soon as he returned to the Kremlin.

“Oh, is that so? I understand.” Yanayev’s reply was somewhat understated. He showed no joy at hearing the good news; instead, he looked with concern at the report Viktor had brought back for him. The international arms dealer was now not only selling munitions but was even doing the work of an intelligence agency. Viktor had even intercepted the news that the riot’s orchestrators, Kostava and Chanturia, were crossing the border into Turkey, and it had been presented directly on Yanayev’s desk. This left him with some complaints and dissatisfaction regarding the KGB’s intelligence gathering.

“Comrade Yazov, I’ve been thinking about something. What do you think needs to be done to minimize resistance from Georgian nationalist factions when we reinstall Patiashvili as the First Secretary of the Georgian Soviet Central Government?” Yanayev closed the report, looked up, and asked Yazov this question.

“We can use this incident to carry out mass arrests of nationalists and shut down newspapers, radio stations, and television. This will eradicate the breeding grounds for nationalism at their root,” said Minister of Defense Yazov. He had always found it baffling to reason with the enemies of the Soviet Union. As long as the iron torrent kept advancing, all enemies would be crushed under its caterpillar treads. No exceptions.

Yanayev said, “I don’t think that’s enough. We need to completely ruin the reputation of the democratic forces from the ground up and turn them into enemies of Georgia. We will use the Tbilisi incident to heavily publicize how the people stood on the side of the Soviet Union, as well as the despicable actions of the Georgian rebels. This way, with no media coverage of their own, the Georgian extremist forces will eventually meet their end.”

After Yanayev’s vigorous consolidation and Surkov’s reorganization, the Soviet Propaganda Department was no longer the ‘enemy within’ it once was. Having reversed their disadvantage on the public opinion front, they had truly become the Soviet Union’s most lethal propaganda arm. By casting aside empty slogans and monotonous, glorious portrayals, the Soviet Propaganda Department began focusing more on the details of the common people’s lives, successfully turning around its wretched public image. Of course, none of this would have been possible without Yanayev’s guidance.

“Oh, right, Comrade Yazov, there’s one more thing I need to discuss with you now that I’ve summoned you.” Suddenly remembering the matter at hand, Yanayev placed Viktor’s intelligence report in front of Yazov. “This is intelligence we’ve intercepted. The orchestrators of this riot, Kostava and Chanturia, are preparing to flee from the Georgian border into Turkey. I think you can mobilize the nearest troops stationed in Georgia to intercept them.”

Yazov, who had long been seething with pent-up frustration toward this group of rebels, finally received Yanayev’s permission. This meant that the Soviet military’s tolerance for Georgian nationalist forces, which had lasted from 1989 until now, could finally be vented. The fact that the demonstrations by Georgian democratic forces, indulged by Shevardnadze, had actually received Moscow’s approval was truly one of the Soviet Union’s greatest tragedies.

Unlike Gorbachev, who was single-mindedly trying to bring down the Soviet Union, everything Yanayev did was to strengthen Moscow’s control, making these separatist union republics recognize what position they should hold and what they should say.

Yazov gave Yanayev a deep bow, suppressing the excitement in his voice as he said, “I will not disappoint you, President Yanayev. I guarantee that the forces of separatism will receive the most severe punishment.”

————

Kostava and Chanturia’s escape, however, was not part of Zviad’s calculations. These two, who had taken American aid and resold American-supplied weapons, were preparing to throw themselves into the arms of Western Europe. Just like the script they had composed in their minds, they would go and fool those foreigners with tales of how they, as patriots, had waged a most tragic struggle against the evil and powerful Soviet gray cattle, and how they had been mercilessly struck down, casting themselves in a great and heroic role.

Of course, the part about how these great and heroic leaders abandoned their own ranks and fled alone with pockets full of dollars was not included in their tragic drama. When Kostava and Chanturia fled, they traveled light. Besides the funds provided by the United States and NATO, they also pocketed the dollars they had made from illegally selling helicopters and Humvees.

If those extremist rioters knew that the Humvees and helicopters they were supposed to have had were all converted into US dollars and pocketed by their movement’s leaders, one wonders what expressions they would have on their faces.

“Chanturia, we’re almost at the border.” Kostava shook Chanturia’s arm, trying to wake him. Their contacts were waiting for them at the border to help them escape this land of oppression. The car stopped at the borderline, waiting for the Turkish contact to appear.

This was a desolate, hilly area. Aside from some woods, there were only flat grasslands, offering a wide, unobstructed view. The weapons had been secretly delivered into Georgia through this very route. Who would have thought that a short time later, these two leaders of the popular movement would be fleeing this land, applying for so-called political asylum, and heading off to enjoy a life of comfort in Europe.

“I never thought we’d fall to this point,” Kostava said with some regret. He took one last look back at the homeland that had raised him, feeling a sense of helplessness at the thought of his impending exile. However, the assets under his name were enough for him to squander for the rest of his life, and at that thought, Kostava’s brow relaxed slightly.

“Who could have predicted this outcome? If Zviad hadn’t used us as scapegoats, we could have gotten more American aid, and the movement in Georgia could have continued.” Chanturia spoke shamelessly. He raised his hand and glanced into the distance, murmuring to himself, “Strange, why haven’t the Turkish contacts shown up yet? They should have been here by now.”

“Yeah, I also feel like something isn’t right.” Vaguely sensing a vibration in the ground, Kostava climbed up a small, nearby mound, only to see the one thing he least wanted to see.

“Damn it, it’s the Soviet army.” Kostava’s eyes widened. He never would have imagined that the Soviet forces had been lying in ambush here for a long time just to capture them.

Two Mi-24 helicopter gunships were flying toward them. The powerful downdraft from their rotating blades bent the grass at his feet and blew so hard that Kostava couldn’t open his eyes, forcing him to take a few steps back. Seeing that the situation was bad, the car’s driver was about to turn around and leave when a BMP-2 armored vehicle burst out from the bushes. Like a massive Great Bear, it blocked the car’s path of retreat with its body. The autocannon on the armored vehicle was aimed at the two men.

Dispatching an armored unit for such an ostentatious arrest was not an overreaction. It was a warning to another group of people on the border who were planning to make a move: in the face of the Soviet Union’s mighty armored power, everyone is insignificant.

And from the grasslands, Ministry of Internal Affairs soldiers who had long been lying in ambush swarmed forward, the muzzles of their Kalashnikovs aimed at the two despicable scoundrels.

“Don’t shoot, we surrender.” Chanturia and Kostava dropped their luggage and knelt on the ground with their hands over their heads. Their trembling figures were a far cry from the arrogant demeanor they had displayed during the student movement. Soldiers pushed them to the ground, bound their hands behind their backs, and shoved them onto the armored vehicle.

What awaited these two was the judgment of Soviet law.

And with the capture of Kostava and Chanturia, the Tbilisi riots were marked as completely and utterly over.

Chapter 88: The Propaganda Offensive

The Tbilisi incident greatly agitated the American government, and CIA Director Robert Gates, in particular, was exceptionally excited. The incident of Soviet troops suppressing a popular demonstration would undoubtedly become this year’s most sensational news story. What the Western world needed to do was launch a massive propaganda campaign to completely shatter the fragile trust the people had in the Soviet government.

Even if Yanayev possessed farsighted political vision and strategic prowess, a government that had lost the trust of its people would crumble amidst a chorus of condemnation. To this end, Robert Gates made a special trip to the White House to see President Bush, pleading with the President to approve a special budget to put the final nail in the coffin of the Soviet Union’s notorious “Evil Empire” reputation.

President Bush showed great interest in Robert’s plan. After the Khrushchev era, the Soviet government’s propaganda department had become bogged down in bureaucracy, causing them to steadily lose ground in the war of public opinion. The United States, on the other hand, under the CIA’s meticulous planning, had crafted a global image for itself as the leader of the Free World, and had disparaged the Soviet Union as an Evil Empire that threatened world peace.

“Propaganda just within the United States won’t be very effective, because the Soviet Union’s image is already deeply ingrained in the minds of our citizens. We need to use clandestine anti-Communist radio stations, newspapers, and magazines to inform the people of the various Soviet union republics of the atrocities the Soviet army committed in Tbilisi. This way, the already unpopular Soviet government will slide completely into the abyss.”

“We also need to distort the facts as much as possible, even resorting to spreading rumors and malicious slander if necessary. We will portray the Soviet Union as a stumbling block to world progress and use US dollars to fund their domestic intellectuals to help build momentum, creating an atmosphere where the Soviet government is unpopular both at home and abroad.”

Robert’s report could be described as an attempt to kill both body and spirit, and President Bush was, of course, very receptive to this approach. Soon, a campaign aimed at “peaceful evolution” was launched in the United States, waging a war of public opinion against the Soviet Union by supporting pro-democracy radio stations. They deliberately exaggerated the death toll in the Tbilisi incident, distorted the true cause of the events, and misrepresented the rioters as freedom fighters resisting tyrannical oppression. Meanwhile, intellectuals within the Soviet Union also gathered on a large scale for the first time since the imposition of martial law to express their support and sympathy for the Georgian people.

The entire Western world was trumpeting the Soviet Union’s brutal suppression and Yanayev’s bloody rule. Some reports even placed Yanayev on the same level as Hitler, sarcastically calling him one of the main culprits obstructing world peace in the twentieth century.

Just as all American reports were condemning the Soviet Union verbally and in writing, only Columbia Radio remained silent. Wallace, who had had in-depth contact with Yanayev, didn’t believe the narrative being pushed by the American mainstream media. He knew very well what kind of character the leader had. A cold, impersonal rationality is a common ailment among politicians, but Yanayev was far from being as despicable as the Western mainstream media portrayed him.

Just when everyone thought the Soviet Union would suffer another Waterloo in the court of public opinion, the Soviet Propaganda Department, under meticulous planning in Moscow, launched a counterattack.

Unlike their reporting on the Chernobyl incident, the Soviet Propaganda Department did not try to simply suppress information about the Tbilisi riots. Rumors die in the face of truth. The newspapers controlled by the Propaganda Department directly reported the full story of the Tbilisi incident, from cause to effect, and launched a massive wave of coverage, plastering it across their front pages.

Under Surkov’s leadership, the Soviet Propaganda Department cast off the rule of corrupt bureaucrats and burst forth with immense vitality. It was as if it had returned to the era of the great October Revolution and the heroic Great Patriotic War. The pens of the Soviet Propaganda Department became bullets, mercilessly piercing the enemy’s chest.

In photos deliberately rendered in black and white, there were heroic soldiers carrying little girls out of a sea of flames; the body of a civilian covered by a white cloth with just one hand showing; and bleeding people clutching their foreheads, staring at the camera with looks of pessimistic despair. Of course, there were also photos of ferocious rioters aiming their guns at civilians, and group photos of the opposition holding swastikas and making Nazi salutes.

All of this seemed to speak of the heavy pain that this group’s pursuit of so-called democracy and freedom had brought upon others.

Propaganda Minister Surkov, under the guidance of Yanayev, who was well-versed in propaganda warfare, downplayed the suppression that occurred during the day and focused on how cruelly the rioters had harmed the public. There were no highlighted images of glorious and great high-ranking Soviet officials, only the powerlessness, anxiety, and terror of ordinary people in the face of great historical change.

The publication of the reports quickly reversed the Soviet Union’s disadvantage in the public opinion battle. Those who had harbored disgust for the Soviet government, after seeing these reports, found their animosity significantly decreased, though they did not show obvious support.

The headline of the report even used that most famous line from the French Revolution, “O Liberty, what crimes are committed in thy name!” It was a sharp satire of the justice and freedom touted by the United States. The final paragraph of the report, in particular, was personally written by Yanayev, marking the beginning of the propaganda war.

“American politicians and media are always proud to label themselves the leaders of the Free World, while calling our Motherland an Evil Empire and our army ‘gray cattle.’ But what about the prevalence of McCarthyism and the widespread persecution of intellectuals with free-thinking minds? What about General MacArthur suppressing the peaceful march of World War II veterans? What about the police suppressing student protests against the Vietnam War and shooting people to death? What about the CIA instigating coups d’état all over the world, supporting bona fide military and monarchical dictatorships? They even shipped drugs back to their own country to lure African Americans into drug trafficking. You endlessly claim the Soviet Union threatens world peace with war, but how many people have died because of these actions by the United States? We don’t know, but it is certainly not a small number. Doesn’t America claim to be the champion of human rights and freedom? Why do you curse us for being a tyranny on one hand, while supporting real dictators as they slaughter their own people on the other? When the American government does these things, where does the sense of justice of the American media go? Why do you all choose to remain silent? Since you slander us as a symbol of tyranny, how then do you, who proclaim yourselves to be free, treat your own people?”

The official Soviet report was as sharp and satirical as the vodka so beloved by the Slavic people, using facts to counter the distorted and exaggerated reports from the Americans. America’s propaganda campaign quickly fell apart. Moreover, this report was not only widely reprinted in the Soviet Union; a specially translated English version was even picked up by Western journalists and reprinted in their newspapers, causing shock and an uproar in Western public opinion. In particular, the revelation of the Nazi-worshipping “People’s Front” was a resounding slap in the face to the Western journalists who had slandered the Soviet Union as being Nazi-like.

The English title of this report was “The Red Empire Strikes Back.”

Gone was the old, pedantic, bureaucratic propaganda format; a completely new Soviet Propaganda Department leaped from the pages of the newspapers.

That day, the people of the Soviet Union felt the roar and fury of the Red Polar Bear.

That day, a terrifying red alert once again sounded across the skies of Europe.

Hello, Free World of the West. After an absence of more than a decade, the Soviet Revolutionary Propaganda Department that once made you tremble has returned.

Now, are you ready to face our counterattack?

Chapter 89: A Just Trial

The trial of Chanturia and Kostava was not held in the Supreme Court of Georgia. Instead, they were extradited directly to Moscow to be tried in the Supreme Court. While this was somewhat inconsistent with the Soviet judicial system, given the complexity and sensitivity of the case, they were to receive their just verdict in the Supreme People’s Court of Moscow.

Unlike the trial three years ago, Chanturia and Kostava no longer appeared in court with the smug look of scoundrels who had gotten their way. This time, they were prisoners in chains, standing in the dock with their heads bowed to receive their sentence.

Outside the courthouse, a dense crowd of people, who had been following the case closely, had already gathered. After the widespread media coverage, no one believed they were innocent patriots any longer, but rather blood-soaked executioners.

When the court session began, the atmosphere grew tense and solemn. The judge and jurors took their seats one by one. As the president of the Moscow Supreme Court, the heavy responsibility of presiding over this case undoubtedly fell upon Chernov. As the old Tsarist saying goes, a judge holds a longsword to end evil in his left hand, and the scales of justice in his right.

And Chernov, in the name of the Supreme Soviet, would make these separatist elements accept the punishment of iron and blood.

Along with Chanturia and Kostava, the other captured separatist elements were also brought to trial. Before the Ministry of Internal Affairs could give them its “special care,” they had been scared into confessing all the details of the incident. They shifted all the blame onto the planners and conspirators of the tyranny, attempting to make Chanturia and Kostava bear full responsibility.

When Chernov declared Chanturia and Kostava guilty of murder, treason, and the secession of a union republic, and sentenced them to death, the two men nearly collapsed. Some of the so-called “democrats” in the gallery, refusing to accept the court’s verdict, tried to cause a commotion but were immediately driven out by armed guards.

Gritting his teeth and shouldering all the blame, Kostava dared not reveal that Zviad was the true mastermind. He remembered what Zviad had said to them under the dinner table that night.

“You can choose to flee Georgia after this tyranny, take the funds the United States gave you, and fly far away. Start a new life in the West. Or, you can expose my crimes to the Soviets and tell them I was the mastermind behind all this. But I can assure you, even if I end up on the gallows, someone will continue to hunt down your family members who have already been sent abroad, forcing you to live the rest of your lives in shadow. Kostava, your youngest son is studying at Colombia University, isn’t he?”

Zviad’s attitude made it clear that he intended to reap all the political rewards in Georgia for himself. If his two collaborators were unwilling to accept his terms, the consequences would be far more tragic than they could imagine.

“Yes, I confess to all the charges and accept the court’s verdict,” said Chanturia in a low voice, left with no other choice. He had made his decision: to die alone and save his family, rather than drag them all down with him into the political vortex.

Kostava, who had thought of struggling, was now completely disheartened and accepted the Supreme Court’s verdict.

The members of the democratic faction who were brought up after them lacked the calm composure of the two opposition leaders. They crumpled to the floor upon hearing the judge pronounce the death sentence. Some of them, university students, burst into tears, regretting that they had been led astray by others into joining the tyranny against the Soviet regime. They pleaded with the state to give them one more chance.

Judge Chernov listened patiently to their defense, then displayed photographs of the victims for all to see. He then spoke sternly to the group of young people who were so arrogant and had overestimated themselves, “If I forgive you, how can we face the people in these photos who died in the tyranny? When you acted, did you ever consider the feelings of those innocent citizens? I think not. And you never will. Therefore, we have no need to forgive you. Forgiving you is a matter for the priests and for God. We only need to send you to meet them.”

Everyone’s face turned ashen. Before their very eyes, Chernov had slammed shut the final door of hope.

“Retribution for them!”

“The Soviet will not spare its enemies!”

“You beasts, go to hell, all of you!”

As the condemned were escorted out of the courthouse, the indignant crowd outside roared in anger at the rioters. If not for the large number of police officers maintaining order, these people might have been torn to shreds by the surging crowd.

Before justice and order, no one was an exception.

No one who undermined the order of the Soviet Union could escape punishment. With the harshest retribution, Gennady Yanayev sent a message to all would-be insurgents: do not attempt to challenge the Soviet Union’s bottom line.

We will not be afraid.

January 7th, Russian Orthodox Christmas. On this day, with temperatures more than ten degrees below zero, Moscow was filled with a joyous and peaceful atmosphere. Everyone was gathered at home with their families to celebrate this festival of giving thanks to the Lord. An old woman, a devout Orthodox Christian, clutched a cross and sat at the dinner table, thanking the Lord for the gospel he had brought them. A little girl in a white headscarf leaned against a snow-covered windowsill, watching the snow weigh down the green boughs of the coniferous forest. Not far from their wooden house, the Volga River was frozen over with a thick layer of solid ice.

Suddenly, military trucks roared past on the dirt road outside the house. Aboard them was a group of people, their faces as colorless and pale as the winter snow itself. A steady stream of trucks passed by. The little girl was about to call her family to see the spectacle when her grandmother, her face filled with alarm, covered the child’s eyes. “Don’t look, Son,” she said, before reaching out a hand to draw the curtains and carrying her back to the dinner table to pray properly with the adults.

To her final prayer, the old woman added a single sentence, “May God forgive their sins.”

On a day that should have been for family reunions, a group of people, branded with the crime of treason, were sent to an execution ground by the Volga River. The biting wind dried their regretful tears. On the final leg of their journey, their only companions were remorse, stifled sobs, and silence.

The pale-faced Chanturia raised his head and looked one last time at the azure sky he had seen countless times. He forced a smile for the silent Kostava beside him. “Don’t look so mournful. Didn’t we bring this end upon ourselves? Of all the things to learn, we had to learn how to stage a coup. The most hateful part is that in the end, we were betrayed by our so-called political allies.”

The sound of Kalashnikov rifle bolts being pulled back was exceptionally jarring. Chanturia instinctively closed his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Zviad, don’t celebrate too soon. We’ll be waiting for you in hell.”

A series of gunshots echoed across the silent Volga, startling a flock of jackdaws from their perch in the trees. They flew, cawing loudly, deeper into the coniferous forest. The intermittent gunfire continued for fifteen minutes before everything fell silent once more. After the medical examiner had confirmed the prisoners were dead, soldiers from the clean-up detail dragged the bodies toward a cemetery of hastily erected crosses. Spilled blood stained the pure white ice, creating a chilling, dark red patch under the sunlight.

The script for the grandiose Georgian tyranny was thus brought to a close by Soviet bullets, a final, full stop.

Chapter 90: Scheming and Being Schemed Against

“Those people in Georgia are completely useless! We spent so much money providing them with weapons and funds, and this is the result we get! If I had known, I would’ve been better off saving the money and giving everyone at the CIA a bonus. That would have been more practical!” Robert Gates slammed the newspaper on his desk onto the floor. It featured an exposé on the alleged dealings between the CIA and the Georgian Democratic Front, complete with photos of innocent civilians killed by the Democratic Front during the unrest. The headline, “Taxpayer Money Used to Support This Gang of Rioters,” was a sharp, biting jab at the CIA’s actions.

Perhaps unable to stand the sight of a smiling Yanayev on the front page, Robert lifted his foot and stomped on the newspaper several times. The Voice of America radio, which they had previously funded, had become completely ineffective. The American homeland had even been counter-infiltrated, with secret radio stations advocating for a Red Revolution popping up. Of course, America had acted decisively to shut them down upon discovery, but the American people remained deeply worried, fearing the Soviet Union would continue its propaganda and infiltration through other means.

The Free World, which had intended to thoroughly outmaneuver the Communist bloc, had suffered a brutal counterattack. All their offensive tactics seemed to have been effortlessly neutralized by the other side, and were even re-purposed into weapons to be used against the Free World.

“Director Gates, the President is on the phone.”

Gates had just returned to his office when his secretary, holding the receiver, whispered to him. Robert Gates quickly put down his documents, took the phone from his secretary, and composed himself before speaking.

However, President Bush showed no signs of fury. He even asked about Robert Gates’s health with concern, which made Gates, who had been bracing for a reprimand, feel a little nervous. He couldn’t figure out what the President was thinking.

Finally, unable to wait any longer, Gates asked, “Regarding the Georgia situation, isn’t there anything you wanted to say, Mr. President?”

“Oh? You mean the Georgia situation?” Bush paused for a moment, then burst out laughing. “I was wondering why you sounded so down, Gates. Turns out you were worried I’d blame you for this.”

“Yes, sir. I botched the Georgia situation,” Robert Gates never hid his mistakes and apologized directly to President Bush. “What should have been prolonged unrest turned into a hasty uprising, and we were outmaneuvered by Moscow’s top brass on the public relations front. To be honest, President Bush, I have completely failed to live up to the trust you placed in me.”

“No, no, no, Robert, my friend. You did a fine job. There’s no need to blame yourself. I know you did your best.”

Bush’s hearty laughter made the CIA Director question his own reality. Did the Soviet Union collapse today? Why is the President so unusually ecstatic? He asked cautiously, “President Bush, may I ask why you are so relaxed? Have we achieved a major victory in our offensive against the Soviet Union on some other front?”

“My friend, there are some plans that even someone in your position isn’t privy to.” Bush’s tone grew calm. “Though the Georgian crisis may seem like a failure to you, in the grander scheme of things, it was an excellent start. It marks the first shot we’ve fired in our campaign to split the Soviet union republics. There are many more events to come that will give Moscow a headache. You just wait and see.”

Only the White House Chief of Staff and the presidential advisors who had gathered to discuss it knew what kind of plan they had formulated to dismantle the power of the Soviet union republics. This plan was so vast and complex that it involved nearly every union republic harboring separatist ideas. That was why Zviad could sit so fearlessly on the Georgian presidential throne even after firing the first shot for secession and failing. He knew very well whose dog he was, and he knew his value to the Free World. That was why he would not fall.

Even now, sitting in the Kremlin and facing Moscow’s supreme leader, Yanayev, he showed no signs of guilt or panic.

“I have to say, President Zviad, you are indeed the most audacious union republic leader I have ever met.” Yanayev spoke as if two old friends were having a casual chat, yet his words were laced with murderous intent. “Always able to find a reliable master, while also pleasing your master’s enemies, and managing to thrive in between. You are more like a Georgian fox—cunning, without a single flaw.”

Kostava and Chanturia were merely pawns he had sacrificed to appease Moscow. Georgia could only have one leader, and his former allies and collaborators had now become stumbling blocks.

“I am flattered, President Yanayev.” Zviad nodded calmly and said, “I assume you didn’t summon me to the Kremlin just to have tea, did you? To call me to account? The main culprits of the unrest have already been executed. There’s nothing more to be said, is there?”

Moscow indeed had no evidence that Zviad was directly involved, but Yanayev, who saw things as clear as day, was well aware of Zviad’s ploys. He was still waiting—waiting for the moment Zviad’s masters behind the scenes launched their full-scale offensive, so he could play the trump card he held in his hand.

“Call you to account? You’re overthinking it, President Zviad.” Yanayev said slowly, smiling as he tossed an appointment document in front of Zviad. “I am planning to reinstate Patiashvili as the First Secretary of Georgia to assist you, the President, in managing daily affairs.”

Zviad’s eyelid twitched. He hadn’t expected Yanayev to pull a move like this. The Tbilisi incident three years ago had made him and Patiashvili bitter enemies. Moscow’s top leadership was making it clear they intended to hold Zviad back.

“If I were to refuse, it would seem most unwise of me as the President of Georgia.” Zviad chuckled and reached for the appointment letter, but Yanayev seized his wrist. Staring at Zviad’s face, his tone hardened. “You don’t have to see this appointment as a counterattack. Of course, as far as I’m concerned, Georgia isn’t worthy of being threatened by Moscow. I am well aware of the deals you’ve made with the West behind our backs, and I also know exactly what your passive performance during the unrest signifies. Did you really think our team of aides couldn’t see what the Americans were doing?”

“And?” Zviad maintained his smile. “So what if you see it?”

“Nothing. Moscow has long had its thunderous methods of war prepared. We are just waiting for them to make the first move.” Yanayev released Zviad’s hand. “Of course, to prevent you from leaking this information, we will have to inconvenience President Zviad by having you stay in the Kremlin for a while.”

Zviad was momentarily stunned. He hadn’t expected Moscow to pull a stunt like this. He asked in a cold voice, “Is this house arrest, President Yanayev?”

“Of course it is,” Yanayev replied bluntly.

Chapter 91: The End of the Public Intellectuals (Part 1)

(First update, three today, three thousand words each.)

In mid-January 1992, Moscow’s political scene was rocked by another small “earthquake.” Comrade Vladimir Volkov, privately referred to by the people as Gennady Yanayev’s successor, was appointed Deputy Minister of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. As the former executive organization of the Soviet Union’s Great Purge, the somber upper echelons of the Ministry of Internal Affairs welcomed a young, energetic newcomer, leaving everyone to anticipate what Comrade Volkov would achieve in this post. After all, no one doubted his capabilities; the young Deputy Minister of Internal Affairs had previously been a fearsome KGB agent.

This marked the gradual infiltration of the forces bolstered by Yanayev into Moscow’s top circles. On the front of public opinion, he had Surkov as his vanguard. For internal control, he had Volkov of the Ministry of Internal Affairs as his strongest shield. For the Soviet Union’s most profitable cash cow, arms sales, he had Chemezov as his moneybag. Even in the military, some generals who had been suppressed but were now reinstated, such as Ogarkov, were grateful to Yanayev.

Yanayev’s inner intention was simply to have Volkov better understand how the Soviet Union’s violent machinery maintained its domestic rule, so that when he took power, he would know whether to throw separatist elements like Solzhenitsyn or Boris Yeltsin into the Kazan psychiatric hospital or the Gulag concentration camps—or perhaps exile them to each in turn.

January 14th was destined to be no ordinary day. On this day, Gennady Yanayev urgently summoned Comrade Vladimir Volkov, Comrade Boris Pugo, and the Chairman of the KGB, Comrade Kryuchkov. The gathering of the three comrades responsible for maintaining domestic security held an implication that was hard to fathom.

Outside the Kremlin, a snowstorm raged. The thick doors insulated the room’s temperature from the ice and snow of the outside world. The charcoal burning in the stove crackled, and the sparks that flew brought the warmth of spring to the sealed space. However, for the three communist comrades sitting on the sofa, the silent atmosphere was no different from the cold outside.

The atmosphere was somewhat heavy. Yanayev was patiently flipping through a report, seemingly with no intention of getting up to speak with the three men. Volkov, feeling a bit awkward, rubbed his nose from time to time and glanced at the two older comrades beside him.

After all, Kryuchkov and Pugo were old comrades who had been coming and going from the Kremlin for years. They displayed an exceptional strength and composure, sitting upright and orderly. But the occasional glance they exchanged told the other that they, too, had no idea what was happening. Although they were Politburo comrades from the same term as Yanayev, they found the mind of this man, who had displayed such thunderous methods during the August 19th Incident, increasingly difficult to read.

After a long while, Yanayev finally closed the report, stretched his neck, and looked up at the three comrades who were nearly staring at the ceiling in a daze. He spoke apologetically, “My apologies, comrades, for keeping you waiting.”

Just as Kryuchkov was about to say something polite, he was interrupted by Yanayev, who suddenly rose from his seat. He picked up the three red files by his side and handed them to the three men. Kryuchkov, Volkov, and Pugo respectfully took the files. Before they could even open them, Yanayev began to explain their origin.

“These are articles from a propaganda newspaper secretly printed by Yakovlev, the former editor-in-chief of Moscow News, and Korotich, the former editor-in-chief of Spark Magazine. Everyone knows that we revoked the publishing rights of the so-called free press after martial law was declared in Moscow. But now it seems these public intellectuals are restlessly jumping out again to continue peddling their theories. Here, let me read to you how these people are spreading rumors and slandering the legitimacy of our regime.”

Yanayev cleared his throat and read directly from a news article in the file, “The pursuit of freedom, equality, and human rights is the inborn right of every individual. But the vile Soviet Union, the vile Communism, is like an obstinate monster obstructing the progress of all humanity. They use their so-called noble ideals to brainwash the people they rule, telling them that America is wrong, that the Western world is decadent—it is all so ridiculous. The most detestable thing is that they have concealed the truth and deprived the masses of their right to know it. Here, we will profoundly expose the untold darkness of the Soviet…”

Yanayev also read, with dramatic flair, several examples cited in the newspaper, such as the Gulag concentration camps, the Katyn Forest, the Tukhachevsky affair, and Kazan prison. Pugo’s heart pounded with fear as he listened. The further Yanayev read, the more it confirmed his suspicion: General Secretary Yanayev was finally going to move against the pro-democracy intellectuals.

“General Secretary Yanayev, are you preparing to make a move on the intellectuals? Isn’t that somewhat inappropriate right now? After all, our political situation is not yet stable,” Pugo asked bluntly after Yanayev had finished reading.

Pugo, who had once been adept at handling political purges, became hesitant when facing public intellectuals, holding back from taking action for fear of repercussions. After all, Gorbachev had opened up freedom of public opinion for so many years; to revert to the old ways, they had to consider the sentiments of the masses.

“Yes, that is why I have summoned you here.” But Yanayev deliberately let out a cold snort and continued, “However, I do not wish to hear Comrade Pugo go against the will of the Party’s Central Politburo on this major issue.”

Yanayev had elevated his personal opinion to the will of the Party’s Central Committee, a clear sign of a dictator. But to set the country back on the right track, he had no choice but to accept the role of a Tyrant.

“No, that’s not what I mean. I’m just saying that if the situation gets out of control, it could deteriorate beyond our expectations and control. Moscow has just barely made it through its first harsh winter peacefully. We can’t send ourselves to Louis XVI’s guillotine.”

Pugo’s every word struck a nerve. Even Kryuchkov chimed in to advise him, “Perhaps we can deal with these people when things are more stable. But the situation is still turbulent right now. Having just pacified the situation in Georgia, we are not yet ready for Russia to fall into crisis.”

“Listen to me, both of you,” Yanayev interrupted the admonitions from Kryuchkov and Pugo and explained his approach. “I don’t intend to just crudely arrest those people and throw them in prison. I just want to use another method to make these public intellectuals complete public enemies. That way, when we arrest them, neither the ironclad facts nor the lies we fabricate will provoke public resentment.”

“What method?” Kryuchkov and Pugo asked in near unison upon hearing Yanayev’s words.

“Prohibition,” Yanayev said. “Or rather, having those public intellectuals jointly petition to implement Prohibition.”

There was a saying that circulated in this land of Siberia: the overthrow of any regime ruling the Russian people was often accompanied by the birth of a prohibition law. In 1914, Tsar Nicholas II issued a prohibition order, which lasted until the Romanov dynasty was overthrown in the October Revolution of 1917. In 1985, Gorbachev once again issued a prohibition order, yet six years later, the Soviet Union had completely withdrawn from its rule over this land.

How could the Slavic people, who loved alcohol as much as life itself, tolerate a future without alcoholic beverages? For public intellectuals to jointly petition for Prohibition would be to make themselves the absolute enemies of the people.

“But they aren’t fools. Why would they willingly and consciously sign a joint petition to implement Prohibition?” Volkov asked, somewhat confused.

“Comrade Volkov is right, General Secretary Yanayev. How could they be foolish enough to walk into such a trap?” Kryuchkov expressed his disagreement with the plan Yanayev had proposed.

“Of course not. These so-called intellectuals are just a group of cunning foxes who use the slogan of democracy as political capital or as a means to seek profit. But don’t forget, right now, only the Central Government has the right to publish newspapers and periodicals.” Yanayev smiled sinisterly. “Since the intellectuals enjoy spreading rumors to attack the state, we can do the same to discredit them. A joint petition? We can even fabricate the contents of the petition. Don’t forget, public opinion is on our side now. Whatever we say the intellectuals said, the people will naturally believe that’s what they said. Oh, and we’ll also have to call their petition ‘a noble act of national heroism’.”

“These people who blindly believe the words of others are the most pitiful and ignorant,” Volkov said, shaking his head helplessly.

“I understand. By then, the reputation of the so-called public intellectuals will become notorious among the people who love their alcoholic drinks. They will want to publish clarifications in the newspapers, but they will be helpless because we control the narrative. This way, with no way to clear their names, their reputations will be utterly ruined. Those who live by the sword shall die by the sword. They would never have imagined that the rumors they used against the government would one day come back to haunt them.”

Pugo said this almost with a laugh, clapping his hands. He hadn’t expected that neutralizing an offensive of public opinion could be so effortless.

“Then, we will publicize their collusion with foreign-funded organizations. It would also be best to find problems in their personal lives and conduct. We will never mention that we’re sending them to a ‘new Gulag’ because of public opinion. Instead, we will reveal to the masses what kind of people these proponents of liberalism truly are.”

To kill the body is not as cruel as to kill the spirit. What Yanayev was doing was the cruelest form of killing the spirit. When one learns that the freedom and democracy advocated by the public intellectuals are nothing but filthy water from a gutter teeming with maggots and trash, it is uncertain if one could, like the people of India, kneel by the Ganges, scoop up a handful of Salmonella, and drink it down with tragic heroism.

“Democracy fighters, your achievements will go unknown, but your foolishness will last forever! Drink this bowl of Ganges water, and be reborn as an Indian in your next life.”

Chapter 92: The Doom of the Public intellectuals (2)

(Second update)

The most terrifying curse circulating within the Soviet Union wasn’t that you were about to be investigated by the KGB, the Ministry of Internal Affairs, or the Disciplinary Inspection Committee, but that the guys from the Soviet Propaganda Department were coming to have a chat with you. As the Tsar Bomba of Soviet public opinion, it began a complete transformation starting from the incidents with Boris Yeltsin and Gorbachev. It was no longer the “gray cattle” of World War I, retreating step-by-step in the face of Western peaceful evolution, but a fearsome Red Army charging with shouts of “Ura!”

Gennady Yanayev’s reporting on Yeltsin exposed his corrupt side in a manner almost befitting a tabloid. All the events were accompanied by photographs and precise details—even the American aid he received was listed down to two decimal places. This was a world away from the previous dry, formulaic news reports, making it far more persuasive.

From the savior of the nation, he became a clown despised by all. The free thought that the Soviet Union had spent decades painstakingly guarding against was beaten back by the newly established Soviet Propaganda Department with just pen and paper.

When it came to seizing the high ground of public opinion, Gennady Yanayev was more experienced than anyone. Liberalism wasn’t invincible. Continuously elevating a certain ideology to such a height creates an awkward situation. The moment this ideology shows the slightest irrationality or flaw, the ensuing collapse will be swift and terrible. Since you Americans flaunt freedom and human rights as the most advanced and rational ideology in the world, I can just as easily raise a thousand negative examples to oppose it.

Yanayev knew what the Soviet people wanted was a complete eradication of corruption and an improvement in their quality of life. They were not deliberately opposing Communism in pursuit of freedom and democracy. It was just that a few individuals with ulterior motives who, under the banner of overthrowing the Soviet, were pocketing the nation’s wealth, turning the people’s Soviet into a Russia ruled by oligarchs.

As for those intellectuals who naively clamored for democracy, only to discover after the collapse that nothing went according to their script, they chose what they thought was a noble suicide to atone for their sins. Yanayev had always looked down on such useless cowards. Harming the country while they were alive, and still hoping for supreme glory after death? In their dreams. People like you should be crushed by the wheels of history and turned to dust. Let you see the fate of a mantis trying to stop a chariot.

When Yakovlev went out in the morning to queue for bread, he decided to buy a newspaper as he passed a newsstand. As he was about to pay, he suddenly noticed that the people around him were staring at him strangely. Puzzled, Yakovlev examined his reflection in the mirror at the newsstand but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

When he turned to grab the newspaper and leave, he found that even the newsstand owner was looking at him with a malicious gaze. Yakovlev subconsciously touched his thinning hair and asked, “Comrade, what on earth are you all looking at?”

The owner moved his index finger to the newspaper in Yakovlev’s hand, pointed to a particular section, then pointed at Yakovlev. “Are you the person in this newspaper?” he asked, his tone unfriendly. “The one called Yakovlev?”

“Yes, that’s me,” Yakovlev said. He unfolded the paper and saw that he was on the front page of the Moscow Daily. Besides his old friend Korotich, more than twenty other journalists, commentators, and writers also had the honor of being featured on the front page.

The headline of the article was ‘Heroes of the Soviet, the Intellectuals Who Jointly Petitioned for Prohibition.’ At the end of the report, the government stated that it had always been closely monitoring the health of the Soviet people and would seriously consider the feasibility of reintroducing the Prohibition.

This was a joint letter expertly crafted to stir up the people’s hatred. In the lies fabricated within the text, Yakovlev was quoted as denigrating those who drank as being as base and filthy as livestock. He was also said to have mocked that for the sake of democracy and freedom, these people should be thrown into the coal mines of Siberia, for only the coal cinders there could tolerate workers and peasants who stank of alcohol and sweat.

“I really didn’t write this, I swear!” Yakovlev, his face on the verge of tears, said to the old man who had already stepped out from behind the newsstand. More and more people on the street recognized the prominent figure and began to gather around, aggressively denouncing Yakovlev.

“Do you drink or not? Don’t tell me you’re not even a man, that you don’t even drink. If you don’t explain yourself today, don’t even think about leaving here.” A burly man cracked his knuckles with an audible pop, looking as if he was about to beat Yakovlev to a pulp right there on the street.

“Wait, it’s not what you think. I don’t even know what’s going on yet,” Yakovlev stammered, his face flushed red in the face of the aggressive crowd.

“And what right do you have to slander us workers and peasants? Just because you can write a few articles? Pah! What good are people like you to the country and society? You even dare to call us livestock that reeks of sweat and filth. I’m telling you, even if the KGB takes me away later, I’m still going to beat you up!” Another man had already grabbed Yakovlev by the collar, his other hand poised to punch him in the face.

Just then, a quiet voice came from the crowd, “I’m with the KGB. You all carry on, I’ll just pretend I didn’t see a thing. If the police come, I’ll handle the explanation.”

And so, amidst the righteous indignation of the masses, the pitiable Yakovlev was punched and kicked. Even his glasses were trampled and shattered in the scuffle. It was only then that he finally understood: the fury of the masses was no less terrifying than the suppression of the violent machinery. What was most hateful was that when the Ministry of Internal Affairs police—the very executioners he had cursed a thousand, ten thousand times in his articles—arrived, they simply assessed the situation, then stood to one side, laughing and chatting, showing no intention of intervening to save him.

At that moment, Yakovlev understood that without the protection of law and order, he was nothing. The very people he had once incited against the Soviet now saw him as the enemy, and the law enforcement agencies he had unconscionably criticized now chose to stand by and watch this public intellectual get a taste of the people’s tyranny.

After the crowd dispersed, Yakovlev, beaten so badly he couldn’t get up, lay half-sprawled on the ground, whimpering and cursing the mob, cursing the police who had left him for dead. He swore he would make them all pay. Of course, Yakovlev had no idea that the entire scene had been captured by a hidden KGB camera: the incensed crowd, the “helpful” Ministry of Internal Affairs police, and the battered Yakovlev, his face still a mask of indignation as he lay on the ground. It would be the headline for tomorrow’s paper.

Only after being sent to the hospital for treatment did Yakovlev learn that he was not the only one to suffer. The other public intellectuals who had been slandered in the same joint letter had also met with misfortune. Some had cold water thrown on them while out shopping; others were pushed from behind, falling into the snow and unable to get back up. Like Yakovlev, they were sent straight to the hospital.

The public intellectuals learned firsthand the consequences of angering a nation that loves its vodka.

Taking advantage of a quiet moment after leaving the hospital, Yakovlev, his head wrapped tightly in bandages, made a call to Korotich from a public phone booth. “Hello, Korotich? It’s Yakovlev. I wanted to ask if you saw that joint report. Yes, that one. We’ve been set up. I don’t know who wrote that so-called joint report, but I’ll make them pay!”

Korotich, who was quicker on the uptake than Yakovlev, gripped the receiver tightly. Avoiding his family, he stretched the phone cord and walked onto the adjacent balcony, lowering his voice as much as possible. “Yakovlev, don’t you see it yet? There’s no secret plotter. This is the government itself setting us up!”

“What?” Yakovlev was clearly stunned by this news.

“Yes. If I’m not mistaken, the attacks on us public intellectuals will continue. Oh, God, ever since the other newspapers were shut down, the Soviet Propaganda Department, which now holds the upper hand in public opinion, has started to slander us. They’re using the one thing the masses oppose most—prohibition—to sling mud at us. The Soviet finances are already in such a dire state, how could they possibly give up the substantial revenue from alcohol? Would the government really just abandon a significant fraction of its fiscal revenue? Do you honestly think the government is stupid enough not to see that the joint letter is a fake?”

Korotich continued his analysis, “You and I both need to be careful. There will be more slander and rumors coming for us. And there’s nothing we can do, because not a single newspaper will publish our clarifications. The initiative is entirely in Moscow’s hands. We’re just lambs to the slaughter!”

“We have to mobilize the people, demonstrate, protest the government’s interference with the press,” Yakovlev said, his voice filled with emotion. “Maybe we can go out and protest ourselves, let the masses know we are innocent!”

Korotich put a hand to his forehead. “It’s useless, Yakovlev. Knowing Moscow as I do, you wouldn’t even make it onto the street before you were surrounded and beaten by a mob. The guys in the Propaganda Department are even more terrifyingly skilled at inciting people than we are. And they must be working with the Ministry of Internal Affairs or the KGB. They spread the rumors, and the KGB monitors us, observing our situation.”

“If you’re not willing to surrender, then flee. The aid from America plus a political asylum application should be enough for you to live in the West. If this continues, what other good outcome is there for you besides the Kazan psychiatric hospital?” Korotich hung up the phone, not knowing what kind of expression Yakovlev would have on the other end after hearing that last sentence.

The Soviet Union’s violent machinery was no longer the direct and brutal retribution of the past; it had become more cunning, leaving no trace. It forced you into opposition with the people, then used various means to grind you underfoot. This was simply the tyranny of democracy!

Korotich glanced at the letter on his desk, which he had just started writing. The ink on the first line was not yet dry. It was just a concise salutation and a rather helpless phrase.

“Dear American Embassy, I am the writer Comrade Korotich, persecuted by the Soviet authorities…”

Chapter 93: The Last Days of the Public Intellectuals (3)

Just as Korotich was hastily applying for political asylum to go enjoy the free Miami sunshine in America, the unlucky Comrade Yakovlev once again made the papers, becoming the target of public criticism. The photograph presented in the newspaper this time was rather thought-provoking. Comrade Yakovlev, having been beaten by others, was shown refusing help from the police, glaring at them with wide, furious eyes, as if he were being deliberately unreasonable.

When the official Soviet news media launched a propaganda offensive, it was far more terrifying than anything the public intellectuals could muster. Simply by changing the order of the photographs, they could present a completely different story. It was made to look as if Yakovlev was completely ungrateful to the government, even somewhat reproachful.

What the masses were thinking was no longer something Yakovlev could guess. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had become a laughingstock among the populace, or a public enemy who attracted universal hatred.

The Soviet Propaganda Department was methodically destroying his life, and yet Yakovlev remained helpless. He didn’t even dare to go out on the street, because as soon as he did, people would point and whisper, “That’s the newspaper editor who was mobbed by the crowd for supporting Prohibition.”

Besides Yakovlev, the other public intellectuals were not faring any better. The Soviet Propaganda Department, as the state’s mouthpiece, seemed to have sunk its teeth into this group, determined not to let go until they were utterly ruined and discredited.

But what Yakovlev found hardest to accept was Korotich’s farewell. He had successfully obtained a ticket to the United States through political asylum. Korotich only told Yakovlev about it the day before he left, which left the latter feeling utterly betrayed.

Seeing him off at the airport, Yakovlev could still not forget the last words Korotich said to him. He gave Yakovlev a hug, patted him on the shoulder, and said quietly, “Get out of here. We’re no match for the Soviet Union.”

Yakovlev shook his head. An idealist, he had been bent on dismantling this extremist regime ever since he learned of the Great Purge, to bring true freedom and hope to the people of Russia.

“Go, Korotich. Leave this place and never come back. I will continue to strive for the cause you’ve left unfinished, until this evil regime is completely dismantled by our collective efforts.”

In Korotich’s eyes, Yakovlev’s persistence was a joke. Freedom? Everyone knew they were just America’s watchdogs for destroying the Soviet Union with public opinion. Where did all this idealism and romanticism come from? But Korotich couldn’t bear to burst his bubble. He simply smiled at Yakovlev, then waved goodbye.

A few days later, as expected, Yakovlev saw Korotich’s long list of sordid crimes in the newspaper, including accepting aid from the United States and maliciously slandering and fabricating Soviet history. Many of the charges were unrelated to subverting the regime, but they were enough to ruin Korotich’s reputation. The paper read, “Since the public intellectuals demand that the government treat the people with integrity, then may we ask how they themselves have maliciously smeared Soviet history? If your democracy, your freedom, is merely about achieving ulterior motives through unscrupulous means, then get the hell off this land and go conspire with your masters in the West. One day, we will be thankful that the nation’s voice was not usurped by such a group of people.”

“Damn Soviet Communist Party, they’re nothing but unreasonable devils!” Yakovlev threw the newspaper to the floor and stomped on it viciously. This reminded him of how the papers had previously outed another public intellectual as a homosexual. In an era when people were not so tolerant as to publish such things, the report had used the most venomous language to mock the writer and his “special癖好.” This same writer had previously published an article insulting the Red Army of the Great Patriotic War, demanding to know why they hadn’t all been killed by the Nazis.

The final result, of course, was that the writer jumped from the fifth floor, dying on the spot. A man must always pay the price for his actions, mustn’t he?

This was the creed of the Soviet Propaganda Department: since the public intellectuals wouldn’t play by the rules, they shouldn’t blame them for being unscrupulous, despicable, and cruel.

Yakovlev lay in a daze on his bed day after day, watching the clock on his desk tick by, second by second, completely powerless. Having lost his job and the people’s trust, he had nothing to his name besides the aid money from the Americans. But he knew very well that if he continued like this, even the Americans would abandon him once he had lost all his value.

“I have to find something to do,” Yakovlev said as he sat up, propping his chin in his hand and thinking.

Just then, a knock sounded at the door of the quiet room. Yakovlev got out of bed, walked to the door, and glanced through the peephole. He saw two strange men standing outside. He asked warily, “Who is it?”

One of the men outside held up his credentials to the peephole and said in a low voice, “We’re from the KGB.”

So the inevitable had come? Yakovlev took a deep breath. He was prepared to become a martyr, a victim of Soviet persecution. Whether it was the Kazan psychiatric hospital or a so-called new Gulag, so be it. Let his blood awaken the deluded masses.

Yakovlev opened the door with a look of grim determination. He said to the two grim-faced agents at his door, “It’s for the crime of subverting the state, isn’t it? I’ll go with you.”

“You misunderstand, Comrade Yakovlev. We’re not here to take you in for questioning,” one of the KGB agents explained.

Yakovlev almost thought he was hearing things. The KGB had come to his door personally—wasn’t it to suppress free speech?

“As you can see, our Soviet Propaganda Department needs to hire some people familiar with America, familiar with the Western world, to serve as editors-in-chief for newspapers under its banner. We wanted to ask if you, Comrade Yakovlev, would be interested?” One of the men glanced at Yakovlev’s messy room and said unhurriedly, “Of course, if you are willing, the newspapers under the Propaganda Department will withdraw their accusations and propaganda attacks against the intellectuals. Moreover, we will provide you with a much better house to facilitate your work.”

“Co-opting me? To become a lackey for your violent machinery? In your dreams!” Yakovlev said with contempt.

“We don’t need you to sing the praises of the Soviet state. We just need you to report on America—ah, especially the true, negative news. Oh, that’s right. Actually, your friend Korotich has already agreed to cooperate with us. He’s using the pretext of political asylum to hide in America and collect negative news for us. Of course, we paid him a very handsome sum.”

The KGB agent’s words hit Yakovlev like a bombshell. A double agent? Korotich’s face became a blur in his mind. Recalling the meaningful words Korotich had spoken before leaving, Yakovlev finally understood. For money, Korotich was truly willing to do anything.

On one hand, he took a salary from the Americans, molding himself into a representative of the opposition to Soviet persecution. On the other, he was secretly taking payment from the Soviets, sending every last detail of America’s negative news to Moscow. Yakovlev gave a bitter smile. Korotich, my friend, you’ve won, and won spectacularly.

The trap set by the Soviet Propaganda Department was indeed brilliant, so brilliant that Yakovlev now felt like an out-and-out fool.

“With all due respect, Comrade Yakovlev,” the habitually unreasonable KGB agent was actually reasoning with him, “you really think your colleagues are fighting against totalitarian rule? You’re wrong. They just want to carve out a sizable piece of the pie from the political game between the US and the USSR. Whether it’s the Soviet Union or America, as long as the benefits are sufficient, these people will use their reputation among the masses to become anyone’s watchdog. The ideals you hold so dear are worthless in their eyes, not even as valuable as a Ruble on the ground.”

“Also, nearly half of the public intellectuals have already accepted our terms. They are willing to report on America’s dark secrets for us, to expose the underbelly of American society to the Soviet people. They aren’t really fighting for democracy; they are just using these methods to gain more benefits.”

“Don’t say any more!” Yakovlev cut off the KGB agent’s glib talk. “I’m begging you, stop!”

The look of despair in Yakovlev’s eyes was that of a man who realizes everyone else was just pretending to be a fool while he was the only one who was truly stupid. The agents had only ever seen such an expression—the look of a man whose spiritual pillar had been shattered—on prisoners in the KGB’s secret prisons.

“I won’t agree. I will never become your accomplice. Never,” Yakovlev’s tone was very calm, the kind of unusual composure that comes after experiencing heart-wrenching pain.

Surkov had previously asked Gennady Yanayev what they should do if these people refused their terms and remained stubborn. Yanayev’s answer was simple: completely shatter their spiritual beliefs. Even if they were unwilling to throw themselves into the great cause of building socialism, they wouldn’t be able to stir up any trouble.

“That’s a shame. We’ll be leaving now. Take care, Comrade Yakovlev. The Soviet is with you.” The two KGB agents politely exited Yakovlev’s room.

Yakovlev slumped to the floor. A shattered faith was no different from having one’s soul ripped out. To think that after all these years of running around for the freedom of the Soviet people, all he got in return was an idealistic scam.

Yakovlev opened a drawer. Inside was a revolver. He had once fantasized that if the KGB ever came for him, he would use this gun to commit suicide in a blaze of glory. But he never imagined he would pick up this gun not to die for freedom and justice, but because his ideals had been shattered.

“To hell with your damn democracy, to hell with your hypocritical freedom! All of you go to hell! You’re all cut from the same cloth as the totalitarians!”

After writing this short suicide note on a piece of paper, Yakovlev picked up the loaded pistol, shoved the barrel into his mouth, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

Chapter 94: The Soviet Invaders Are Back

(First update)

Unlike the idealist Yakovlev, who met a tragic and unsung end, Korotich—who played all sides for personal gain—was lauded by the Western media the moment he arrived in America, just like Solzhenitsyn had been. They portrayed Korotich as a tragic hero who had opposed the Soviet Union’s totalitarian rule, and he was showered with flowers and applause from the people of Miami. He was even invited to give lectures at American universities, recounting his years of “struggle” against totalitarianism in the Soviet Union, and he made sure to mention his good friend Yakovlev. Even Time magazine did a feature on him. On the cover, a melancholic, stubbled Korotich was made out to be a Hemingway-esque tough guy.

On the surface, Korotich stood firm in his opposition to Communism. In reality, he was a conduit through which all kinds of negative news about American society were continuously being sent back to the news offices in Moscow.

In stark contrast to the celebrated Korotich, Yakovlev’s funeral was so desolate it was heartbreaking. This true liberal had become a tragic figure whom no one wanted to see. His former allies had undergone a complete transformation, becoming the government’s hounds and severing all ties with him. Before his lonely tombstone, there was only a representative from the Soviet Propaganda Department holding a bouquet of white flowers, and a verdant pine tree, its branches bent low by the weight of the snow.

Even if the deceased Yakovlev had known, he would have been astonished. No one could have predicted that the last person to stand before his tombstone and see him off would be the mouthpiece of his lifelong totalitarian enemy: Soviet Minister of Propaganda Surkov.

“Yakovlev, you were still a bit naive. Once the liberals are controlled by a group of opportunists, the first thing they do is push out true idealists like you. Then they turn the entire movement into a cesspool of political opportunists who fool the people.” Surkov placed the flowers before the tombstone and gently brushed away the snow, revealing Yakovlev’s final epitaph.

I did my best. Now I shall sleep forever in this land I so dearly love. Please tell my Motherland that I love her.

“When nobility becomes a passport for the despicable, and despicability becomes the epitaph for the noble, this era is even more wretched and absurd than you could have imagined.” Surkov put his hands in his pockets, gazing at the swirling snow and the countless tombstones that stretched as far as the eye could see. He spoke slowly, “Unfortunately, this country doesn’t need an idealist like you. It needs a pragmatist who can actually save the regime from crisis, someone who can suppress that group of arrogant and domineering opportunists.”

Surkov’s soliloquy seemed to mock Yakovlev’s futile efforts, yet it also carried a hint of sympathy for a disillusioned idealist. After a few minutes of silence, Surkov left the empty cemetery. He cast one last glance at Yakovlev’s tombstone and sighed.

It was like a silent farewell.

After leaving the cemetery, Surkov returned to the Kremlin to meet with Yanayev. Because Surkov was an extremely quick study, Yanayev had given him free rein, entrusting the entire Soviet Propaganda Department to his charge. Yanayev would only personally step in to offer guidance on major public opinion events.

The car drove into the Kremlin. Surkov got out and, without pausing, headed straight for the President’s office. From the moment he had been summoned, he knew that another war, one without smoke and gunpowder, was brewing.

The enemies of the Soviet Union had never let up. And of course, neither had he.

“Comrade Surkov, you’re here. The General Secretary is waiting for you in his office.”

In the hallway, Surkov unexpectedly ran into Volkov, who was just leaving the President’s office. He had been reporting to the General Secretary on the Ministry of Internal Affairs’ latest work summary. Through a propaganda offensive and carefully designed traps set by the ministry, some uncooperative public intellectuals had been caught in sting operations and brought to the Ministry of Internal Affairs headquarters. These men, usually so self-righteous, quickly broke down under harsh interrogation, tearfully confessing their crimes and begging the Party and the state to give them another chance.

What they confessed was beyond even Volkov’s expectations. He could only shake his head at the moral decay of the world, thinking that it took all sorts to make a world. These sanctimonious hypocrites were even more sordid in their private lives than the bureaucrats.

Not a single one of the convicted public intellectuals was found guilty because of free speech. This group was, in itself, the nation’s vermin, the public enemy. The scandals dug up from their lives were far more sensational than a simple charge of suppressing free speech.

Maggots and flies of the empire, the Soviets will crush you underfoot, never to rise again.

“Comrade Surkov, you’re finally here. Have a seat.” As soon as Surkov entered, Yanayev greeted him warmly and handed him a folder.

“What is this?” Surkov hadn’t even taken off his coat as he prepared to open the file in his hands. He knew that every document the General Secretary handed him marked the beginning of a media war.

“Take a look. This is the new propaganda offensive I’ve designed.” Yanayev stretched. Fortunately, even though the body he had crossed into was at least a decade older than his previous one, his memory had not faded. He was still able to spend a whole night writing down some memory fragments from his past, making a few slight modifications to turn them into a new Soviet propaganda report.

“‘I am a Soviet Invader’?” Surkov frowned and asked, “Isn’t a title like this a bit too… suggestive?”

Of course, by “suggestive,” Surkov was politely saying it was too aggressive, fearing it might cause panic or resentment in the Western world. But Yanayev had never concerned himself with such things. After the Soviet Union collapsed, didn’t the West continue to sanction and exploit Russia anyway? And didn’t they later denigrate the newly appointed Russian president as a tyrannical Tsar? How was that any different from the excuse of a Communist dictator?

For them, there would always be an excuse to attack Russia, until the polar bear could no longer stand. Only then would they stand on its corpse and gleefully carve out their share.

Only a disarmed Soviet Russia, with its economy and its people’s standard of living in a hopeless state, would be qualified to join their camp. The European nations, fond of their internal strife, always seemed to forget one thing: while they were consumed by infighting and their sun was setting in the west, on another continental plate, an empire was rising, eyeing them covetously, ready to change the world order the West had established.

“Don’t be so hasty. Keep reading, Comrade Surkov,” Yanayev said, taking a sip of coffee. By the time Surkov had finished reading the script, he couldn’t help but slap his thigh and cheer.

“This is… it’s just too… I don’t know how to describe this script,” Surkov said, so excited he was nearly incoherent. “It’s simply perfect! A resounding slap in the face to the Western world! Of course, they’ll pretend not to see it, but at least it will help our people see clearly who the true savior of Europe is.”

“Yes, I plan to turn it into a video that showcases the might of the Soviet Union. It would be best to select the most awe-inspiring scenes from our Zapad-81 military exercise and edit them into the script,” Yanayev said, not as visibly excited as Surkov. He patted Surkov’s shoulder and encouraged him, “This glorious and arduous task is yours, Comrade Surkov.”

In Russia, where computer technology was lagging, this was the only way Yanayev could produce a promotional film. To create an animation with the quality of a cutscene from a modern warfare game in this era? That was just a dream.

“I will not fail this mission.” As if he had discovered a new world, Surkov began to brainstorm how to open the video to best express the grandeur and solemnity of the Soviet military and the nation’s power.

After returning to his department, Surkov wasted no time in assembling his people to begin production of the promotional film. Surkov’s think tank was not composed of the rigid types from the bureaucratic clique, but a group of truly talented and imaginative free-thinking patriots. Surkov firmly believed that a propaganda offensive could only achieve its best effect in a free space, away from the stifling bureaucratic system.

Three days later, the team members, their eyes ringed with dark circles, submitted four proposals. Surkov selected the best of the four and began to revise it, continuing to refine it until the more open-minded members of Moscow’s high command were satisfied.

“Hello, European powers. I am a Soviet invader…”

Beginning in such a domineering fashion, the Soviets were about to deliver another massive shock to the Western world.

Chapter 95: I Am a Soviet Aggressor

(Second update complete)

A few days later, a video began to circulate among the Western media. Yanayev had not taken the route of an official propaganda release. Instead, it was framed as a video created by Soviet citizens, recorded, and sent to several Western media outlets. Titled I Am a Soviet Aggressor, it naturally caught the attention of the official media in Europe and America.

“Hello, great powers of Europe. I am a Soviet aggressor.”

“Aggression is my specialty. Just look at my history of aggression. From the Khanate of Sibir to the Ottoman Empire, from Kamchatka to France, from the Central Asian khanates to Germany. That’s right, this is how I crushed the enemies who dared to threaten Russia’s survival with an iron hoof.”

The video began with an aggressive tone. A swarm of An-series heavy transport aircraft from the August 1st military exercise blotted out the sky, and the dense charge of armored formations on the plains brought to mind an unstoppable iron torrent, creating a terrifying illusion that to even think of stopping them was utterly absurd and ridiculous.

“I once occupied Siberia. Now, it produces oil, natural gas, and aluminum, along with a variety of other products. The cities I built there have the best hospitals and kindergartens. Its people no longer need to sell their women and animal pelts. Yes, the Soviets did all of this.”

“I occupied the three Baltic states. The fertile farmlands and power plants there were built under my watch. The Baltic states produce famous perfumes, high-quality electronics, and the best automobiles. But now, they tell Communism to get off their land. They would rather welcome a group of politicians who can only offer empty promises than accept a regime that does everything for the people.”

“I occupied Central Asia. There, I built laboratories and radio stations, and launched space rockets from Baikonur. There are also hospitals and stadiums. I manufactured satellites, rockets, and missiles there, making the flower of industrial civilization bloom on barren land. I helped its people develop their own agriculture, growing enough wheat and cotton to meet the needs of the rest of the country. After they had everything, they told me to get out of Central Asia. Fine. In the few years since we left, all they do is stand on the streets holding signs to protest their current government.”

“I occupied Ukraine. After that, Ukraine began to produce the world’s largest aircraft and ships, as well as tanks and armored vehicles. Later, they started agitating for separatism, constantly destroying everything we had built, yet achieving nothing of their own.”

The video cut to clips of the crowds throwing firebombs during the Tbilisi incident, the masses cheering with ‘Long Live Freedom’ signs during the August 19th Incident, and the people of Fergana wailing in anguish as their homes were burned down by rioters.

“Yes, I am an aggressor, and I am tired of apologizing. I am fine. I am busy. Because I was born a serial killer, Ivan the Terrible. Fear me.”

“I was once forced to burn Moscow to prevent it from falling into Napoleon’s hands. But what happened to Napoleon?”

“I also sat in trenches waiting for Nazi tanks, feeling it was impossible to stop their advance. But what about those bastards now? Their leaders are cursing Hitler for ruining Germany.”

“Many other aggressors have come to my home: the Turks, the British, the Poles, the Germans, the French. The Soviets have prepared enough land for you all—two and a half square meters per person. So cut the act. We don’t need your strange values. We don’t need your hypocritical democracy, your political elections ruled by money. I have my own way. But let me give you a final, gentle warning: don’t mess with us. I love peace, but I also possess an iron torrent capable of steamrolling Europe and intercontinental missiles that can land with precision anywhere in the world. Because we are good at war.”

Sincerely, from the peace-loving and struggle-ready people of Russia.

The video concluded with a Tu-95 strategic bomber unleashing a sky-full of munitions. A mountain, blanketed by the aircraft’s missiles, was flattened by the bombs. The Russian people were sending their enemies the simplest, most brutal warning: do not try to provoke the Soviet Great Bear, or their end will be miserable.

The Soviet government offered no official comment on the video, even feigning ignorance of the incident. But the people in the West truly felt what was meant by “Retribution from the Communist bloc” and what a “real propaganda film” looked like.

“It’s absolutely terrifying! This is a threat to liberalism!” The Times published its take on the news. “While the Soviets are threatening us, what is our government doing? The empire on which the sun never sets, which once possessed a navy that made the world turn its head in awe, is now no different from the French navy. If you ask me, Great Britain is finished.”

The reaction from a Paris newspaper was completely different. Perhaps playing its usual contrarian role among the European Union nations, it criticized its own government while praising and affirming the Soviet Union’s military strength.

“I firmly believe there are only two kinds of armies in the world: our abysmal French army, and the one that belongs to someone else—the Soviet Red Army. Of course, some will try to refute me by bringing up the glory of the Napoleonic Empire. Please, times have long since changed. We taxpayers spend so much money every year contributing to national defense, and what does the government give us in return? Repeated defeats on the battlefields of Vietnam and a shameful record in the Algerian War. My God, if I were the commander-in-chief, the first thing I’d do is resign and apologize to the entire nation.”

While the people of Britain and France had differing attitudes, the American people also joined in the fun. In a tone that revealed they were enjoying the spectacle and eager for more drama, they suggested that if the Soviet army was really that powerful, they shouldn’t bully the pitiful European Union. They should just cross the Bering Strait and land on the West Coast of the United States to fight them.

For a time, the media and the internet were flooded with a clamor of opinions, with headlines like “The Terrifying Iron Torrent,” “The Invincible Army,” “Just Look at Their Weapons,” and “Come and Get Me If You’ve Got the Guts.” Once again, the Soviet Union had given the world a surprise—or rather, a shock.

Of course, this was all just casual banter. The ones who were truly afraid were the union republics that wanted to break away. The Soviet-released video was clearly not aimed at the West or the United States, but at the nationalist forces, like those in Georgia, that were agitating for separatism.

Naturally, the propaganda film’s deterrent effect on them was minimal. They weren’t afraid of the Soviet Union’s mighty military power. In fact, to achieve their so-called ideal of independence and autonomy, these people were willing to make the people of their republics pay any price. Yanayev never expected a single propaganda film to make these fanatics turn back; he just wanted to give them a heads-up, so they couldn’t say he hadn’t given them fair warning.

It was just as Zviad, the Georgian President under house arrest in a KGB prison, had said: unless the Soviets used war and blood to twist off the heads of all the nationalists and hang them from the lampposts, they could never hope to stop the runaway train of national separatism.

Yanayev’s reply was just as imposing. He told Zviad directly, “As long as even one such person exists, the gears of the Soviet war machine will not stop turning. Only when the head of the very last national separatist is chopped off will the butcher’s knife in our hands cease its swing. Then, we will show the people the heads piled up like a hill and tell everyone: this is the price for tearing the country apart.”

“And of course, Zviad, you are no exception.”

In the dim room, illuminated only by the faint yellow glow of a single lightbulb, Yanayev’s expression took on a chilling severity. He was like a cold serpent coiling around Zviad’s neck, squeezing until he couldn’t breathe.

The fearsome Soviet violent machinery, and the equally fearsome iron-fisted General Secretary.

Chapter 96: Both Sides Are Preparing

“All of you present here are elites in our propaganda offensive against the Soviet Union. Your contributions during the Gorbachev era are there for all to see, and they are worthy of everyone’s praise.”

Robert Gates’s voice was icy, even colder than the wintry sleet outside the Virginia window. Everyone present swallowed hard, staring nervously at the CIA Director to see what he would say next.

Robert Gates was in no mood to be cheerful, and it was all because of that supposed videotape from the Soviet civilians. The US government had failed to intervene the moment the media aired it, and the situation had since snowballed out of control, creating a massive impact on public opinion. Getting the media to back down now was impossible.

Fortunately, the impact on public opinion wasn’t negative; it had merely shown the Soviet Union’s situation and taken a jab at the United States. So, President Bush had simply reprimanded Robert Gates, telling him to learn his lesson and prepare to counter the next round of the Soviet propaganda offensive.

But there are always exceptions. The propaganda materials submitted by those desk-jockeying CIA elites left him deeply dissatisfied.

After comparing the drafts with that so-called ‘I Am a Soviet Aggressor’, the CIA Director, who had just been reprimanded by the President, became even more displeased. No matter how he looked at it, the submitted proposals were inferior to the Soviet’s propaganda, which had struck right at the heart of the American Dream.

“But what is this crap you’ve submitted to me now!” Robert Gates slammed the file hard on the table, startling everyone sitting around it. He huffed and said with displeasure, “Although I am not your direct supervisor and don’t have the authority to reprimand you directly, allow me to be blunt: what all of you have written is garbage.”

Indeed, the Americans’ propaganda offensive had initially been all-conquering, but this was entirely due to the ossified and corrupt nature of the Soviet bureaucratic clique’s own propaganda efforts, which had allowed liberalism to gain more and more traction in the Soviet Union. The new generation of the Propaganda Department, however, clearly possessed ample resources and a distinct advantage on the anti-liberalism front.

“Take it all back and revise it! Three days. I’ll give you three more days. In three days, I want to see a perfect report, or you’ll all be scrubbing toilets in the cleaning department.”

The elites in their sharp suits nervously clutched their proposals and left, leaving Robert Gates alone in the conference room, fuming and smoking a cigarette. The competitive mindset forged during the Cold War rivalry between the US and the USSR was that if you had a better weapon, I had to produce an even stronger and more terrifying one. The same applied to propaganda—it was a vicious, self-perpetuating cycle.

“Relax, my friend.” Owen, the CIA director in charge of propaganda, came in when Robert’s anger had subsided a bit. As a former Georgetown University classmate and a close friend, Owen had achieved remarkable success in propaganda offensives against other communist countries.

For instance, after Tito’s death in Yugoslavia, when waves of nationalist separatist forces rose one after another, it was Owen’s team that acted as the puppet masters of propaganda behind the scenes. It was precisely for this reason that Robert felt confident entrusting the propaganda offensive against the Soviet Union to his good friend.

“I know you don’t want to make things difficult for me, but it puts me in a tough spot when you go over my head and scold my team directly. Now I have to go back and encourage them, tsk tsk tsk.” Owen lit a cigarette. He knew Robert had always looked out for him, so this time he was here to give his old friend a reality check at a critical moment.

“Look, it’s so boring to always be publicizing how the Soviet people live under totalitarian rule without any personal freedom. We need to show the country across the Pacific Ocean the freedom and beauty of democracy. Haven’t they always claimed we exploit our workers? Well then, let’s just show them how good the workers’ benefits are in the Free World.”

“Propaganda aimed at the Soviet world? I’m afraid the effect would be minimal.” Robert mused for a moment, then said, “Moscow has already banned the publication of democratic newspapers. The Soviet public might not even get to see this video at all.”

“My old friend, you don’t understand the American government.” Owen flicked the ash from his cigarette and chuckled. “We’re just doing this to appease the administration, to give them some consolation after being so-called ‘humiliated’. It’s like shadowboxing to comfort yourself after being bullied, you get it?”

“Our leaders don’t expect this propaganda war to recoup any great losses. They just want Americans to know that we live better than the Soviets.”

Owen stubbed out his cigarette, flicked the butt in a parabola through the air, and it landed perfectly in a trash can three meters away. He smiled and said, “Bingo,” then turned back to Robert. “Of course, if we could actually strike back, I think that would be incredibly exciting.”

An ocean away in Moscow, Minister of Propaganda Surkov also summoned his elite aides. First, he affirmed everyone’s achievements. Unlike other bureaucrats, he didn’t take all the credit for himself. Instead, while Yanayev was praising him, he attributed the success to his elite team, humbly stating that he was ashamed and had only done a small bit of work.

“Alright, comrades. Your astonishing ingenuity has made the higher-ups in Washington feel as stupid as pigs. Now, I want everyone to keep up the good work and give those American rednecks another Soviet surprise.” Surkov clapped his hands, congratulating the group of young people.

Unlike the tense atmosphere at the CIA, where no one dared to breathe too loudly, Surkov was exceptionally skilled at livening up his team. He didn’t come across as a rigid, harsh bureaucrat at all, but as the vibrant leader of the Soviet Propaganda Department.

“American imperialism will feel the wrath of the communist iron fist yet again. Now, let’s think about how we can make Uncle Sam show that flustered and exasperated face of his once more.” Surkov snapped his fingers. “And if I’m not mistaken, after this latest propaganda offensive, the Americans will definitely retaliate.”

“However, the target of their counter-propaganda probably won’t be the Soviet people, because we currently control all the media and have reinstated the press censorship system.” As one of Moscow’s key strategists, Surkov quickly pointed out the target audience to his team of aides. “American imperialism will certainly target its own people, telling them not to be misled, that America is a land of freedom where so-called human rights issues absolutely do not exist.”

“Then let’s attack them on the issue of human rights.” A skinny young man pushed up his glasses and said, shaking his disproportionately large head, “Every country is the same; America definitely has its own human rights problems. We just need to continuously amplify their human rights issues, turning a small stain into a black page. That should achieve a great propaganda effect.”

The young man mumbled again, “Anyway, they’re always calling us a totalitarian state. We’re used to it. They never come up with anything new, so calling us that again would just be the same old cliché.”

His colleague next to him quickly poked him in the arm, signaling for him to shut up. He then glanced back at Surkov and breathed a sigh of relief only after confirming the minister wasn’t angry.

Surkov shrugged to indicate that it was fine. After all, since Gorbachev, the KGB’s crackdown on the public’s freedom of speech had already been reduced significantly. In Yanayev’s era, the KGB had become a Sword of Damocles hanging over liberal elements and corrupt bureaucrats, ready to present their every move on the KGB Chairman’s desk at a moment’s notice.

Yanayev viewed them as the two great culprits that had destroyed the construction of socialism, and he would absolutely not allow the Soviet government under his rule to repeat the same mistakes.

“Alright, comrades, go back now and gather evidence of America’s sins. Leave these insatiably greedy capitalists with nowhere to hide. In seven days, I want to see a final version.” Surkov gave them a tight deadline.

“Why seven days?”

“Isn’t seven days a bit too short?”

“Yeah, just collecting the material and writing the draft could take three days alone.”

The group immediately erupted in discussion, with many politely suggesting the deadline was too short and asking for a few more days. But this time, Surkov did not indulge these comrades who were holding the line on the propaganda front. He said bluntly, “Because I have a hunch the Americans will launch their own propaganda offensive next week. So what you need to do is, the moment they release their message, slap them right back across the face!”

Chapter 97: Who Is the Real Dictator?

Things went exactly as Surkov had predicted. No sooner had the Soviet Union released its “I Am a Soviet Aggressor” production than America immediately launched a counterattack with a production of its own: “Free America.” The video not only showcased the might of the American military, the stable and prosperous lives of its people, and a dazzling array of consumer goods, but it also presented the history of the American people’s centuries-long struggle for freedom and independence.

From the moment the Mayflower landed on the shores of North America, to the shot fired at Lexington in 1775 that marked the start of the American people’s war for independence, to the issuance of the Declaration of Independence in 1776, and then to the sounding of the horn for the American Civil War in 1861—the historical scroll unfolded all the way to the heroic Battle of Midway during the Second World War. Throughout it all, the video consistently conveyed the nation’s core belief: that freedom and equality were the common hope and pursuit of all American people.

The atmosphere and tone were very well crafted. Unlike the Soviets, who deliberately emphasized tragic grandeur, this video’s gentle, narrative-style storytelling added to a sense of the American people’s trust in their country, as well as their support for the shameless dream of “One America, One World.”

America was clearly trying to use this video to draw a comparison with the backwardness and material scarcity of the Soviet Union. In their view, the Red Empire was a monstrous war machine, an extremist regime that cared nothing for the living standards of its people.

After seeing the news reports, President Bush praised CIA Director Robert with great satisfaction. Although this propaganda offensive was an instance of the CIA exceeding its authority, Bush wasn’t one to quibble now that it had achieved the desired effect.

“Well done, everyone.” In high spirits, Robert opened a bottle of champagne in his office to celebrate. He raised his glass and said with a smile, “Come, a toast to our victory.”

But the so-called elites merely forced a smile. They didn’t have his energy; to counter the latest Soviet campaign, they had gone nearly four days without sleep. Plan after plan had been rejected, until they had begun to question if their own lives had any meaning.

“To victory,” they all toasted in listless, lazy tones, celebrating another great triumph over the Evil Empire’s propaganda offensive. Only director Owen, standing to one side, silently lit a cigarette. His weary expression couldn’t hide the anticipation in his eyes. Standing thirteen floors up, he gazed out at the brilliant, flowing lights of the city at night through the floor-to-ceiling window and muttered to himself.

“Heh, I wonder what kind of brilliant new offensive our interesting opponents will launch in the next round.”

Of course, if they could have seen how the Soviets would effortlessly neutralize all their hard work, one could only imagine their expressions of utter devastation.

When news of the American propaganda film reached the ears of Moscow’s high command, they merely smiled, seemingly unconcerned. They had been holding a trump card all along, just waiting for the Americans to release this very film.

Soon, a package addressed from the Soviet Propaganda Department arrived in the mailbox of Columbia Television. When a staff member opened it, they found only a single videotape inside with the words “Who Is the Real Dictator?” written on it. When they played the tape, they realized its contents were no different than opening Pandora’s box. After watching the entire tape, the staff member gritted their teeth and asked the director standing beside them what to do with it.

The director recognized this as an opportunity to boost ratings, but he didn’t know if copies of the tape had been sent to other television stations. The sooner a tape like this was broadcast, the higher its ratings would surely be, and the more likely they would be to beat out the other stations.

So, without a second thought, he told them to broadcast the video.

Of course, a director at another station had the same idea and also released the tape at the first opportunity. And so, another propaganda film with a profound impact (and a crippling blow) on American society was broadcast by major television stations, each scrambling to be the first.

The proletariat have no country because they seek to break the chains of the old world and build a truly equal society. The capitalists have no borders because they would sell out their own country for profit.

On this day, the big screen in New York’s Fashion Square, the broadcast from Columbia Television, and the news programs on home television sets all felt the shockwave of Soviet propaganda.

“From its founding to the present day, the Soviet Union has been called a brutal Evil Empire by the Western world—a prison for its people and the number one threat to world peace. Unfortunately, history has been repeating itself in another country, one that has never faced the judgment of justice.”

The person narrating these lines was a man in grease-stained blue work clothes, a proletarian so ordinary in appearance he could not be more so. There was nothing remarkable about him, but the content and tone of his words carried a power that shook the soul.

On the large screen behind the man, images and clips flashed by in rapid succession, many of them depicting the dark history of American rednecks enslaving others.

“But by the time you see this propaganda film—of course, we are speaking only to your government—that so-called ‘brutal Russian monarch’ has returned. This time, he does not play the part of an aggressor, but rather the symbol of Themis, the goddess of justice.”

“Western leaders have always imagined that we are the threat to world peace and freedom. They press in on us with missiles and bombers, seeking to turn the Soviet Union into a world truly ruled by their own clique of brutal dictators.”

“The American government emphasizes freedom and equality, yet the world and its people pay for your brutal tyranny with their blood. Even as you watch this video, the American Indians are living lives filled with discrimination. They use the Thanksgiving turkey to shamelessly commemorate the days they slaughtered the Indians, and they have nearly wiped the true inhabitants of this land from existence.”

“Even as you watch this video, Black people in Queens, New York are engaged in drug dealing, robbery, and other violent crimes. Their lives remain mired in poverty. They have never been treated as equals since the days of the slave trade. Although Lincoln issued a proclamation abolishing slavery, to this day, Black people are still the primary targets of police attention. For no reason, other than the color of their skin.”

“Even as you watch this video, American workers are suffering the cruel exploitation of capitalists. Perhaps you don’t know that April 1914 was the month of the Ludlow Massacre of American workers. The unarmed working class, for protesting the harsh working conditions imposed by the Rockefeller family, was met with bloody suppression and merciless slaughter. So, will you still believe the rhetoric from the Western world, that they are a fair and just nation?”

“At this very moment, people all over the world are living in suffering under American intervention, and yet you call the Soviet Union the brutal dictator.”

In a New York square, low-paid white-collar workers stopped their hurried pace. They all looked up, watching the man on the screen, his every move seemingly an echo of their own silent cries.

A down-and-out artist, busking with his violin on a street corner, looked up. He stared at the facts being laid out, one by one, and remained silent for a long time.

A group of Black men brawling on the street stopped throwing punches, quietly listening as he spoke his final words.

Unlike the wealthy class, who sat on their sofas and watched this broadcast with a sneer, the people struggling at the bottom of American society seemed frozen in this moment, utterly silent.

Yes, the hardworking people had forged a national wealth that made the whole world proud, yet a small cluster of rich elites had taken it for themselves, brazenly eroding what little wealth the common people had. Tear away that hypocritical mask, and the exploitation and oppression of the bourgeoisie is the true theme of the American Dream.

“At this very moment, the Soviet Union is saving the world, helping you take back true freedom and democracy from the hands of the Americans, yet you choose to stand by and watch. When they came for the Communists, you did not speak out. When they finally come for you, there will be no one left to speak for you.”

“Anyone can call this video propaganda from the Soviet Propaganda Department. Comrades of the Western proletariat, when you feel that the capitalists have become good people, when you think they’ve suddenly grown a conscience and started to care about your lives and welfare…”

The man in the video’s eyes suddenly took on an astonishing brilliance, shining as brightly as the North Star. He slowly spoke the final, rousing words.

“Remember, it’s because the Soviet Union still exists!”

Chapter 98: Joy Turns to Sorrow

If there was ever a perfect illustration of the term “self-contradiction,” it would be the actions of the American government over the past three days. First, it grandly proclaimed “God Bless America,” praising the United States as a nation of freedom where one could speak one’s mind without being censored. This was a veiled jab, implying America was completely different from the largest totalitarian state on the European continent.

However, just three days later, after the Soviet propaganda film “Who Is the Real Dictator” had aired on major television stations for only a single day, it was ruthlessly banned by the American government. The reason, of course, was that it maliciously slandered and discredited the American administration. The government demanded that all television stations stop broadcasting the video. Although some stations grumbled slightly, they still chose to pull it.

Only the television stations in Texas declared that it was their freedom and right to broadcast whatever they chose, as long as it didn’t violate the Constitution. Moreover, they argued, the propaganda piece recounted public American history—what reason was there to pull it?

And so, the fiercely independent people of Texas announced that they would obediently remove the video from their television stations only if the federal police could overcome the laws of Texas and the weapons in its people’s hands.

The actions of the Texan people were undoubtedly a resounding slap in the face to the American government. But at the very least, it made one thing clear to the people of the world: the American news media was not completely free; it operated under the strict supervision of the government as well. From now on, who would dare to speak of freedom of the press in America? They would first have to face a dose of Communist Retribution.

The Bush administration suffered at least two humiliating setbacks this time. First, just after extolling “Long Live Freedom,” they went back on their word and banned their opponent’s propaganda film. Second, they didn’t dare take direct action to force the defiant Texas television stations to ban the news piece. This was undoubtedly a very embarrassing affair for the American government.

Even from Moscow, on the other side of the Pacific Ocean, General Secretary of the Soviet Union, Comrade Yanayev, gloatingly sent a congratulatory message, stating that the people of Texas were the true hope for freedom and democracy in America.

Poor Director Robert once again became the target of President Bush’s fiery wrath. This time, it wasn’t just a simple reprimand but a blistering tirade. Bush directly cursed him for his incompetence, saying that even a pig would do a better job in the CIA Director’s chair.

With the mission to thoroughly mock the United States finally complete, Comrade Surkov, who hadn’t slept well in days, could at last breathe a sigh of relief. He rested at home for two days. On the third day, he received a call from Yanayev, who told Surkov to bring his team of aides; he had prepared a victory banquet for them at the Kremlin.

The General Secretary’s personal invitation left them feeling overwhelmed by the favor. These people, who, aside from Surkov, had never met any other high-ranking Kremlin officials, were at a loss. They even cautiously asked Surkov what kind of attire would be appropriate to wear to chat and laugh with the General Secretary.

Surkov’s answer was to just be casual and not too nervous. “You’re about to meet the most easygoing leader in many generations,” he told them. But the team members, who had heard tales of the cruel Tyrant of the Kremlin, didn’t seem so convinced.

However, the affability Yanayev displayed at the banquet truly exceeded the team’s expectations. These young people, who loved to immerse themselves in the vast classics of literature and occasionally looked up to observe Soviet politics, discovered for the first time that this leader was not as terrifying as the rumors claimed. Instead, he seemed like a kind elder sharing his life experiences with them.

This wasn’t a grand commendation ceremony. Besides Surkov and his team, only Yanayev and Pavlov were in attendance, but the presence of these two high-level Soviet officials held more weight than any number of other people.

“Everyone, please relax. Let’s not make the atmosphere too gloomy. Everyone here is a comrade who knows each other, haha. Except for myself and Comrade Pavlov, there are no outsiders. Let’s try to treat this like a gathering of friends. I’d rather not have people saying the master of the Kremlin is a stiff and uninteresting fellow.”

Raising his wine glass, Yanayev’s amiable demeanor made those present who weren’t used to such grand occasions secretly breathe a sigh of relief, and they gradually began to relax.

“Your achievements are plain for all to see. You have dealt a heavy blow to the arrogance of the American imperialists and given the Soviet people a boost of confidence. Here, on behalf of the nation, I thank you for your contributions. We will not attribute the credit for your contributions to any single leader. Instead, it is you who are steadfastly saving our ideals, our great socialist construction.”

Yanayev gave a slight bow to the young people, which left them feeling quite overwhelmed. A national leader bowing to ordinary citizens—this was something unprecedented. Tell me, which high and mighty Soviet leader before him was ever willing to lower their noble head to the masses? During their long years in power, trapped ever deeper within their political ivory towers, they seemed to have forgotten one thing: the Soviet regime comes from the people, and likewise, their power comes from the people.

“President Yanayev, I feel that you aren’t cruel like the rumors say. You are a very kind and benevolent leader.” One of them, a man whose intelligence clearly outstripped his social grace, suddenly uttered these rather taboo words. Surkov, who had just taken a sip of red wine, nearly spat it back out onto the table.

Beside them, Comrade Pavlov was momentarily taken aback before breaking into a smile, and he watched with a gloating expression to see how Yanayev would answer this tricky question.

Yanayev was stunned for a moment. He hadn’t expected the young man to be so direct. Still, he nodded at him and said with a smile, “Young man, you are very brave to ask a question that everyone wants to know the answer to but dares not ask. Whether or not I am a brutal sovereign depends on who I am facing. If I am facing the enemies of the Soviet people, you will see a cold-blooded and ruthless Tyrant. If it is the people I wish to protect, then you will see an amiable and approachable leader.”

Yanayev’s answer was watertight. In fact, he had been living by this very conviction ever since he had crossed over: to serve the people and fight for Communism.

Yanayev’s words earned everyone’s approval. Surkov, who had been on edge just a moment ago, finally breathed a sigh of relief. He carefully raised his head to glance at Yanayev, only to find their gazes meeting. Yanayev simply smiled at him as if he wasn’t bothered in the slightest. He raised his glass and said, “Tonight, let us toast to the first step toward a great victory.”

“Cheers!” Everyone stood up, their glasses clinking together with passion.

After the toast, everyone returned to their seats. Having completely shed their inhibitions, they now treated the reception as a gathering of friends. Watching these vibrant young people, Yanayev couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret. If only he had crossed into someone like Volkov.

A little younger, and he could still do so much more.

A little younger, and the situation wouldn’t be as dire as it was now.

However, Yanayev’s happiness didn’t last long. Minister of Defense Yazov suddenly burst in, startling everyone present. He cast a grim look at Yanayev, then took a step forward and whispered, “I’m sorry, General Secretary Yanayev. There’s trouble in Chechnya.”

With a crash, the wine glass in his hand fell to the floor. Even Yanayev himself couldn’t believe it. That Chechnya would choose this critical juncture to rise up in rebellion.

“Let’s step outside,” Yanayev said, his face ashen. He and Yazov walked out, closing the door behind them.

Chapter 99: Fanatical Chechnya

(Second update)

Gennady Yanayev had not expected that Chechnya, having lost Georgia’s support, would be the first to launch a military coup. He also hadn’t expected Dudayev to still choose armed separatism even without becoming Chechnya’s president. This was not a good development for Yanayev’s plans.

He had originally thought the first to rebel would be the rootless Baltic states. For this reason, Yanayev had specifically moved against Georgia first, as he knew Georgia was the financial backer supplying weapons to Chechnya. Successfully controlling the situation in Georgia was tantamount to cutting off the fertile ground where Chechen independence could grow, preventing the potential for a future Chechen War.

However, history continued on its fixed trajectory. For instance, half an hour ago, Dudayev had overthrown the legitimate authority of Kamalev, the General Secretary of the Soviet Chechen Autonomous Oblast, and declared the independence of the Chechen Republic. Prior to this, he had secretly established an armed organization loyal to the Chechen separatist forces, meant to confront the Soviet Union’s war machine.

The troops under Dudayev’s command launched a sudden attack, storming the lightly guarded Soviet government building. Soon, the outnumbered First Secretary Kamalev was arrested. Soldiers holding Kalashnikov rifles grabbed Kamalev by the collar, threw him violently to the ground, and stomped on his face.

Kamalev, his face covered in blood, was dragged into a car like a dog. A soldier in the passenger seat holding an Uzi submachine gun kept watch over him. The car soon started. Kamalev did not know where these people were taking him, but an ominous feeling lingered in his heart, refusing to subside.

All along the route, patrolling armed soldiers could be seen. They were systematically imposing martial law on the streets and alleys of the capital, Grozny. Many innocent civilians were arrested, forced to line up against a corner with the muzzles of guns pressed against their backs.

The car turned left ahead, entering a wider road. Gunfire rose and fell here. Armored vehicles continuously transported armed militants forward into the conflict zone, which was wreathed in thick smoke and the sounds of explosions. Kamalev knew that these were GRU soldiers loyal to the Soviet Union exchanging fire with the armed militants. But Kamalev was not optimistic about the combat effectiveness of the Soviet government’s forces. Dudayev’s rebellion had been meticulously planned for a long time; compared to these disorganized GRU troops mounting a spontaneous counterattack, his men appeared far more elite.

“The higher-ups say there’s fighting ahead. We’re to take another road,” the soldier in the passenger seat said to the driver.

The driver nodded, turned the steering wheel to the right, and drove the car into a narrow alley. At this point, Kamalev could no longer hold back. He couldn’t help but ask, “Where on earth are you taking me?”

“To a place you ought to be.” The man in the passenger seat wore a somewhat savage smile as he looked at Kamalev. He turned his head back to face forward, not worried about Kamalev escaping, but concerned that Soviet troops might suddenly appear to rescue the man.

He didn’t visibly relax until they reached the end of the alley, for he saw Dudayev’s forces reappear in his line of sight. This meant the separatist forces had defeated the Soviet army, taking another step in the direction of Chechen independence.

It was only then that Kamalev saw the true, brutal face of these separatists. People who followed the Eastern Orthodox Church were captured by the militants and lined up against a wall. Then, the militants raised their guns and fired wildly at them. The pitiable citizens fell in swathes like harvested wheat, collapsing into pools of blood.

For them, what was the point of their fight if not to send heretics to Hellfire?

At that moment, a broadcast from loudspeakers set up everywhere caught Kamalev’s attention. Dudayev’s speech about the armed rebellion was also capturing the attention of other fundamentalist believers.

“Today we gather to strive for the future of Chechnya.” Dudayev’s words were bewitching. The armed men surrounding him cheered in unison, as if welcoming their great leader. Fanaticism had consumed their minds, turning them into pure killing machines.

“We once suffered greatly under the oppression of Communism, forced to move from this land. But today, we have returned. This is a great return, a return to truly find our home in our hearts. Today, everyone, stand with me and fight for our liberation!”

A tide of cheers deafened Kamalev. His face pale, he seemed to have already foreseen what would happen next. The car drove to Grozny’s central square, where a large number of armed militants had gathered, as if waiting for his arrival.

The car stopped. The door was opened, and a pair of burly hands violently grabbed Kamalev by the collar and dragged him out of the vehicle. He was held like an animal as he was dragged along the ground. People around them began firing into the air, turning the scene into a frenzied Kalashnikov carnival.

Dudayev, his expression rather stern, walked up to Kamalev and helped him to his feet. His eyes were cold, like a venomous snake sizing up its prey. Two soldiers beside him grabbed Kamalev’s arms and pushed him into the center of the square. Cameras were already set up, waiting for the final protagonist: Kamalev, the First Secretary of the Chechen Autonomous Oblast.

Dudayev spread his arms and shouted to the crowd, “Today, let us fire the first shot in our declaration of war on the Soviet Union. This man is a lapdog of the government that oppresses us. Today is his last day, and it is also the last day of the Soviet Union!”

As Dudayev said this, he seemed to have forgotten that he himself was once the Commander stationed in Estonia. Kamalev wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t. He knew very well that he was about to be killed. But wasn’t a Communist Party member always prepared to sacrifice himself?

Dudayev held an M1911 pistol. Kamalev had no interest in finding out where he had acquired such an American weapon. The short time he had left was best spent on fond memories.

He walked up to Kamalev, disengaged the safety, and aimed it at his forehead.

“Do you have any last words?” Dudayev asked.

“Of course I do.” Kamalev sneered. Facing the fanatical militants around them, he spoke each word, sonorous and forceful, “Don’t get too complacent. The forces that split the Motherland will face the severest retribution and crackdown. My death is only the beginning, and you will all pay a terrible price.”

“Facing death, and still spouting these boring slogans?” Dudayev said with some disdain. He found it difficult to understand why these people clung so desperately to their so-called great faith, just like fanatical believers.

In fact, when you thought about it, the Chechens were pretty much the same.

“No, I have one more thing to say.” Kamalev’s expression was one of righteous defiance. Facing death with heroic resolve, he delivered his final, powerful response.

“Long live the Soviet! Long live Communism!”

Chapter 100: A Truce?

(First update)

The news of the public execution of Kamalev, the Supreme Chairman of the Chechen Autonomous Oblast’s Soviet, sent shockwaves through almost the entire world. For the NATO bloc, led by the United States, this was undoubtedly a major breakthrough in their efforts to strike at the Soviet Union. In a complete reversal of their previous indifference, the Western world attempted to shape Dudayev into a Muslim hero opposing totalitarianism, just as they had with bin Laden during the war in Afghanistan.

As far as the American government was concerned, as long as someone stood against the Soviet Union, it didn’t matter if they were a whimpering, begging dog or an unpardonable scoundrel—the governments of the Western world could still mold them into a hero of liberalism.

The Kremlin’s usual calm was shattered. Varennikov, the Commander-in-Chief of the Ground Forces, and Yazov, the Minister of Defense, made their way to General Secretary Yanayev’s office with grim expressions. An hour after the world-shaking news broke, Yanayev, who had remained silent in his office, finally summoned the two men.

Both Yazov and Varennikov had previously served as commanders of army groups. Yanayev’s decision to meet with them first seemed to say it all: he would not be opting for peaceful dialogue to handle this rebellion.

The General Secretary’s office was terrifyingly quiet. Yanayev’s expression was colder than winter ice. He held a cigarette in his left hand, his gaze fixed on the vibrant green of the pine needles outside the window. The ashtray before him was already overflowing with cigarette butts, and the room was filled with a choking smell.

“Comrade Varennikov and Comrade Yazov are here. Please, have a seat.” Yanayev’s voice was devoid of any emotion, as stiff and numb as a machine. He stubbed out his cigarette and turned to the men from the Parliament. “I trust you have all seen what happened in the Chechen Autonomous Oblast.”

“Yes,” Varennikov nodded. “What the Chechens have done can no longer be described as a mere riot. It is a complete betrayal of the Soviet Union. Therefore, I believe it is necessary to launch a surprise attack on them to prevent the rebellion from spreading further. The oil pipelines connecting to the three union republics in the South Caucasus run through Chechen territory, and it also possesses rich oil fields. If Chechnya slips from our control, the consequences will be unimaginable. It would deal an incalculable blow to our economy.”

Yanayev showed neither opposition nor approval. He simply turned his head and asked Yazov for his opinion. “What are your thoughts, Comrade Yazov?”

“My opinion is the same as Comrade Varennikov’s,” Yazov said, unhesitatingly supporting the pro-war stance. “If we allow the Chechen Autonomous Oblast to become independent, the prestige we worked so hard to re-establish in Georgia will completely collapse. And the ensuing wave of separatism will be even more unstoppable.”

Yanayev’s gaze swept over each man’s face. Their expressions were resolute, their thinking clear. They supported this war with the most objective of attitudes. Yanayev sighed. These two, in the end, possessed a military mindset, always thinking about problems with certain limitations.

“Comrades, before we make a final decision, there is something I wish to say,” Yanayev finally voiced his concerns. “I once visited the Georgian President, Zviad, who is under house arrest in a secret KGB prison. He told me something.”

Yanayev paused for a moment. Yazov and Varennikov knew that what came next was crucial, and they pricked up their ears to listen as Yanayev continued.

“He said that Georgia’s independence movement was just the beginning, that the United States is using its immense financial power to continuously support independence movements in all the major union republics. If the Baltic states were the prologue, then Georgia was the prelude. The real climax would not be these nations with their weak foundations of resistance, but two others.”

Remembering Zviad’s triumphant, scheming face, Yanayev involuntarily clenched his fist. “At the time, I thought it was just the self-consolation of a loser. But now it seems the Americans are indeed orchestrating a very grand scheme. From the unrest along the Baltic coast to Georgia, the Americans have been luring us into their game step by step. And today, in Chechnya, the first seed of disaster has finally sprouted.”

Where was the second seed? Yanayev did not say, and they dared not a wild guess.

“We are certainly confident that we can suppress their independence; no one can stop the advance of our tanks. But have any of you here considered what kind of impact a war would have on the Soviet Union’s already fragile economy? Could this war become the final nail in the Soviet Union’s coffin?”

The question Yanayev posed left everyone speechless. It was true that the Soviet economy had yet to emerge from its slump. If the conflict could be resolved quickly, like the invasion of Prague, it would be one thing. But if it became another “graveyard of empires,” then for the Soviet Union, it would undoubtedly be making a bad situation worse.

“The red mercury hoax did indeed limit the Americans from openly supporting the opposition, but that doesn’t mean they will stop their covert aid. I have to admit, the strategies of the White House aides are far more far-sighted than our own.”

If Yanayev’s previous victories had been mere skirmishes against America, then this American plot was a direct threat to the very foundation of the Soviet Union. Yes, the people in the White House were probably holding a victory banquet right now.

“So we are to negotiate a truce?” A muscle in Minister of Defense Yazov’s jaw twitched. He had not expected that President Yanayev would summon them only for this outcome. The firm resolve he had mustered for war instantly crumbled by half.

Varennikov tried to dissuade him. “If we negotiate a truce, what do we do if the other union republics do the same thing? Negotiate again? And just watch as they break our country apart? The lands of the Soviet are vast, but not a single piece is superfluous!”

As he finished, Varennikov, in a rare display of emotion, stood up and stared ardently at Yanayev. The last time he had lost his composure like this was at the Foros Dacha.

“So, you all oppose a truce? You would rather perish together with the Soviet Union than allow it to break apart?” Yanayev paid no mind to Varennikov’s outburst, patiently asking him again as he sat back down.

“Yes. We have never been afraid, and we have never retreated,” Varennikov said, looking directly at Yanayev, his bearing dignified and composed. “I stormed Berlin with the 8th Guards Army. I faced the fire of the Nazi army at the doors of the Reichstag and personally received the victory banner that was planted atop it. I am willing to make any sacrifice for this country, but I will never allow myself to watch it be destroyed by others!”

Yanayev stood up and walked over to Varennikov. He looked at the old man who had dedicated his entire life to the Republic and sighed with a pained expression. “I have already personally decided to hold truce negotiations with Dudayev,” he said slowly. “I called you here today not so that you could oppose me.”

It was as if all life had been stripped from Varennikov. He suddenly lost all his strength. Leaning on the chair, he slowly sat down and asked, grieved and distressed, “Has the General Secretary already made his decision? Was it just to tell us this terrible news?”

“Yes,” Yanayev nodded. “The meeting is set for next Friday. But before that, there is one more thing I’d like to ask of you, Comrade Varennikov and Comrade Yazov.”

…

As they left Yanayev’s office, passersby saw only two white-haired old men, leaning on each other as they walked forward, slowly aging in silence alongside the fading Red Empire.

Like the afterglow of the setting sun outside the window, they slowly disappeared together into the dark end of the corridor.

UNTITLED

Chapter 1: This is Redemption
Chapter 2: Only Two Will Die
Chapter 3: Crisis at the Foros Dacha (Part 1)
Chapter 4: The Foros Dacha Crisis (Part 2)
Chapter 5: Operation Thunderbolt
Chapter 6: Bloody August Eighteenth
Chapter 7: A Feast of Fireworks
Chapter 8: A Kiss with Death
Chapter 9: The Self-Inflicted Injury Ploy
Chapter 10: The Great Purge
Chapter 11: Ryzhkov
Chapter 12: A Declaration of War to the West
Chapter 13: The Crackdown
Chapter 14: The Baltic Dilemma
Chapter 15: Amending the Constitution

Chapter 16: Reinstating the Political Commissar

Chapter 17: Lord of War
Chapter 18: Operation Revolutionary Fire
Chapter 19: A Nuclear Negotiation
Chapter 20: Hoisted by Their Own Petard
Chapter 21: NATO’s Reaction

Chapter 22: The Soviet Union Punishes the World (Part 1)

Chapter 23: The Soviet Union Chastises the World (Part 2)

Chapter 24: A Narrow Victory

Chapter 25: Panic in the Free World

Chapter 26: Sitting Down to Negotiate (Part 1)

Chapter 27: Sit Down and Negotiate (Part 2)
Chapter 28: Sowing the Seeds of a New War
Chapter 29: Taking the First Step
Chapter 30: A Glimpse of the Plan
Chapter 31: The Inquisition (Part 1)
Chapter 32: The Inquisition (Part 2)
Chapter 33: The Inquisition (Part 2)
Chapter 34: Suicide
Chapter 35: Far East Disarmament
Chapter 36: The Military Contracting Group
Chapter 37: The Tragedy of Small Nations
Chapter 38: Japan’s Ambition
Chapter 39: At a Loss Whether to Laugh or Cry
Chapter 40: A Visit to Japan
Chapter 41: Nakhodka
Chapter 42: Backfire Over the Kurils (Part 1)

Chapter 43: Backfire Over the Kuril Islands (Part 2)

Chapter 44: Backfire Over the Kuril Islands (Part 2)

Chapter 45: An Embarrassing End
Chapter 46: The Red Mercury Hoax (Part 1)
Chapter 47: The Red Mercury Hoax (Part 2)
Chapter 48: Beating Them at Their Own Game
Chapter 49: The Fish in the Net
Chapter 50: Blackmail
Chapter 51: The Merciful Butcher
Chapter 52: Red Mercury Intimidation

Chapter 53: Put the Briefcase Down and Let’s Talk

Chapter 54: You Thought I Was Talking About Rubles?

Chapter 55: Besides Red Mercury, There Are Also the Rods from God

Chapter 56: Wallace (Part 1)
Chapter 57: Mike Wallace (2)
Chapter 58: Wallace (3)
Chapter 59: Wallace (4)
Chapter 60: Welcome Home (1)
Chapter 61: Welcome Home (2)
Chapter 62: Welcome Home (3)
Chapter 63: Welcome Home (4)
Chapter 64: Welcome Home (5)
Chapter 65: The Berlin Arms Exhibition
Chapter 66: Mozambique’s Worries
Chapter 67: T-I-A (1)
Chapter 68: TIA (2)
Chapter 69: T I A(3)
Chapter 70: T I A (4)
Chapter 71: T I A (5)
Chapter 72: Coercion
Chapter 73: Your Choice
Chapter 74: Sowing the Seeds of Disaster
Chapter 75: Eve of the Uprising
Chapter 76: The Great Upheaval Begins

Chapter 77: Old Soldiers Don’t Die, They Just Wither

Chapter 78: The Conflict Continues
Chapter 79: The Soviet Returned From Hell
Chapter 80: Your Will, We Shall Inherit
Chapter 81: Liberation Square
Chapter 82: Crush Them!
Chapter 83: Rescuing the Building
Chapter 84: Internal Strife
Chapter 85: The People’s Army

Chapter 86: The Darkness Will Eventually Disperse

Chapter 87: Arrest and Defection
Chapter 88: The Propaganda Offensive
Chapter 89: A Just Trial

Chapter 90: Scheming and Being Schemed Against

Chapter 91: The End of the Public Intellectuals (Part 1)

Chapter 92: The Doom of the Public intellectuals (2)

Chapter 93: The Last Days of the Public Intellectuals (3)

Chapter 94: The Soviet Invaders Are Back
Chapter 95: I Am a Soviet Aggressor
Chapter 96: Both Sides Are Preparing
Chapter 97: Who Is the Real Dictator?
Chapter 98: Joy Turns to Sorrow
Chapter 99: Fanatical Chechnya
Chapter 100: A Truce?