Seduction of Empire

Ukraine avowed three fundamental principles from the first days of her independence: not accepting, manufacturing, or acquiring nuclear weapons.

After the dissolution of the Soviet Union, Ukraine suddenly found itself in possession of the world's third-largest nuclear weapons arsenal. Included in this arsenal were 176 Inter-Continental Ballistic Missile launchers carrying some 1,240 warheads. This force comprised 130 SS-19s, each capable of delivering six multiple independently targeted re-entry vehicles six thousand miles. Of the 60 SS-24s, 46 could deliver ten nuclear weapons apiece to a distance of six thousand miles. As many as 3,000 tactical atomic devices also remained on Ukrainian soil.

More significant to the Russians were the several dozen IL-78 Midas aerial refuelers, TU-22M Backfire medium-range nuclear bombers, the venerable TU-95 Bear, and the latest in Soviet supersonic design and technological marvel, the TU-160 Blackjack bombers were based in Priluki and Uzin air bases in the heart of Ukraine. These bombers were the Soviet airborne strategic nuclear capability cream and were armed with some 600 air-launched nuclear missiles and gravity bombs. They rounded out an arsenal totaling approximately 5,000 strategic and tactical weapons.

In these heady days, the crumbling Soviet hierarchy considered the ICBM’s and tactical weapons as expendable. However, they fully expected to relocate their valuable strategic aircraft from Ukrainian soil to Mother Russia before Ukraine became independent.

There was no question for the Russian Air Force command about the return of the aircraft and crew. Based in Ukraine, Strategic air regiments were the elite. The most loyal and disciplined aircrews operated them, and their commanders were handpicked and beyond reproach.

Besides that, Ukraine did not need strategic aviation.


Chapter One

October 1987. Uzin.

The drizzling, cold autumn rain fell over the formation of officers and enlisted men of the 409th Air-Refueling Regiment. The unit ranks had been standing in silence on the small parade square adjacent to the main administration building for ten minutes already, awaiting their commander for their twice-daily muster.

“That’s all we needed,” thought Popov, “the first working day and such horrible weather. And the civilians keep asking why it is that we officers are paid better. The fools. They should be made to stand on this God-forsaken open area square in the rain with such uncomfortable high boots, and they wouldn’t ask such questions. I’ve rubbed my feet to bloody blisters. And I did it in a single day. After all, there are such things as shoes - why in the hell does the regimental commander demand us to come to work wearing sword belts and leather high boots? I’m sure that three times Hero of the Soviet Union, the fighter pilot Kozhedub wore these very same boots when he shot down 62 fascists in the Great Patriotic War!”
“Dismissed!” yelled the headquarters commander, and cursing beneath his breath, he returned to the headquarters.

“Again, the regiment commander hasn’t shown up; what a surprise,” laughed the navigator Dorokhov as he turned to Popov.

The light-haired round-faced officer smiling in his wheat-colored mustache asked Igor:

“Popov, are you planning on integrating yourself into the collective?”

“Well, I thought I was already in the collective as of today,” answered Popov, not understanding.

“Wow, you’re quite a fellow. In the collective indeed,” the navigator teased him. “To be considered part of the collective, you have to drink vodka with us up to your very throat. You have to do that with everybody you’re going to be flying with. That’s our tradition, brother.”

“Okay,” said Igor. “Tomorrow after work, I’ll be waiting for the entire crew in my room in the officer’s residence.”

Dorokhov’s transparent hint that his coworkers should be treated to vodka, Igor took under advisement. He organized a watering session for the entire collective as he behooved a young officer. But, after six members of the crew drank five bottles of vodka in the room where Popov lived, accompanied by only a symbolic snack, the question of whether it might not be a good idea to enhance the male company with a few warm female bodies suddenly became a top priority.
A squadron navigator who experienced this sort of thing went off after the crew sluts. How exactly it was that five women from base operations and logistics turned up in Igor’s room Popov was afterward unable to remember.
Waking up the following morning from a severe headache, he discovered himself utterly undressed in a narrow one-person bed with an enormous naked woman. The middle-aged woman was sleeping on her side, placing her elephant-like leg upon him and loudly snoring. Popov, who was pinned to the wall, looked out with horror upon his room.

On the neighboring bed slept his crew commander, Major Korolyov, with a pretty little blonde. The blonde was pressed to Korolyov’s hairy chest and was smiling sweetly in her sleep. The blanket had crept down from them on the bed and had revealed her back almost to her waist.

“Damn, she’s hot,” thought Igor as he reached for the sheets. He involuntarily pressed himself to the ample breasts of the woman who was sleeping with him, and she awoke. That was precisely what Igor had hoped to avoid doing. He felt ashamed that this enormous old auntie who was lying in his bed must have been at least fifteen years older than he was. She was lying there looking into his eyes seductively and was embracing his buttocks with two hands and smiling drunkenly.

“What else would you like, sweetie?” she asked, breathing stale vodka fumes and tobacco breath directly into Popov’s nose.

An attack of nausea welled up in Igor’s throat, and fearing that he would vomit on her the remains of yesterday’s snack, he shook his head negatively. It was too late. The corporal of the finance services, Liudmila Petrova, in a foretaste of pleasure, had already succeeded in closing her eyes.

“God, what am I doing? I’ve never done this ever, and if I ever did dream of women, then certainly not about this kind.”

The metal bed screeched mercilessly.

Korolyov, who had just awoken, looked dully for a minute at Popov and Petrova, trying to understand where he was and who these people were in the neighboring bed. Then in surprise, he discovered the young blonde who was sleeping on his chest.

“So,” thought Korolyov, “How am I going to justify to my wife for having spent the night God knows where? I’ll have to think of something.”
In deep thought, he pulled the blanket higher over himself. His blonde bent with the entire body and tried to kiss the major on the lips. Korolyov squirmed and turned away from the kiss. She stuck her nose in his cheek and hid her head beneath the blanket.

On the floor between the beds slept the navigator Dorokhov with a saleslady from the military canteen. Above them stood a rickety wooden table. Scattered empty vodka bottles and the remains of yesterday’s supper were on it. At the entrance to the room, wrapped in his uniform overcoat, slept Popov’s neighbor, a slovenly, non-flying lieutenant from the communications corps.

Lyudmila Petrova snuffled like an old steamship underway and preparing for a long journey. She uttered an incoherent cry signifying she was ready to be satisfied. Captain Dorokhov opened his eyes. He saw above himself the bottom of the table and muttered:

“It looks like I’m already in the grave.”

Then the navigator threw the overcoat from himself and crawled on his knees out from under the table. Rummaging through male and female underwear, which was scattered here and there on the floor, he put on his underpants and made for the toilet. Going out of the room, Dorokhov purposely slammed the door on the back of the officer of the communications corps. The young man woke up and expressed his annoyance:

“Can’t you be any quieter, friend?”

“I’m no friend to you,” answered the navigator. “Who are you anyway, and what are you doing here?”

“I live here,” replied the lieutenant indignantly. “By the way, you are wearing my slippers.”

“You’d better get out of here before your guests leave. It’ll be better for you.” With these words, the Captain closed the door, and the sound of shuffling of the lieutenant’s slippers was heard for a long time in the lengthy, empty corridor of the officer’s residence.

As soon as the door closed behind Dorokhov, the saleslady from the military canteen, Valya, supporting herself on her elbows, looked with interest at Popov’s bed and Korolyov. Both officers were extremely busy. Her partner had concealed himself from her in some unknown direction. But at a distance of approximately two meters from the table, there lay, covered with his overcoat, the lovely young lieutenant, looking at her. She adjusted her hairdo with one hand and then shook her head. Her long hair straightened and fell about her shoulders. The sheet fell across her belly, and she bared her breasts to the gaze of the communications officer.

Valya beckoned to the lieutenant with her index finger. “Boy, crawl over to me,” she whispered.

Without thinking, the communications officer sank to the floor and crawled the two meters dividing them, and wiggled between the sheets.
Returning from the toilet, Dorokhov asked:

“Where did the communications officer disappear to?”

“Dorokhov, while you were wandering around, God knows where, he took your place,” answered Valentina in her breathless voice.

Only after this did the navigator notice that a pair of legs were thrust from beneath the table with toes turned downward and that Valya, who was smiling slyly at him, was lying on her back.

Having mentally processed the picture, Dorokhov cursed vociferously.
“You sluts. I can’t even leave you five minutes alone. You don’t even let people take a piss.”

After this, he put on his pants and shirt and went to the table. His mouth was parched. He wanted to drink something, but there was neither beer nor water on the table. He poured himself half a glass of vodka and swallowed it in a single gulp. Korolyov, observing this picture, said to his navigator:

“Don’t drink anything else and have a bite of onion.”

Then he looked at his watch and said:

“The regiment assembles in an hour. It's time to get moving.”

“Popov, will you be ready soon?” asked Dorokhov of his crew co-pilot.

Igor did not succeed in saying either yes or no when Liudmila answered for him:

“He’s already shot his wad. Do you want to replace him? Feel free.”

With these words, she pushed the exhausted Igor away herself and invited him.

Dorokhov to take his place between her legs.

“Only not with you, Madam Lyudmila.”
Korolyov raised his blanket and, in resignation, looked at the blonde and said:

“Ok, let’s get this over with quickly. We will be late for the assembly.”
“Indeed,” she said in reply.

The communications officer crawled out from beneath the table and looked at Dorokhov with a guilty expression on his face.

“Don’t blame me,” he said and wanted to add something else, but the navigator did not allow him to finish his speech of self-justification. The Captain showed the female legs to the young officer with his hand and said:

“You can keep these goodies for yourself. Consider this my gift to you.” In answer to this, the following was heard from beneath the table:

“And yet you said such words to me yesterday: I love you, you said; my dear, you said; my one and only.”

“What are you going on about? I don’t even know such words,” Dorokhov burst out laughing, chewing the green ends of the onion. “That’s what cursed vodka will do to a normal man.” He’ll start showering whores with compliments.
“We should finish off the vodka for this.”

He poured himself half a glass.

“That’s enough, I told you,” The IL-78 aircraft commander stopped him and suddenly became completely tense, bent like a bow, and seized the iron bedstead with his hands and, in a minute, relaxed.

From beneath the blanket, a good-looking young woman slipped out.

“Look the other way, you shameless boys. Let a decent girl get dressed,” she said to the navigator, the communications officer, and Popov.
The men laughed cordially in reply.

Chapter Two

September 20, 1991. Washington.

Major-General Ash decided to recall Colonel MacKay from his leave.

Cameron and his wife went into the reception area of the Marriot beach club hotel and, enjoying the coolness of the lobby air-conditioning, unhurriedly approached the elevator. Julia MacKay had her orange-flowered beach bag slung over her shoulder. Cameron took off his glasses and turned around at the sound of steps approaching from behind. The desk clerk of the hotel was hurrying up to them with an envelope in his hands. “This can’t be anything good,” thought MacKay.

“You have an urgent message from Washington, sir,” announced the desk clerk with a Hawaiian accent. As he passed the envelope over to Cameron, he took two steps backward as if awaiting a gratuity.

Cameron read the contents of the short note and said to the young Hawaiian:
“Call the travel agency and tell them to move my departure from Honolulu to Washington from Wednesday for today. Order a taxi for me to the airport.”

“Is your wife flying with you?”

“No, I said I was leaving, not my wife,” the Colonel answered irritably when the couple entered the elevator.
“Dear, why did you tear into that young man that way? He’s not guilty of your ruined vacation,” Julia tried to soothe her husband.

“Of course, he’s innocent,” answered Cameron. “It’s the Russians' fault, as always.”

During the entire flight from the city of Lehua on the island of Kawaii to Honolulu and then home to Washington, the Colonel thought that his recall from leave was connected with the August coup in the USSR.

“What golf I’m missing. The guys will be waiting for me. After all, I came to Hawaii, especially to play at Jack Nicklaus’ club. It’s one of the best golf clubs in the world. And then, POW! I miss out on a whole week. Fuck. They just couldn’t hold their horses in Moscow - it never occurred to them to have their little coup a bit later.”

On the day after his return from the Hawaiian Islands, MacKay arrived at the Pentagon. He went down to the fourth underground level of the enormous five-angled building and presented his special pass to the ever-present Marine Corps guard. The guard, a corporal, looking resplendent in his heavily starched khaki’s and blues, briefly checked the pass and, with a curt “Sir,” signifying that Mackay could pass, motioned the Colonel to his boss’s office.

Folding his hands behind his back, Major-General Robert Ash stood a meter from the world's political map and was looking at China. The tall, bespectacled, square-jawed former Air Force Intelligence Officer wore an official title as long as the map of the Soviet Empire. Assistant to the Deputy Director of the CIA Special Activities Division (covert political action) for Eastern Europe.

Ash thoughtfully shifted his glance a little bit higher. Directly before his eyes stretched the Mongolian steppes. It seemed to MacKay that the General was gazing at the map and not seeing anything on it. His boss’s eyes expressed complete indifference to the chart that lay before them, but the General unexpectedly smiled, turned halfway towards Cameron, and said:

“Good morning, Colonel. I see you’ve managed to get a tan. How are things?”

“Thanks, not bad, Sir,” MacKay answered the head of the Eastern Europe Bureau as Ash was more commonly known.

“I was looking at the map and asking myself the question: what country is the most independent in the world? Cameron, do you know?”

“Yes, of course. It’s the USA, sir,” MacKay answered without thinking.

“No, Cameron. The most independent country in the world is Mongolia,” and without waiting for a confusing question from his subordinate, the General added, “Because nothing depends on it.”

Ash circled his desk and sat in the chair by the magazine table.

“But I didn’t summon you to share my amazing geopolitical discovery,” he continued. “The subject of our conversation will not be Asia as a whole or Mongolia for that matter. You and I are Slavic specialists. And in our area of responsibility, a devil’s dozen of newly independent countries have just materialized. You’d better have a seat. We’re gonna have a long talk.”

“Countries like Mongolia?” asked MacKay.

“Some of them are practically as independent,” he made quotation marks in the air with his index and middle fingers of both hands. “But we’re still going to have to work on the independence of the remaining ones. There at the top,” the General nodded his head in the direction of the ceiling, “they’ve turned towards introducing a New World Order. There aren’t going to be any superpowers except for us by the middle of the twenty-first century. We’ve successfully disbanded the Soviet Union, we will undertake Russia in the not-distant future, and then China’s turn will come. Neither Europe nor India nor the Arabs will be able to stop us.”

“Why don’t we immediately invest money in Russian separatism and put an end to the Russian bear with a single blow?”

“That question has been examined. A politician I know, the state department coordinator William Taylor, told me it was a heated discussion. There were many influential supporters of the idea to immediately end Russia right after the dissolution of the USSR, but the moderate line prevailed. “And I can’t say I disagree with that,” thought Mackay. They put forward the thesis that if Russia were to return to the state, it was in the 13th century, that if it were to be divided into petty feudal principalities, it would prove impossible to control the proliferation of nuclear weapons. The regional leaders may be willing to sell them to the Middle East or even to Northern African countries. Therefore, it would be more in our interests to use a strong Russia as a collector of nuclear weapons from all of its former union republics.”

“But what if Russia, having gathered all of these nuclear weapons, begins to have pretensions to be one of the world leaders?”

“Then we will arrange for a few centers of internal tension within it. In the various Muslim-dominated areas, for example. Or we will worsen their relations with their “former fraternal communist brothers in arms,” he said sarcastically, the Ukrainians. Also, there is not much love between the Ukraine and the former Russian regions of the Crimea and the Donbas. But that could be stretching the point a little bit. Most probably, Russia will close its foreign bases, summon its fleet home, and occupy itself with its internal problems.”

“Do you really think the brass has such confidence in the new Russian leadership?” Asked Cameron.

“As long as the ruling elite in Moscow is thinking about future elections and not about future generations, they will not be interested in taking actions against us.”

“And what will happen with Ukraine?”

“In the beginning, we will fortify it. We will create amongst the Ukrainian politicians the illusion of a bright, independent future. We will separate it as far as possible from Moscow. And as soon as the last faint fragrance of a Russian ceases to be smelled in Ukraine, as soon as the children stop writing and speaking Russian in the schools, and they stop publishing Russian language newspapers in the country, and the television broadcasts are done only in Ukrainian, we will abandon her. Let them bury themselves in their own black soil. They won’t ask for bread, and we won’t allow them any access to Europe. Ukraine will make a wonderful buffer zone.”

“This buffer zone has its nuclear weapons installed on ballistic missiles. They have 130 SS-19 strategic rockets and 46 SS-24s. Plus, 30 launch sites. Ukraine has become the third-largest nuclear power.”

“Yes, I know. Our specialists are already working on the 43rd army strategic rocket corps in Pervomaisk in the Nikolaev region of Ukraine.” We’ve sent operatives who will try to achieve the destruction of the ballistic missiles and their silos. Their main task is to prevent the weapons, operators, and technicians from returning to Russia.

“How can you prevent rocket specialists from being transferred to new places of work?”

“Very simple. What, in your opinion, is the greatest problem faced by the armed forces of the Soviet Union?”

“Poorly maintained military equipment,” answered Cameron without thinking.

“No. The main headache of all military people in the Soviet Union is housing. That’s what Russians have never had enough of. According to our data, in Russia alone, there is more than half a million military personnel in all branches of service who are homeless. The army alone accounts for almost a third of these. Almost ten thousand officers’ families are camped like gypsies in sports arenas and warehouses. Some of them are even living in garages. In general, the homeless military personnel has become the Russians just as widespread as beggars at railway stations. We’ll use the housing angle to keep the former Pervomaisk rocket men planted firmly in Ukraine. The Secretary of the Treasury has already designated money to build living quarters for valuable specialists whose transfer to Russia would, shall we say, be especially undesirable for us.”

“We’ll have to spend quite a sum of money, especially taking into account that half of it will be stolen in Ukraine.”

“It will be cheaper for us to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to house officers’ families than millions to take action against a deployed rocket division.”

Cameron fell silent. He was not overly interested in the problems of the rocket division. He felt sorry for Ukraine, which had suffered so much. The Colonel knew Russian and Ukrainian equally well. The Air Force deemed him suitable. He was fortunate enough to study at the Davis Center for Russian and Eurasian Studies. He had been filled with a love for Pushkin and Shevchenko, Tolstoy, and Gogol, Dostoyevsky, and Lesia Ukrainka. He knew that Russia would manage to get by with its oil and gas, gold, and diamonds. But this was Ukraine. She could expect an unenviable fate. He realized that nothing could be done, and that seemed a shame to him.

Major-General Ash continued to philosophize about the future of the Black Sea fleet, about the political future of the Transcaucasian republics, about central Asia, about the eastern European countries. Still, Cameron did not hold up his end of the conversation. Seeing that MacKay had lost interest in international politics, the two-star turned to the central theme of their meeting.

“Besides ballistic missiles, Ukraine obtained the larger portion of the aircraft and certain elements from the division of the Black Sea fleet. We needn’t even think about the fleet. It’s not going anywhere away from its puddle, and it will present a threat only to the Romanians. But we’d better have a good talk about the aircraft. Tell me, Cameron, what do you know about the bombers and strike aircraft that remain in Ukraine?”

MacKay spoke of the latest intelligence on the disposition of Soviet strategic aircraft in Ukraine. “Several regiments of strategic aircraft are based in Ukraine, including nuclear-armed TU-22M Backfires, TU-95 Bears, and TU-160 Blackjacks. In Crimea, there are also three regiments of Blinders used for a naval strike. This division belongs to the Black Sea fleet.”

“Let’s forget about the Bears and the Backfires for the time being. What can you tell me about the TU- 160?”

Drawing upon his many years of experience as an Electronic Warfare and Electronic Intelligence Officer, Mackay thought momentarily. “Sir, the Blackjack is an all-weather, multi-purpose strategic bomber. It’s the largest bomber ever assembled and originally built to counter the Rockwell B-1A. It is designed to carry out low altitude penetration strikes at high subsonic speeds or high altitudes with speeds greater than Mach 2. Depending on the mission, this aircraft can carry twelve long-range X- 55 cruise missiles or twenty-four shorter-range X-15s. It can carry up to 40 tons of bombs or mines, either nuclear or conventional, as a bomber. When fully loaded, the 160 has a combat radius of approximately 4000 nautical miles. It is equipped with an automatic terrain-following radar and multichannel digital jamming-resistant communications equipment, including a satellite communications system, astronavigation systems, and an active/passive radio-electronic warfare system. It is also capable of in-flight refueling, which, obviously, can double or even triple the range.”

Cameron continued his scholarly recital. “Beginning in 1984, the Kazin Gorbunov aircraft factory constructed twenty-five Blackjacks. Six of them are still at the factory but plan to be delivered soon to the airbase in the city of Ingles in the Saratov region. The Russians plan to replace all of their M4 bombers of the 1095th Heavy Bomber Regiment for Tu-160’s. Also, 19 operational Blackjacks of the 184th Airborne Regiment are located in Priluki, in the Chernigov region. In all, the Soviet Union planned to construct one hundred of the Tu-160’s, but I think that after the country's collapse, the Russians will need to reexamine their ambitious plans. In short, General, the Blackjack, in the hands of an experienced crew, is a competent aircraft.”

Major-General Ash smiled with pleasure. “My number one has a brilliant memory. He didn’t know why I recalled him from the left, which means that he couldn’t have been prepared in advance for my questions. That’s exactly the kind of man I need.”

“I have a few other short questions for you. What is the maximum takeoff weight of the TU-160 aircraft?”

“Two hundred seventy-five tonnes.”

“And its ceiling?”

“Over fifty-thousand feet, moreover, its rate of climb is impressive. After takeoff, the aircraft has an ascent rate of about thirteen-thousand feet per minute.”

“Who commands the division that the Prilukski 184th regiment is a part of?”

“Major General of the Air Force, Aleksandr Ivanovich Gerasimov.”

The General compared MacKay’s answers with the information in his notebook and said:
“Excellent, Colonel. If you handle your assignment just as brilliantly, you’ll soon be wearing your first star”.

“The first star? That would mean I certainly wouldn’t be recalled from Hawaii for some shitty European assignment”.

Ash got up from his chair, poured coffee for himself and MacKay, and sat opposite Cameron. MacKay silently took the porcelain cup and waited for the General to brief him about the assignment.

“I pretty much just promised you a promotion if you complete the operation in Ukraine, but I haven’t asked if there are any circumstances which are preventing you from spending a few months abroad.”

“No, sir, it just so happens that my calendar is completely free,” answered the Colonel sardonically.

“Excellent. Then let me give you a short outline of your mission. As you already know, the Russian’s have 25 Blackjacks. Each of them is capable of “standing off” and delivering twelve long-range cruise missiles apiece. That means that the total launch capability of these two regiments is approximately 300 missiles. If they came over the Pole, it would be impossible for the Canadians to shoot them down. We would need up-to-the-minute accurate intelligence and very early warning from NORAD to forward deploy our fighters to deal with them. Even if we had enough, the F-15s from Elmendorf, Alaska, would have difficulty intercepting, let alone shooting down these bombers. The Canadian fighters would be hard-pressed to assist us effectively.”
Cameron, being a former USAF staff ELINT Officer at the Distant Early Warning station Stokes Point, Yukon, answered. “I know. I served in Northern Canada, and it literally gives me chills to think about my time on the DEW line and how unprepared we are. They have only one airbase there and not many interceptors.”
“So, if need be, we’ll have to put up the main opposition. The Canadians, although they are our allies, can’t be relied on. Maybe fifty percent of the Blackjacks could be shot down between the Canadians and us at the outside. In reality, though, the analysts figure that number is overly optimistic. These are unacceptable odds. Therefore, to weaken Russian strategic aviation without getting our hair messed, our department has been assigned a much more viable option; the task of keeping the 184th airborne division based in Ukraine.”

“They also have 21 TU-95 Bear bombers in Uzin, as well as a refueling squadron.”

“The Boss doesn’t take those into account,” he said, referring to the Director. “Those aircraft are pushing forty years old. The Russians just aren’t able to declare them obsolete, along with the TU-16 Badgers.”
“I don’t completely agree with you, Sir, countered the Colonel. The Bear “MS” version is a relatively new model aircraft. The Russians have been manufacturing it in Taganrog since 1983. This aircraft can carry six X-55 cruise missiles inside the fuselage and up to ten under the wings. These missiles have a range of approximately a thousand to fifteen-hundred nautical miles. The rockets, AS-15 Kents, can be armed with either conventional or nuclear warheads, each yielding nearly two hundred kilotons. Believe me, Sir, even taking into account that these Bears in particular fly at over five hundred miles per hour, as a backup striking force, it is a genuine threat.”

“Alright then, stop giving more headaches. You know better,” the General agreed. “In principle, your task includes the Uzin bombing regiment as well. It is part of the same division as the Priluka one.”

Ash removed a Zippo brass lighter from his right trouser pocket and a cheroot from inside his tunic and lit it. MacKay, feeling the awkwardness of the situation in which he had put himself, after lecturing his commander about the TU-95s, was the first to break the silence:

“Am I traveling to Ukraine officially or unofficially?”

“You will go as a military translator to our embassy in Moscow. Of course, you will be issued with Soviet passports so that you can carry out your extra-curricular activities. I’ll give you a week to prepare and two months to carry out your assignment. Do you have any further questions?” Ash puffed on the cigar.

“No, Sir.”

The Colonel considered the conversation over and got up from his chair.

“Excellent. What are you doing after five?” The General asked him.

“Nothing in particular,” Cameron answered.

“Then let’s have a couple of games of squash. How does that sound?”

“Fine, Sir.” Although, at this point, Cameron had more on his mind than playing squash with his boss. A large drink of single malt scotch sounded more appealing.

“Do you have your racket here, or did you take it home?”

“Here, he smiled wryly. In the office.”

Chapter Three

September 1991. Moscow.

On the twenty-seventh of September, the head of the counter-espionage division of the KGB, Major General Antonov, was sitting in his office and looking through the daily newspapers. Several articles attracted his attention, but the general could not read them. He could not concentrate on their content, and he was constantly distracted by disturbing thoughts about the future.

“The new broom,” who had come to Presidential power not long ago, was insistently sweeping out his old colleagues from all government buildings. Not long ago, his bodyguards had dragged this drunken broom from the creek near his summer cottage, and now he was introducing the “well, you know, you must understand” order. In less than a month, in the halls of the enormous building, the nameplates on the right half of the doors had been changed.

“In theory, I ought not to be fired,” the general calmed himself. “I have no access to foreign contacts. Party money has not passed through my safe. Perhaps they won’t touch me. Although, in the heat of the moment, the Party Chiefs might get a bug in their ear and not remember about my service record.”

“Nikolai Petrovich,” his secretary Liuba said in a soft voice on the conference line. “Lieutenant Colonel Sergunin has come to you with the report.”

“Let him come in,” answered the Major-General.

A light-haired young man entered the office in a grey double-breasted suit, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie. He seemed more like a successful western businessman than a senior officer of the counterespionage division.

Sergunin stopped at the General’s desk. In his hands, he held a leather portfolio fastened by a zipper.

The General tugged a wet napkin from a cardboard box, wiped his fingers clean from newsprint, rose from his chair, went around the desk, and sat down opposite the Lieutenant Colonel.

“Sit down, Vladimir,” said the General.
The Lieutenant Colonel sat at the desk, opened his portfolio, and began his report without awaiting further instructions from the head of the division.

“Our embassy in Washington has issued an entry visa for six months to a Mr. Cameron MacKay, a citizen of the United States. His visa application indicated that he goes a translator in their embassy. At my request, an answer came from Washington,” the Lieutenant Colonel flipped several pages and took the document he needed into his hands.

“Our colleagues from the espionage division write interesting things about our friend Cameron.” Sergunin opened the dossier bearing the American's name and began. “Cameron Frederick Mackay, born 21 March 1945 in Crestview, Florida, the son of US Army Air Forces fighter pilot. Mackay is a combat veteran of their war in Vietnam, serving as an Electronic Warfare Officer on EB-66 surveillance and targeting aircraft. He was based at the Royal Thai Air Force Base in Korat. He has flown 123 total combat missions and is a recipient of the Distinguished Flying Cross and many Air Medals. He was also awarded a Purple Heart after one of our SA-2’s damaged his aircraft and received shrapnel wounds. After Vietnam, Mackay was assigned to the 77th Tactical Fighter Squadron at RAF Upper Heyford, flying in the F-111. His position was as the senior EWO instructor for his squadron, but he also directed all EWO training and preparing standard operating procedures for the 20th Tactical Fighter Wing. The report goes on to say that he was also sought after by other NATO countries for his expertise.” Sergunin trailed off. “Now, on to the more exciting aspects of our American hero. MacKay was eventually transferred to Headquarters of the United States Air Forces in Europe in Wiesbaden, Germany, and was Chief of the Electronic Reconnaissance Branch for the Defense Intelligence Agency. Concurrent with his tour of duty in West Germany, our guest graduated from the Department of Slavic Philology of Harvard University. Almost immediately upon graduation from the university, he began graduate school and, in two years, defended a brilliant dissertation. MacKay has a perfect command of Russian, Ukrainian, Bulgarian, and Serbo-Croatian. Besides which, he reads German, Spanish, and Portuguese.“

“Who paid for his education?” asked the General.

“The US defense department paid for his graduate studies, but nobody knows who paid for his university. Will you permit me to continue?”

“Proceed.”

“Immediately after defending his dissertation, Cameron began service with the BBC. After a short preparatory period, he was sent to the Yukon Territory in the Canadian North to a radar station, which kept track of the aircraft of our Northern Fleet. Since the station was closed, and all American personnel has abandoned the Canadian North, Cameron has served in the Pentagon in Espionage, the CIA,” he added for emphasis. “At the present moment, he holds the military rank of Colonel.”

“It's interesting that he speaks fluently almost all the Slavic languages but is going to Moscow to undertake a translating position,” said Antonov. He drew the portfolio towards himself together that featured several pages that were stamped Top Secret. He ran his eyes over the text and obtained from the envelope pasted inside a photograph of MacKay and continued thoughtfully, “an ordinary Colonel of military espionage doesn’t have to be coming to us; what’s important is that the Americans are trying to pass him off as a translator. Well then, since you’ve sent a request for him, you will be the person responsible for him. And watch your toes with this polyglot. I don’t like their Slavic specialists. When is he coming?”

“Tomorrow,” answered Sergunin.

“Identify him and don’t let him out of your sight,” ordered General Antonov.
 

Chapter Four

October 1991.

The United States Embassy. Moscow.

On the second of October, Colonel Cameron MacKay was sitting in his office on the third floor of the American Embassy building on the Garden Ring Road and reading the latest emigration documents. Despite the daylight, the officer had turned on his desk lamp. The rays of the sun barely penetrated the room through the metal screens on the building.

Russian counterespionage had learned to use laser installations to determine the frequency of vibration of windowpanes. The decoding of conversations of embassy personnel was, therefore, simply a technical matter. As a result, it became a necessary and standard operating procedure to shield oneself from the Russians with screens.

“It’s too bad that we can’t cover all of Russia with an excellent mesh screen. Although that probably would not be enough,” thought Cameron as he turned the pages of photographs and date-filled application forms. “The iron curtain did not help, and even a stone wall would not help, even if it stretched to space. The Russians are like a creeping plague; like the flu, they penetrate everywhere. It’s in their blood from the Mongols. Not even the Heavenly Chinese Empire had defended itself from its northern neighbors with its Great Wall. That’s the way it is with Russians. You can’t defend yourself with walls. You can defend yourself from them only by surrounding them with a buffer zone made out of their former allies. My bosses are exactly right in that respect.”

MacKay was tall, heavy-set, had deep-set eyes, dark brown hair, and large bald patches on his high forehead. He looked like a heavyweight boxer who had finished his professional career.

The Colonel’s desk was flooded with thin cardboard folders containing the cases of potential Russian emigrants to the USA. There might have been a thousand more such cases on his desk. Cameron could have simply drowned in them if he had not asked his secretary to select for him a special category of applicants. However, even though the Colonel's parameters were very narrow, there were still too many cases. He could not imagine that the number of unmarried women from Ukraine alone under thirty years of age applying to immigrate to the United States in the past six months would account for more than a hundred.

Colonel hurriedly looked through each completed form. He was not interested in English teachers, economists, or doctors. He put the applications from programmers and accountants, veterinarians, and speech pathologists; he himself wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for. But he was firmly convinced that the paper cases of a candidate would cry out in his hands. After three days of work, three folders remained on Cameron’s desk. Taking them with him, the Colonel made his way to the secretary of the Embassy.

“What is the immigration procedure for Russians?” he asked, situating himself comfortably in a soft, deep armchair.

“Everything begins beneath the windows of this building. In the mornings, those who wish to become American citizens form into a long line and wait until the embassy clerk gives them application forms,” the secretary began, and after the short pause continued: “After all the necessary forms and documentation has been completed, the potential immigrants come back and pay nine hundred dollars apiece for their status to be considered. After this, they wait. It could take months for a decision to be made. If we are interested in a candidate, we summon them for an interview. In this conversation, the consul reaches a decision: to continue the immigration procedure or refuse the applicant's request outright. If we refuse, the applicant receives four hundred dollars back, and we part forever, but if he or she is suitable, the consul sends them to undergo a medical examination.”

“Do you retain five hundred dollars for each person who is refused in the Embassy?” asked Cameron thoughtfully. “That’s interesting. That’s a lot of money for Russians.”

“Yes. We summon approximately one percent of the applicants for the interview. From those who are invited, more than seventy percent are refused during the course of their interview. From those who make it through the first check, twenty percent do not pass the medical exam, and they all lose their money.”

“For five hundred dollars, the average Russian worker would have to work for two months.”

“Who told you that the Russian factory workers apply to us for an immigrant visa? Among the hundreds of people standing in line outside of our embassy along Garden Ring Road, there is no single redneck. Only the intelligentsia, the cream of society. They stand there in any weather, rain, and snow, in the cold and the heat.”

“That’s strange.”

“Not at all. And it’s not even that we don’t take specialists without a university education, but it’s the fact that the workers themselves don’t want to come to the United States.”

“That’s why I said it’s strange. After all, our factory workers live far better than Russians,” Cameron was confused.

“No arguments there. But our factories workers work.”

“What about Russians?”

“Don’t confuse me, Colonel. Do you know who their favorite fairy-tale hero is? Emelya, the boy who caught the magic Pike and then spent his whole life relaxing on the woodstove because the fish carried out all his wishes. And their favorite film star? The alcoholic, who said to his coworker the epic phrase:
‘Whoever doesn’t work, that person eats. Learn it from me, student.’ And why do they have such folk sayings as: ‘Work, don’t be afraid of us, we won’t touch you.’ Or: ‘Work is not a wolf. It won't run away into the forest’? Because they hate to work hard.”

“I know all these quips.”

“Of course you do; you’re a linguist.”

MacKay did not like the consul’s mocking tone. In it could be felt the sense of superiority that a diplomat had over an espionage agent. Cameron decided to turn the conversation about immigration aside and to return to his specific point of interest.

“I have brought you the immigration applications of three women. None of them meet even the basic entrance qualifications. Call them for an interview as soon as possible. In the conversation, keep their hopes up that they might be allowed to immigrate to the US and turn them down only at the end of the conversation. I need them to be psychologically broken. Conduct the conversations in your office. I will keep track of their behavior from the room next door,” ordered Cameron and thought: “How does that feel, asshole? Now you can experience the same unpleasant feeling I had when you were lecturing me.”

Three days later, MacKay was sitting in a small room behind a one-way mirror observing the consul conducting his interviews. The first girl was a hairdresser from Kiev. The small brunette had a charming, animated face. A slight pug-nose and enormous eyes made the girl attractive. However, Cameron did not like her figure. She was too thin. Her sharp-edged shoulders, slender arms, and angular knees made her look more like an adolescent schoolgirl than a grown woman.

“I couldn’t tell that from the photograph,” MacKay was irate with himself. “She’s not the sort I need.”

He wanted to give a signal to the consul to cut the interview short but changed his mind.

“Let him earn his pay.”

The second girl looked considerably better. She had long flaxen hair and an oval face; she wore glasses, had large breasts, and had a narrow waist. But below the waist, she was a bit too plump. Her hips were too broad, and her legs were thick. Cameron gave her the kaibosh as well. He ignored the dialogue of the interlocutors but patiently awaited the arrival of the final candidate.

The third girl didn’t have any physical drawbacks. She was simply stunning. When the tall, slender blonde entered the office and exchanged greetings with the consul, Cameron turned up the volume on the hidden microphones and drew closer to the one-way mirror.

“What is your full name, please,” said the consul, after which the girl sat down on the chair in front of him.

“Vera Vikherko.”
“Vera, tell me a little bit about you.”

“I was born in 1967 in the city of Fastov. In 1984 I completed high school, and from 1985 I worked as a waitress in the Ros’ restaurant in the city of Belaya Tserkov’, and I don’t have any children.”

“Have you ever been a member of the communist party?”

“No.”

“Were you in the young communist’s league?”

Vera thought for a moment and then said:

“No.”

“That wasn’t such a certain ”NO,” Cameron noted to himself. “We’re lying, aren’t we? That’s a perfect sign.”

“Why do you want to immigrate to the United States?”

“I’m tired of putting up with crudeness. The people around me are so uncultured. They’re always sticking their hands under my skirt or pinching my ass. I want to live in a country where a person and especially a woman, is respected and defended by the law, where it’s stable. And not like it is here, where now there’s a war, now there’s a revolution, now there’s a palace revolt.”

“But why is it that you want to go to the United States in particular?”
“Where else would I go?” Vera said with genuine surprise.

“Well, you could go to Canada, for example.”

“Noooo. It's warmer where you live,” the girl smiled.

“Alright then,” said the consul, writing down her answer. “What sort of work do you intend to take up in the United States?”

“I’ll work as a waitress in a restaurant.”

“But you don’t know a word of English. How do you plan on communicating with your clients?”

“Just you give me a visa. I’ll learn American English in 3 months,” Vera answered confidently.

“Oh, so self-assured. I studied Russian for four years in university and three years in graduate school, and even now, I can’t speak without an accent. And she’s going to learn English in three months? That’s probably stupidity rather than self-assuredness. But both the one and the other are positive characteristics in this case. She lies, she’s conceited, and she has contempt for her surroundings. What else could I ask for?”

“Which of your relatives are going to remain in Ukraine?”

“My father and mother.”

“Are you living with them now?”

“No. I recently bought an apartment. I have been living on my own for about a year now.”

“Then you have money of your own? Do I understand you correctly?”

“Well, what do you think? That I run around between the tables with a tray for free?”

“Quite aggressive,” Cameron noted amusingly.

“Thank you, Vera; I have no further questions for you.”

The consul made a note in Vikherko’s file and placed a red rectangular stamp upon its upper corner.

“Unfortunately, I must refuse you an entry visa. You do not meet the requirements set forth for potential citizens of the United States.”

“Requirements? What do you mean by this? Why don’t I meet your requirements? Is it because I don’t speak English?” Tears appeared in Vera’s eyes.

“No, because you are not a qualified specialist.”

“May I get my money back?”

“Yes, go down to the first floor, and you can get four hundred dollars from the cashier at today’s rate of exchange.”

“I paid nine hundred.”

“You should have read the conditions of payment for the procedure of examining your declaration.”

“This is robbery,” Vera whispered as she left the office.

She felt very sorry for herself. The dream which had a moment ago seemed completely realizable flew away from her forever, along with five hundred American dollars. She sat on a chair in the corridor and began to weep.

A tall, muscular Marine with a crewcut stationed by the stairway rose from his chair and moved towards her. His full sleeve khaki shirt fit tightly around his athletic torso. The creases in his dark blue pants were sharp as the blade of a bayonet. He hadn’t even crossed half the distance when MacKay came out of the consul’s office. The Colonel got to Vera before the Marine security guard did, and the marine returned to his post.

Cameron asked Vera sympathetically in fluent Russian,  “Why are you so upset?”

“My visa was refused,” the girl sniffled. “And they don’t want to give me back five hundred dollars.”

“What do you feel worse about? The money or the Visa?”
“The visa, of course. I can still earn more money.”

“Do you really want so much to get to the United States?”

The man’s voice resounded with his quiet confidence in his powers. Vera thought that such a man, if he wanted to, could change her fate. After all, an associate of the Embassy would not simply be wasting his time with her in the hallway.

“I want it very much,” answered Vera. “But does that mean that you can help me?”

“Come with me, and we’ll have a little chat in my office.”

Passing the Marine sentry, Cameron showed him the plastic card which hung around his neck on a long cord. The Marine stood and visibly checked the card. As he stretched out to his full height, all the creases in his dark blue pants disappeared. In his deep voice, belying his young age, he provided a curt “Good Morning, Sir” to acknowledge Mackay’s restricted-access pass.

“The girl is with me,” Mackay said in English as he glanced upwards to the rigid Marine.

Cameron and Vera went down the stairway into the basement and entered his office.

“Your Russian is outstanding,” remarked Vera pleasantly. “Where did you learn?”

Ignoring the girl's feigned interest, Mackay continued,

“Our conversation will be unofficial, but your chances of going to the United States depend on how it turns out,” said the American after Vera sat down on the chair opposite MacKay’s working desk.

“But, they’ve already turned down my visa application.”

“That was a preliminary interview which was conducted on my behalf. Under certain circumstances, you will still be able to get to the United States. Moreover, you won’t need a visa, and you won’t need money. You won’t even have to pay for the airline ticket for the transatlantic flight. Everything depends on your willingness to cooperate with us.”

“Are you senior to the consul? Are you the ambassador?”

“In a certain sense, yes. And so, are you prepared to cooperate with the government organizations of the United States in exchange for citizenship?”

Without a moment of hesitation, Vera replied with a firm, “Yes.”

“Excellent.”

Cameron rose from the chair, took a sheet of paper from the desk, and extended it to Vera.

“Sign it.”
“But it’s written in English.”

“Underneath the English version, you will find a copy in Russian, but you don’t even need to read it. It’s written there that you agree to cooperate with us. After your signature, write clearly: Vera Vikherko.”

“How do you know what my name is?” asked the girl filling out her first and last names under her signature.

“I know a lot about you, Vera. I’ve already told you that you are here in the Embassy at my invitation. And by signing this document, you have entered my service. Now you must offer your assistance to me without question. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Vera answered cautiously. And not understanding what she was getting involved with suddenly began to be terrified. She was gradually becoming aware that she had been inveigled into something large, possibly romantic, and probably dangerous.

“And now, we will see how well you understood me,” the Colonel said with a smile, sinking deeply into the chair. “Take off your clothes.”

“What?” the girl exclaimed. “Strip bare.”

“It’s a test,” Vera thought. She undressed completely and stood in front of MacKay with her folded hands resting against her torso.

“Walk to the wall and then back,” Cameron commanded.

Vera carried out MacKay’s wishes. The Colonel examined her from every angle with complete satisfaction. He remained thoroughly pleased with his choice.

“That’s it. You can put on your clothes. As soon as you return to your city, visit a gynecologist, a venereologist, and have blood drawn for an AIDS test. In a few days, I will come to you. I have your address.”

“What must I do for the US government to become an American citizen?”

“We’ll talk about that after my arrival.”

Chapter Five

October 2, 1991.  Headquarters of the Air Forces. Moscow.

At nine o’clock in the morning on the second of October, the Commander of the Air Forces of Russia, three-star General Tolkachov, summoned the chief of headquarters of the Air Forces to see him in his office.

“Oleg, I recently spoke with our new defense minister, and he has assured me that there will be no changes in personnel in our department.”

“But how long will that last?” The Brigadier-General asked him with doubt in his voice.

“We can count on working peacefully for at least a year,” the Commander stood from behind his desk and walked across the office. “Thank goodness. Otherwise, all of these shakeups in the upper ranks don’t allow you to concentrate on workday questions,” the boss of the headquarters turned his head to follow his superior.

“I agree. The end of August and the first half of September can easily be crossed off our working calendar. We’ve lost a month already, but now we’re really going to have to roll up our sleeves and work. And the first thing that we must do is analyze what we will be losing in the territories of the former fraternal republics and what aircraft we will be able to save. Prepare an analytic note about how many of the prospective losses are inevitable and what we must undertake to minimize the damage to the Air Forces of Russia, which the collapse of the Soviet Union has caused. Include in your report information about the supervisory composition of regiments and divisions, which at present are based outside of Russia. Also, think through where we might be able to house personnel which has been withdrawn from...” he made a pause to choose the necessary definition for the newly formed states and finding nothing politically correct, he finished the phrase, “from our neighbors.”

The chief of headquarters noted down his commander’s orders. When the Colonel-General had finished, the Chief of Staff ran his eyes over his notes and said:

“The day after tomorrow, by the end of the working day, everything will be prepared.”

“The day after tomorrow, you say? That’s good. Schedule a meeting of the senior officers of headquarters for seventeen hundred hours on the fourth.”


Two days later, at five o’clock in the afternoon, in the large meeting hall of the Air Force Headquarters, the entire commanding staff of the Russian Air Force assembled. Officers and generals took their places in the auditorium in the same order. They always formed ranks on a square in front of the headquarters building for solemn ceremonies and revolutionary holidays. To the left from the presidium sat a column of officers from Strategic aviation. In the center were arranged the tactical and frontal aviation, and on the right from the commander sat the transport and refueling divisions. The closer the officers sat to the stage, the higher their rank was. In the first row, gleaming with golden shoulder epaulets, the general sat. Almost all of them bore the symbols of honored pilots of the USSR, and some of them, on their formal tunics, wore the distinguished red ribbon and gold star of heroes of the Soviet Union above their left breast.

While the deputies of the chief of staff hung a map and schematics behind the commander’s back, the Colonel-General looked at the stage at the rows of officers and generals and thought about how many of them he would no longer be able to count six months from now.

“I’m sorry for these fellows. Many of them have become real friends during their long years of service together. I’ll miss them. And all for what? It’s all because that bald dickhead overlooked a conspiracy of alcoholics. It would be understandable if the leaders of the communist parties from the far-away Soviet Asian Republics, Niyazov, Ayev, and Nazarbayev, had gathered on the sly and had decided to sneak out of the union. That would still somehow be understandable and explicable. The Muslims get tired of gathering crumbs from under the tables of the Orthodox Christians. But the bold reformer with the black birthmark on his head somehow didn’t seem to notice this. Kirgizstan is far from Moscow and high in the mountains. How could you set up surveillance there inside a shepherd tent? No way. But here, right next to us, only five hundred kilometers from Moscow in a forest hut, in the presence of a dozen KGB officers, the three Slavic Soviet Republics leaders had met and toppled an empire. And yet, it had taken our ancestors centuries to create it. And how many people had perished to defend it? And what was the master up to all this time? Was he asleep? And where were his faithful KGB ‘dogs’? Were they feeding on foreign hands? That must be it. Apparently, someone from the innermost circle of the master had been playing the fool with them and, to put it bluntly, had probably been working for Uncle Sam.”

The commander lost in thoughts and didn't notice that all of the preparations had now been completed. The pause stretched out. The officers and generals were whispering among themselves. The commander raised his right hand, and silence fell over the auditorium.

“Comrades,” said the Colonel-General without getting up. “The Air Forces of the country have suffered heavy losses. In connection with the union's dissolution, without a single shot in peacetime, we have lost more airplanes than in all of the accidents and catastrophes since the Great Patriotic War. Besides aircraft, we are losing a large number of experienced pilots and navigators. These losses are difficult to replace for Russia's armed forces but are catastrophic for our headquarters. In proportion to the losses of planes, personnel cutbacks will take place in the headquarters of all levels, including in our headquarters. The ranks of the responsible generals and officers will also be reduced. Today, together, we must think hard about how we can minimize the upcoming losses. And tomorrow, we will have to work out in the regiments and divisions how to preserve the Air Force for Russia and our ranks for ourselves. The salvation of the drowning people is in the hands of those who are drowning. Today, this slogan is as pertinent to us as never before. Colonel,” the commander turned to the chief of the operational division, “report on our general situation.”

Colonel Andreyev took the podium, opened his portfolio, and began to read the report he had prepared.

“Comrades, officers, and generals, on the territories of the former Soviet republics, there is approximately forty percent of the aircraft of the Air Force. As the legitimate heir of the USSR, Russia has the right to demand repossession of these aircraft. According to preliminary data, not a single central Asian and Transcaucasian republic has intentions for ownership of the parts and the subdivisions of the military air forces. They have neither the specialists for servicing the technology nor the pilots necessary for carrying out air missions. We may have to leave several helicopter squadrons behind, but this is not significant. The main mass of the aircraft, we will transfer to our airfields. I can state with assuredness that we will not have a problem with Belorussia. The republics' governments have already affirmed their readiness to transfer to us all aviation or to allow it to remain under our command at its old bases.
On the territories of the previously listed countries, only fifteen percent of the aircraft are based. Ukraine has pretensions to the main portion of aircraft, which is located beyond the borders of Russia. This comprises twenty-five percent of the aircraft of the former Soviet Union. Concerning certain types of aircraft, this number rises to thirty or even fifty percent. The government of Ukraine considers this technology its own, just as it does the Black Sea fleet, which is based in Sevastopol. I wish to remind all those gathered here what specific losses await us.”

Colonel Andreyev approached the European part of the Soviet Union map, which was hanging behind the backs of the presidium. On this map were designated the airfields where aviation regiments were based.

“However painful it might be to admit, in Ukraine, there is not a single regional center where our technology is not located. Let us begin with transport aviation. The Sixth Guard Air-transport division, two regiments of IL-76s in Zaporozhia, and a regiment of AN-12s in Melitopol, the Belgorod-Dnestr transport division IL-76s in Artsiz, separate transport regiments in Odessa, Borispol, Lvov, and Vinnitsa. Summing up, this is about one hundred and fifty combat and support units. Half of them are IL-76 heavy transport aircraft.

There is no less complicated a situation in terms of tactical aircraft. We are losing in Ukraine more than two dozen regiments of attack, fighter, and helicopter aviation. Many pilots from these units have been through the school of war in Afghanistan. No matter how sad it might seem, we will nonetheless have to reconcile ourselves with the loss of frontal aviation. Ukraine needs its air force, and we have no place to base three hundred and fifty aircraft and helicopters.
We are not able to do anything about the loss of the Chernigov and Khar’kov higher military aviation schools for pilots. We are losing an excellent air-combat training center in the Kirov-Crimea region. These losses are inevitable.

But the heaviest losses await us in long-range aviation. We may lose two divisions of strategic bombers. The Poltava division. Two regiments of supersonic TU-22s and the Priluki division, which includes a regiment of TU-160s. In the Priluk division, two regiments are quartered in Uzin. This includes a regiment of TU-95 strategic bombers and a regiment of IL-78 refueling aircraft. In terms of TU-160s, we are losing one hundred percent of the existing inventory of battle-ready aircraft. In terms of TU-95s, we are losing ten percent. If we could compensate for the loss of the Poltava division, at the expense of similarly typed aircraft, which earlier belonged to the Baltic fleet, and which have been withdrawn from the Byelorussian city of Bykhov, in the Mogilev region, then we will have nothing to compensate for the loss of the regiment of TU-160s.”

In what followed, the Colonel addressed in greater detail the situation within each regiment. He reported to those gathered about the aviation maintenance readiness level and the aircraft's remaining flight resources, the military preparedness of the flight crews, and the level of preparation of the engineering technician personnel. He gave a moral and political characterization of the command structure of the regiments for long-range and transport aviation.

In the conclusion of his report, the operations division chief presented data about the average age of personnel to indicate if they are still required or not and about their housing situation.

“And so, comrades,” the commander summed up, “you must now understand in what a serious situation Russian aviation finds itself as a result of the Ukrainian declaration of independence. The chief of the operations division, in his report, has stated that if we begin from the facts of our present situation, we will have to reconcile ourselves to certain losses. Considering the geopolitical position of Ukraine in Europe, we will have to recognize her right to retain for herself tactical and fighter aviation. But Ukraine does not need strategic bombers and heavy transport aircraft. I do not consider that we need to reconcile ourselves to anything in this case,” Tolkachev raised his voice. “We must take from Ukraine everything that we possibly can, whether it is jet fighters, attack aircraft, or even helicopters. And concerning strategic aviation, we simply must do everything possible to assure the transferal of the regiments to Russia. We must take the TU-160 and TU-95 regiments, the divisions of TU-22s, the refueling regiment, and all the transport aircraft back into our hands. That is today's task. Ukraine cannot make use of them. It will always remain a purely European state. On the other hand, in the future, Russia is going to continue to play the role of world power. And not a small responsibility is laid upon us to support this status.”
The Colonel-General placed his hand on the portfolio of documents.

“Here,” he said, “my orders to conduct the operation ‘Autumn Holidays.’ Those of you who will be involved in its execution will become acquainted with its details by tonight. Almost all of you will be involved. You will be given ten days to prepare and a week for the work in Ukraine. Three weeks from now, you must report to the chief of headquarters. Copies of your orders you will receive from the deputies of the chief of staff. I wish you success.”

Chapter Six

October 13, 1991. Moscow.

Colonel MacKay left the Embassy's gates in a dark green Jeep Cherokee and turned onto the Garden Ring Road in the direction of the railway station ‘Kiev.’ A surveillance car began to tail him almost at once, but this did not agitate the Colonel. He did not look into his rearview mirror and did not take a circuitous route through the streets of Moscow to shake his tail. He knew that the tail would fall off by itself.

But not today, and not in Moscow.

Cameron looked at the road. He saw that autumn was quickly taking over. There were no leaves on the trees. The Muscovites had removed their jackets and raincoats and had donned their overcoats. Lovers of rollerblading had disappeared from the streets. Yes, October in Moscow was not like October in Washington.

Cameron opened the car window and looked up into the sky over his head. Low grey clouds promised rain, and it was already drizzling when he got out of the jeep at the parking meter by the railway station ‘Kiev.’

He walked past the fair booths of vendors trading in chocolate, liquor, flowers, and condoms and entered the hall where the ticket counters were. Five or six people were standing at each of the two dozen ticket counters. Cameron ran his eyes over the passengers and went to the counter that had written on the glass above it in blue letters “in the direction of Kiev” in quotes. Having waited his turn, he asked to be sold two tickets for a sleeper to Lvov for today.

“Will the two of you be in one compartment, or can you be put into different ones?” asked the cashier.

“Excuse me?” Cameron repeated politely.

“I said, can you share a compartment, or do you need two?” the cashier asked again, having pressed the button on the microphone.

MacKay thought for a moment, and the woman, looking MacKay directly in the eyes, said: “Blockhead.”
She was certain that the passenger could not hear her. Thick glass divided MacKay and the cashier, but the Colonel was able to read lips.
He smiled sadly and thought, “No, you will never become cultured,” and said:
“One, please.”

Having paid four hundred rubles for the two tickets, Cameron sauntered over to the newspaper kiosk. He had not yet crossed the hall when the cellphone in the inner pocket of his jacket began to echo the sounds of short high pitched rings.
Mackay extended the antenna, pressed the small, green square button, and placed the phone to his left ear.

“Hello,” the Colonel answered.

“A man in a brown leather jacket with a black attache case presented his identity badge to the cashier, and after a short conversation, bought a ticket. He was standing three people behind you in line. I think he’s your tail.”

“Okay,” Cameron answered.

Retracting the antenna, he returned the telephone to his jacket pocket, obtained his tickets from there, and turned in the opposite direction. Directly towards him was walking a broad-shouldered young man approximately thirty years old, wearing a button-down three-quarter-length black leather jacket. In his left hand, he held a cellphone and in the other a small attache case. Two tickets for train number 73 to Lvov were in his right hand.

“I’m traveling with him in the next compartment,” Cameron read the lips of the counterespionage agent.

The metallic sounding voice of Lieutenant Colonel Sergunin answered:

“I will call the comrades in Lvov and tell them to meet you there at the station.”

Cameron couldn’t hear this. But he didn’t need this information. He wasn’t planning to go to Lvov. He took a step in the direction of the departing man’s path and raised his head upward. Beneath the station's ceiling, which had been covered with murals by unknown artists in the 1930s, there hung the train schedule. When the leather-clad man drew next to MacKay, Cameron asked him:

“Excuse me, please, do you know what platform the train to Lvov is departing from?”

“The eighth gate, the fifth platform, in fifteen minutes,” the young man answered in an almost military fashion.

“Thank you. Are you also going to Lvov?” Cameron asked, turning in the direction of the underground passage to the platforms.

“Yes, the headquarters is sending me on a junket.”

“What a coincidence. I’m returning home from a junket.”

They walked along the spit-covered underground passage and spoke softly. Passengers overtook them with huge trunks which were returning to the recently independent Ukraine. Towards them hurried potential customers of Moscow stores and markets who had just freed up the cars of the Kiev train.

Along the passage walls, which were covered in paint, there sat two poorly dressed older women begging. Above the head of one of them, in red letters, was written: “SPARTACUS DEAD.” By the stairway that led to the fourth platform, a policeman was exchanging curses with three gypsies. Everything looked normal, and no one would suspect that a Colonel from American intelligence and a Captain from Russian counterespionage was peacefully talking about the probability of coincidences. They walked out into the fresh air of platform number five and stopped at a sleeping car. The rain continued to drizzle, and the wind blew oblique streams of water between the train car and the overhang of the platform.

“Today, there has been one coincidence after another,” said Cameron, showing his ticket to the train conductor.

“If we are going in the same compartment, then I will believe anything you like,” said the officer, smiling.

“No, guys, you have tickets in different ones,” the conductor answered in Ukrainian, returning both of them their tickets.

“Thank you,” the American said in Ukrainian and climbed into the train car.
In front of the door to his compartment, Cameron placed on the floor a small suitcase and pulled the handle of the door inward. The metallic scraping of worn-out wheels had not managed to die down when the counterespionage agent approached MacKay.

“So, you’re a Ukrainian? I couldn’t understand what kind of accent you have. That’s interesting,” he said, smiling in a friendly fashion.

“I’d like to clarify that. In your terms, I’m really a “Westerner.” My family includes Hungarians, Poles, and Ukrainians.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Viacheslav.”

“Your name is completely Russian.”

“That means that the leader of the People’s Movement of Ukraine, Viacheslav Chernovol is a Muscovite in disguise,” said Cameron and entered his compartment.

Moderately surprised at this comedic retort, the Captain introduced himself.

“My name is Viktor,” the officer managed to say while MacKay was closing the door behind him. “Perhaps we can celebrate our acquaintance in the restaurant car?”

“Okay. If you are passing by my compartment, knock a couple of times at the door.”

“Consider it done.”

That evening, the traveling companions were sitting in a restaurant and drinking “Zhijulevskoe” beer. The waitress had placed in front of the plates of weiners and fried potatoes and asked them to pay for their order. When she left, MacKay asked the counterespionage agent:

“Viktor, what is your job?”

“I’m a criminal investigation policeman. I expect that you know our building on Petrovka. And what do you do?”

“Yes, I do, and I’m a school Principal in Lvov. That means that Ukraine can declare its independence all it likes, but it’s still going to have to send its specialists to Moscow to study.”

“Why should that be?”

“I’m the director of an intensive English language training school, and much as I might regret it, the best linguists live in Moscow. That’s why sometimes I have to go there for consultations. And what about you? You couldn’t manage to catch your own bandits, and so you’ve decided to hunt for Ukrainian ones?”

“No, what are you saying? We’ve got enough troubles of our own. It’s just that our Lvov colleagues have captured one of our local criminals and are interrogating him about his activities and adventures.”

“Well, well, I wish you the best of luck,” said Cameron, finishing supper.

At eleven o’clock that night, MacKay undressed in his compartment and was preparing to go to sleep. Someone knocked softly at the door.

“Oh, that pest of a pseudo-policeman,” Cameron thought, pursing his lips in a smile and opening the door a crack.

But he was mistaken. On the threshold stood the train conductor and a scrawny girl about fifteen years young. Both of them smiled guiltily. The train conductor bent slightly in Cameron’s direction and said softly in Ukrainian:

“Excuse me, sir, I see that you are traveling alone. Perhaps you’re bored? This girl could entertain you. It’s not expensive. Just fifty American dollars for the night.”

Cameron took his pants from the hanger, got money from his pocket, gave the conductor ten dollars, and said softly in Ukrainian:

“Many thanks, madam, this is for you for your trouble. You’d do better to propose the girl to the guy from Moscow. He’s younger than I am.”

The train conductor took the money and, wanting to be of some sort of service, asked: “Maybe you’d like some vodka? I have a bottle of Swedish Absolute.”

“I’d like to get some sleep. Could you tell me when we get into Kiev?”

“At eight o’clock.”

“Wake me up at seven. And bring coffee with you in the morning.”

“I have some good coffee. Would you like Nescafe?”

“That would be fine,” Cameron pronounced in a tired voice and closed the door on the nose of the women.

At seven o’clock in the morning, the conductor brought coffee. She looked tired and haggard, as if she had not slept. Her eyes were puffy from tears.

“What happened?” asked Cameron, sitting on his bed.

“Your neighbor offended my niece.”

“How could she be offended if you stuck her in his bed?”

“He enjoyed himself with her all night and didn’t let her get a wink of sleep. At each station stop, he went out onto the platform to smoke. He walked along with the train and, shortly before departure, entered the carriage, returned to his compartment, and again climbed on top of my niece. Why did he do this to her?”

“Well, that’s her job. What does she have to complain about? You get all kinds of customers.”

“The point isn’t that he wore her out.”

“What is your point?” Cameron asked, feigning interest.

“The point is that instead of giving her money in the morning, he stuck his KGB officer’s ID under her nose and promised to turn her into the police hands for prostitution in Kiev. The child is in my compartment now. She is crying from terror and hurt.”

“Well, why was your niece doing such work?”

“Because it's better to do it with men in a compartment than with gang members in the dark alley. I can’t get her to stay at home, at any rate.”

“That’s a deeply philosophical viewpoint,” Mackay said sarcastically.

Cameron stood for a moment of thought and then removed his wallet out of his pants.

“Here’s another twenty dollars for you. After all, it was me who advised you to go to my neighbor. So, I feel a bit guilty for my part in this ordeal. Moreover, I’m going to need your help in Kiev.”

“I’ll do anything you like,” the conductor said obsequiously, hiding the fifty dollars in the breast pocket of her mice-colored uniform blouse.

“I am going to get off the train in Kiev just before it leaves. In fact, the train may already be in motion. Don’t hurry to close the door, but as soon as I jump off, lock it with a key and don’t let the KGB guy get off after me. Say that it’s not allowed to leave while the train is in motion.”
“Do you want to run away from him? You’re not a spy, are you? That means it was you he had under surveillance all night, and that’s why he didn’t let my niece get any sleep.”

“No, I’m not a spy. I work in the People’s division of the People's Movement of Ukraine. We’re worse than spies for the Russian KGB.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because we’re in favor of complete independence from Russia, both political and economical.”

The conductor quickly looked in each direction to see if somebody was watching and then looked up to Mackay. “I’m also for independence from such scoundrels,” she whispered conspiratorially.

The train to Lvov slowly approached the first platform and, clanging the iron buffers, stopped. The arrival march played overhead in the station. The opening doors of the cars creaked, and the conductors who were tired from being up all night wiped with dirty cloths the yellow vertical handholds; the passengers unhurriedly stepped out onto the platform. Porters ran past with iron carts. The owners of Soviet-made automobiles offered to bring their clients to any designated place.

Cameron put on his jacket, looked at his suitcase, and got out of the compartment. He left his belongings on the floor. His sleeper stood opposite the central entrance to the station building. Crossing the platform, the agent quietly hummed in time with the march resounding overhead:

The honor guard
Takes under guard
All people very merry.
They wait. They wait.
With a joyful face, I walk alone
On the platform,
Among the sea of raised hands,
That boils around.

Approaching the glass door, MacKay saw the counterespionage agent exiting from the car onto the platform.

“Good boy,” Cameron thought, “the main thing is that you are the only one here.”

He went as far as the newspaper stand, bought the Morning Kiev news, and went back. The Captain was smoking at the entrance to the car, and through the windows of the station was observing MacKay.

“Good morning,” said Cameron, approaching Viktor.

“Good morning.”

“You seem a bit tired, young man. Did the wheels’ knocking keep you awake?” asked MacKay.

“I had some coffee before going to bed. I couldn’t get to sleep until after midnight.”

“Don’t worry. It’s still quite a way to Lvov. You can catch up on your sleep during the day.” And with those words, Cameron entered the car.

A mechanical female voice amplified by loudspeakers declared:

“Express train number seventy-three, Moscow-Lvov, is departing from the first platform. All non-passengers, please exit the cars.”

The Captain tossed his unfinished cigarette onto the asphalt and glanced through the window into MacKay’s compartment. Cameron was sitting on the lower berth, reading a newspaper and drinking the last of his cold coffee. Viktor glanced at his watch and entered the car. As soon as the sounds of his steps passed MacKay’s compartment, Cameron stood up quietly, got a nylon jacket from his suitcase, sports trousers, and a knitted cap. Changing clothes quickly, he went out onto the platform.

The train began to move.

The counterespionage agent looked throughout the window along with the car. He saw the unfashionably dressed man go out onto the platform.

“I don’t remember such a passenger in our car,” thought the Captain and almost immediately recognized Cameron by his gait. Viktor rushed towards the exit, running past the compartment of the American; he heard the scraping of the car door as it closed.

The conductor, Maria, closed the door behind MacKay, crossed behind his back, and bent over to pick up a chocolate bar wrapper, which one of the passengers had dropped. The counterintelligence agent burst through the open door and collided with the conductor's ass tightly covered with a uniform skirt. Maria could not retain her footing, fell to her knees, and struck her head on the door.

“Have you gone crazy or what?” she screamed as she rose from her knees.

“Open that door,” said Viktor and showed her his KGB officer’s I.D.

“It’s not allowed. The train is already in motion.”

“Be quick about it,” he said. The KGB officer seized his PSM 5.45mm semi-automatic pistol from beneath his leather jacket and applied it to Maria’s forehead.

The color from Maria’s face quickly drained, and the pressure of the cold steel pistol barrel elicited a warm stream of piss that soaked through the woman’s underpants and ran along both her legs into her low heeled shoes. Maria, with trembling hands, took out the key and opened the door. But it was already too late for the Captain to leap - the train was gaining speed, and the station's platform was already several hundred meters behind.

Viktor tore at the handle of the emergency stop. Carried along by the inertial force, he struck his shoulder on the wall of the car, pushed himself away from it with his hands, and leaped onto the black greased gravel. The Captain did not see that besides the black grease, the gravel was in places covered with human excrement. With all his strength, he ran towards the station in the hopes of finding the American there.
While the counterespionage agent was confronting Maria, Cameron went out onto the square in front of the station and got into the first available car.

“Bring me to Belaya Tserkov’,” he said briefly.

“Twenty bucks,” answered the man with the short-cropped gray hair, looking at Cameron in the rearview mirror. The passenger silently nodded his head, and the white Lada lurched forward and disappeared into the morning stream of traffic.

The marshal music which MacKay had picked up in the station continued to play in his head:

I want to sing out loud,
And not to dampen my joy,
And only just, I’m only just,
A little sad that wasn't me
Who they were here for.

At that same moment, Viktor crossed the waiting hall at a run and ran out to the taxi stand. Cameron was nowhere to be seen. The KGB Captain looked hopelessly at the stream of people flowing into the subway station Central Train Station and understood that he had failed. He took out his cellphone and called Lieutenant Colonel Sergunin in Moscow.

“Vladimir Sergeevich, I lost him at the railway station in Kiev.”

“Great,” said the chief sarcastically. “Get back here at once.”

On the way to Belaya Tserkov, Cameron read the magazine offered by the driver. “The red hordes under the command of the executioner and sadist, the communist Murav’ev, occupied the left bank of Kiev, set up artillery on the shores of the Dnepr River, and in the course of ten days, fired into the central portion of the city. To prevent the destruction of historic buildings and to protect the citizens from the harm that is inevitable in the case of street-to-street fighting, the wise Ukrainian Nationalist Army commander Semyon Petlyura took his forces to Belaya Tserkov”.

“Wow,” thought Cameron. “Who exactly is the smart one here?” He turned several pages back and found the last name of the author of the article. “The Philosophy Doctor of the Historical Sciences, Kozubenko,” he read. “Great. Not six months have passed since the collapse of communist power, and there are already scholars who are prepared to rewrite their own works. Dear Pan Kozubenko, surely when you defended your thesis ten years ago in the department of Scientific Communism, you must have been a faithful Leninist and a communist devoted to the business of the party. And now, you are trying to be the first to lay waste to the dead lion. My colleagues in the CIA dream about such jackals as you.”
He smiled, continuing to think about the article. “Executioner, sadist, and communist. How slyly Kozubenko bends everything. It’s possible that this Murav’ev, who I have never heard of, was all three of these things in one. Like the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. However, I’ve never seen these adjectives standing in a single row. They certainly cause excitement. Great going, historian. Keep it up.”

The Lada entered Belaya Tserkov.

“Where in the city should I take you?” asked the driver.
“To the hotel.”

“To the central hotel by the market in the center of the city, or to the Ros’?”

“To the Ros’,” answered MacKay, and finished singing his favorite Russian march:

And the cavalry with mustaches to their ears,
And the guards who have to enforce the order,
The cats and the pigeons happy since morning,
And the crowds of spectators shouting hurrah.


Chapter Seven

October 15, 1991. Belaya Tserkov.

At half-past ten in the morning, Cameron was sitting in the hotel restaurant. Several women in short skirts and white aprons stood by the cash registers and were chatting idly. The Colonel recognized Vera amongst them. She was leisurely smoking a cigarette and was casting her gaze over the few patrons who had recently arrived for a late breakfast.

An unpleasant sensation of trouble had come over her several minutes before this. It did not permit her to concentrate on the conversation with her friends. Vera robotically answered the girls several times and suddenly understood why the disquiet had seized her.
A modestly dressed man whom she initially took for a country bumpkin was, in fact, the agent of the American Embassy, with whom she had talked in Moscow. He looked at her and smiled hospitably.

“Wenches, that’s enough jawing. Get to work,” said Vera. Then she took an aluminum tray and made her way to Cameron.

“This bitch has gone completely off her rocker. We never start to work at ten-thirty. Let the customer sit another fifteen minutes. The hungrier they are, the more they’ll order,” one of the waitresses said in her wake.

Vera approached MacKay and put the menu on the table.

“Sit down,” Cameron said softly.

“We’re not allowed to sit with the customers,” the girl answered.

Cameron took the menu into his hands and, looking at it, said:

“My name is Viacheslav Kondrat’evich. I’m your uncle on your mother’s side. After work, you have to go home immediately. No guests. I’ll come to you as soon as it’s dark. Got it?”

“What do you want for breakfast?” Vera asked him, her tongue barely moving from fright.

“You choose. Relax. You’ve gone quite pale. Smile and work calmly. I’ll eat, pay my bill, and leave. You won’t see me until this evening.”

After breakfast, Cameron went for a walk around the city. He went out of the hotel and walked along The Forty Years of Victory Prospect. Having glanced over the covered collective farm market on his way, he passed the sports complex and went out onto Petr Zaporozhets square. In the row of little shops opposite the central hotel, he bought one suitcase, two inexpensive suits, five shirts, jeans, slippers, a sweater, running shoes, a raincoat, and a hat. All of this he packed in his new suitcase and took a taxi to the hotel Ros’.

Later that evening, MacKay rang the doorbell of a one-room apartment in the suburbs of Belaya Tserkov. When Vera opened the door, the Colonel silently entered the vestibule, placed his suitcase on the floor, and without removing his shoes, went into the room. Then he looked over the bathroom and the kitchen.

He liked the apartment. “It’s modest and comfy,” he thought. “That’s about what I expected.” After supper, during which Cameron did not say a single word, he sat down on the sofa, placed Vera in front of himself in a chair, and said:

“You have to quit your job tomorrow."

“But how am I going to live?”

“That’s no longer your concern. You just listen and don’t interrupt. As soon as you leave the restaurant, you must take the bus to Uzin. There you will go to the Air Force base and apply for a job as a waitress in the pilot's cafeteria.”

“I’m not going to spy.”

“No one’s going to make you spy. Besides, you don’t know how to do it.”

“And what if they don’t take me on at the mess?”

“I don’t know of anyone in the former Soviet Union who can resist a bribe. Put one hundred dollars in your employment record book and put it over along with your work application to the boss of the mess.”

“But what if she asks why I left the restaurant? What should I tell her?”

“Say that after six years of working at the Ros’, you have managed to ensure your old age financially. You don’t need leftover cheese and sausage from the pilot’s tables, which the waitresses collect. You also don’t need meat or cutlets, which the chef takes home after each shift. Tell them that you want to start a family. At the age of twenty-four, you are dreaming of getting married to a brave young pilot. Here are a couple of hundred dollars banknotes. Give one to the boss of the mess and the other to the boss of the provisioning service of the aviation base. If you see that the boss is looking upon you as a woman, do whatever he wants. You must return from Uzin being em-ploy-ed,” Cameron emphasized every syllable of the last word.

“And what then? What is all this for?”

“What then? You’ll find out later. Make the bed. I want to get some sleep.”

Watching Vera turn the divan into a three-quarter bed, Cameron admired her slender figure. In passing, he recollected his wife and thought,
“God will forgive me if the necessities of my position require that I spend several pleasant nights with this Ukrainian beauty. And most probably, He won’t even find out about this. After all, my God doesn’t sit in heaven, but on the fourth underground floor of the enormous building of the Pentagon.”

When Vera finished preparing the sleeping arrangements, MacKay asked her:

“Do you remember the instructions you received in Moscow?”

“Yes,” the girl answered and got from the bureau several documents. “Here is my certificate of qualification in massage; also here are notes from the gynecologist and the venereologist.”

Cameron didn’t even look at the certificate and only read the dates of the notes and the diagnoses.

“These notes are ten days old,” he noted.

“I didn’t know when you would be coming,” the girl answered.

“Okay,” said Cameron, taking off his clothes, “show me what you learned in your courses.”

He lay down on the couch, hugged the pillow with his arms, and relaxed. The girl tried with all her might. In ten minutes, Cameron’s back, shoulders, and neck were covered with olive oil and red as boiled lobsters.

The exhausted American said:

“That’s enough.” And he sank into sleep.

Vera took a shower and made a bed for herself on the floor. Cameron devoutly believed that normal people must sleep at night. Business and pleasure, he believed to be daytime attributes of human existence. When he woke up in the morning, he removed the blanket from the girl’s inflatable mattress, and when she opened her eyes, beckoned her to join him. Vera rose from the floor and obediently lay down next to Cameron.

“No. That isn't what I expected from you. I’m preparing you for the demands of a completely different approach to sex. You are behaving like a bad wife who has lived with her husband her entire life. You are silently saying: ‘you want me? Here I am.’ You shouldn't behave that way.”

“You haven’t told me even yet what I’m going to have to do for the United States. That’s why I don’t understand what you want from me.”

“Alright then, I’ll tell you,” the desire which had seized MacKay a few minutes ago receded into the background.
“Business is business,” the Colonel said to himself. He sat on the sofa with his fingers laced behind his head and outlined Vera the part of his plan that concerned her.

“After you get work in the pilot’s mess, you will have to attract the attention of the commander of the aviation division, Major-General Gerasimov, and as soon as possible, initiate sexual relations with him.”

“How old is he?”

“Forty-eight.”

“Consider it’s done.”

“Good. But I don’t need you to sleep with him only once. Your task is to tie the general to you. You must make him fall in love with you.”

“What if he doesn’t want to be intimate with me? Or what if after the first time he doesn’t want to have me anymore?”

“That’s what you’re going to have to work on. I’ll buy for your flat new furniture and a videocassette recorder and musical center. We’ll create such a cozy nest in your apartment that even I wouldn’t wish to leave. Well, and naturally, I’m going to have to teach you one or two other things. Although I still don’t know what exactly you’re capable of.”

“Does he have to marry me?”

“Under no circumstances. Quite the opposite. If he begins to talk to you about that, you’ll have to answer him that you like the relationship with him just the way it is. He mustn’t feel that you threaten his peaceful family life in any way. You must satisfy not only all of his sexual fantasies but you’ll have to give him massages, prepare him suppers and breakfasts, you’ll have to give him presents, pay for visiting restaurants and taxi drives when he suddenly wants to see his wife. Besides that, I give you permission to occasionally buy presents for his wife and give them to him. You must become the ideal mistress. No matter how hard it is for you. If he falls in love with you and everything turns out the way I plan, I will take you to the States, and we’ll facilitate a prosperous life for you there.”

“What is supposed to happen? Well, let’s suppose that I get this old goat to fall in love with me. What next? What am I going to be able to do for you?”

“In the first place, he’s not an old goat. He’s six foot two. There’s not an ounce of fat on him. He has thick black hair that is slightly greying at the temples. He looks to be forty. He’s healthy as an ox and is mildly attractive.”

“Six foot two? How much is that in centimeters?” the girl inquired.

“A hundred and eighty-eight. In the second place, you’re going to be doing this not for me but your country. The division which General Gerasimov commands has enormous material and military value. Each aircraft is worth more than twenty million dollars. Independent Ukraine cannot afford to lose a single one of them.”

“How many aircraft are there in the division in all?”

“Eighteen bombers in Priluki, twenty-one bombers, and twenty refueling aircraft in Uzin. So the total is about sixty.”

“Oho! That’s more than a billion dollars,” the girl enthused.

“You’re smart to calculate it so quickly.”

“But if a division is already here, in Ukraine, how could we lose it?”

“While the politicians of the two countries are sharing power, in each of the two countries, there is a struggle for ministerial portfolios; no one is going to care about this division,” said Cameron. “But as soon as they get their fat asses arranged in the armchairs of comfortable offices, they’ll remember about it. And the Russians will be the first to remember.”

“Why?”

“Because they need them. They build such aircraft in Kazan and Taganrog, and therefore they know their true value. And another thing, that kind of aircraft needs space. Russia has it; Ukraine doesn’t.”

“Then let them take them since we don’t need them.”

“Vera, let us suppose that you have a gold ring, but it’s too big for you. Are you going to give it to one of your colleagues?”

“No. After all, it’s gold. It’s better to keep it. Although if my friend offers money, I’ll give it a thought.”

“Well, Russia is trying to take these golden airplanes for nothing.”

“For a goose egg? Screw them,” Vera folded her arms and gave the invisible Russians a one-fingered salute.

“You’re a smart little thing. Within a month, or at most two, senior air staff personnel will come from Moscow to Priluki and Uzin to try to convince the regimental and divisional commanders to pilot their aircraft into the Russian interior. An awful lot, if not everything, is going to depend on Gerasimov. Before this happens, you will have to tie the general to the Ukrainian soil with all of your charms. So that he will not have the slightest desire to fly away from here.”

“I can do that. As long as he tends to marital infidelity.”

“That he has. According to what we know, during his command of the regiment of the Mozdok airbase, he did not let a single dusky-skinned girlie escape him. I’m happy to hear that you are certain of your charms, but to not mess things up, I’m going to have to give you several lessons. You already know the first rule. Don’t keep a man from sleeping. Secondly, when he calls you, you have to make a sex kitten out of yourself. And I don’t mean a bad prostitute. Instead of sprawling next to him and showing with every aspect of your appearance the contempt you have for his lust, you must slowly approach the bed, lean on it with your arms, stretch out your back, to show how slender your waist is, and how your hips broaden as you crawl slowly on all fours towards him. And smile, Vera. Look him in the eyes and smile. Imagine that I am a general. Show me your best acting skills.”

Cameron, who up until this time had been sitting on the divan, with his legs folded beneath him, now lay on his back, covered himself with a blanket, and put his hands behind his head. Vera crawled beneath the blanket, but he did not permit her to move past his hips. He firmly positioned her head over his waist. When he was done with her, she crawled from the couch onto the floor, and a grimace of disgust distorted her face. Mackay was satisfied and mildly amused.

“Remember never to show your negative response to any form of sex. Instead of showing him your sour puss, the general is going to want to see a sly little smile. Wink at him and don’t even think of crawling back into the bed. He will not need of you for forty or fifty minutes. Therefore, you should disappear into the bathroom, brush your teeth, and then prepare breakfast. You will bring him his breakfast on a tray. You do have a tray?”

Vera shook her head negatively. She could neither swallow the sticky gunk nor spit it out on the rug.

“I’ll buy one for you today. So anyhow, when the general has eaten, you’ll take away the tray, you’ll take off your robe, lie with him under the blanket, press yourself to him, and say a few pleasant words. Men like compliments are a lot more than women do. Do you know why?”

Vera shrugged her shoulders.

“It’s because they hear them a lot less often. Tell him that he has strong arms or a broad chest. Don’t speak about his knightly male virtues, especially if they are of average size, and don’t talk about grey hair. Only say what he wants to hear. But don’t lie. He is a lot smarter than you are, and he will catch a lie right away. Do you understand?”

“Uh, huh.”

“Then march on into that bathroom. Take a shower. And show me what you’ve learned.”

Chapter Eight

October 16, 1991. Uzin.

Uzin airbase is, in most respects, typical of a Soviet Air Force base. It is a sprawling monstrosity that an eyesore and local inhabitants might say occupy enough space for another small town.

Originally built in 1937 as an unimproved airfield, it has housed much of the inventory of major Soviet bombing and attack aircraft over the years. At the time of its construction, the Soviet Union was greatly expanding its fleet of aircraft and airbases and, under the direction of Stalin, had the world’s largest, albeit not the most modern, air force. In 1939, ANT -40 / SBs arrived fresh from their support to the Republicans during the Spanish Civil War. However, in the early days of the Great Patriotic War, these battle-hardened formations were outclassed and devastated by marauding BF-109s or lost on the ground due to the increased Yunkers-87 Stuka raids during the opening phase of the Battle of Kiev. After September 1941, Uzin continued to operate throughout the war, mainly as a Luftwaffe fighter base until retaken by elements of the 55th Rifle corps, 18th Soviet Army, early in December 1943. After the war, the Red Air Force reconstructed the base as a permanent fixture in the landscape to include new block concrete runways to operate the IL-4 medium bombers of the 303rd Bomber Aviation Regiment and the reverse-engineered American B-29, the TU-4 heavy bomber of the 106th Heavy Bomber Division.

The much larger concrete installation that is now Uzin Air Base is completely devoid of any plants or grass and is built on the otherwise lush, colorful fertile land which surrounds the home of central Ukraine aviation.On the northwestern edge, south and to the right of the main entrance, is situated barracks for the garrison troops, housing for the officers and men, plus mechanical and engineering workshops, electronic workshops, repair facilities, administrative as well as a divisional headquarters.

       These buildings, mostly concrete and in generally poor conditions, were of early 1950’s vintage. During the 1950s and throughout the Soviet era, there was always a quota for concrete production. If there was not enough cement for making enough proper concrete, and as a rule, there wasn’t, that volume would be made up by adding sand and water. All that mattered was the delivery of however many cubic meters of nominal concrete. Once it was poured into forms, Soviet-produced material assembled by Soviet workers into a Soviet design was beyond questioning. As a result, over time, exterior concrete walls fell off in large chunks, and plaster cracked and fell away from interior walls. Of no surprise to its inhabitants, this was the state of all concrete structures at Uzin. The main feature, a 4000-meter main runway running southwest to northeast, provided the foundation of Uzin’s crown-like appearance from the air. On the western boundary is the refueling area by which fuel is transported by truck to the thirsty aircraft. East and south of the refueling bay, on the western boundaries of the field, lie the parking spaces and revetments of the TU-95s and IL-78s; this area completes the apex of the crown.

With the phasing out of TU-4s in 1955, the 106th Heavy Bomber Division was re-equipped with TU-95s, and the airfield was extended to its current 4000 meters to accommodate the massive turboprop. During the mid-eighties, the airfield was further strengthened to act as an emergency landing facility for the Buran, the Soviet space shuttle. Throughout times the airbase employed up to six thousand men from a total of Uzin's twenty-thousand citizens. Although the town residents are heavily dependant upon this airbase for economic reasons, they generally detest the presence of so many military personnel next to them, especially the Russian ones.

At half-past ten, Vera took the route bus from Belaya Tserkov to Uzin. It was cool and filthy in the product of the Penza Autobus Production plant. She stood in the bus between two men and held on to the upper rail. A single thought revolved in her brain.

“Is America worth the humiliations which I’m suffering and through which I will still have to pass?”

Suddenly she felt someone’s hand on her leg, moving towards her crotch. The rough palm hooking itself on the pantyhose beneath her skirt left runs in it. Her face flared for a moment. She turned to the unshaven man standing behind her and said maliciously:

“Buzz off, you old goat. Otherwise, I’ll knock your teeth into the back of your throat.”

The man froze but kept his hand for a moment in the same spot. Vera gritted her teeth and planted the heel of her boot directly on his instep. The unshaven man took his hand from beneath her skirt, shoved Vera in the back with his palms, and pulled his foot from beneath her heel.
“No, I was wrong. I’ll definitely just have to be patient. Viacheslav Kondrativich said that the operation would take a month or no more than two. In America, I won’t use public transport. He will buy a sports car for me; I want a Jaguar. And no one is going to be able to paw me unless I want them to.”

On the left-hand side, slightly receded from the main checkpoint of the Uzin Air Force base, stood on the concrete pedestal the aging ‘Bear’; one of the original TU-95 silently guarded the front entrance to her ancestral home. The TU-95, a huge silver, swept-wing turbo-prop beast, sported massive red stars on her wings, fuselage, and towering tail surface and was famously acknowledged as the fastest propeller aircraft in the world. Her massive Kuznetsov NK-12 engines were still fitted with their powerful 8-bladed counter-rotating propellers, which turned at the speed of sound. Although, for the most part, the Bear was generally liked by the ground crew and aircrew, to the chagrin of some and satisfaction of others who were associated with the bomber, the TU-95 was also dubiously known as the noisiest aircraft ever built.

As the mainstay of the Soviet Cold War strategic nuclear bomber force, the Bear also carried the distinction of dropping the world’s largest thermonuclear weapon, the Soviet 50-megaton Tsar Bomb, over the Mityushikha nuclear testing range. Now completed her flying duties forever, the elderly TU-95 rested motionless on her enormous tricycle landing gear. The ominously quiet Bear seemed to be looking and pointing menacingly with her in-flight refueling probe directly at Vera – as if acknowledging a new type of threat - as she approached the duty Sergeant of the guard. Vera could not help but notice the giant gate guardian but provided only a fleeting glance. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

“Can you kindly tell me where I can find the pilots' mess?” inquired Vera.
“I could tell you, but then I would have to kill you,” teased the Sergeant.

Vera was visibly not amused and remained silent. Aware of her steely gaze, the Sergeant became more serious.

“Why do you need to go there?” he continued.

“I’m applying for a job,” answered Vera.

“It’s forbidden to allow civilians through the gate without an escort; wait here.

“Although I’d certainly allow you into the Guard post alone so you could take your clothes off for me,” mused the Sergeant to himself.

Thinking more practically, the grizzled NCO ordered one of his sentries to accompany her.

“Petrenko, take this girl to the pilots' mess and return back here quickly.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” replied the young man.

On the way from the checkpoint to the mess, the gangly, fresh-faced soldier, resplendent in his new khaki uniform, complete with blue epaulets and Kalashnikov bayonet on his belt, attempted to chit chat with Vera. He looked over to her and politely asked:

“Lady, how old are you?”

“Close,” answered Vera.

“What do you mean ‘close’?” the young conscript was taken aback.

“Wipe the snot from under your nose,” Vera cut him off maliciously.

Embarrassed and intimidated by her abrasiveness, Petrenko decided that being quiet would be more advantageous. He hung his head low and kept his mouth shut. They continued to walk through the installation, past the desolate parade ground, past the mechanics' shop and electronics building.

Obviously, Vera was an anomaly, or at least “fresh meat” here at Uzin. Wherever Vera and her youthful guide walked brought forth the predictable whistles and hoots from the leering soldiers and airmen; deciding it would be much safer for his already bruised ego, Petrenko said nothing until they arrived minutes later at the mess.

“You can go inside here,” he said meekly. He barely lifted his arm six inches from his side as he pointed to the door, turned about, and left.

In the pilots' mess, Vera asked the first waitress she met:

“Excuse me, where can I find the chief of the mess?”

The waitress looked Vera over from head to foot with a mix of interest and suspicion and said curtly:

“Follow me.”

Vera followed the slightly haggard server girl up to the second floor of the mess and went into an office on the door of which a nameplate hung.

“Chief of Mess. Stepanova Valentina.”

An overweight, forty-year-old woman was sitting at a desk and eating cabbage salad with carrots and onion. Years of neglect from eating too many delicacies and leftovers from the pilot’s mess, coupled with a complete lack of physical inactivity, transformed this once voluptuous young woman into a middle-aged cow. As she bent over in her chair to scoff the vegetables, her large fleshy breasts rested upon her desk.

“Valentina, are you sick?” the waitress asked her.

“No, why do you ask?”

“Why are you tearing into the cabbage? Maybe I ought to get some meat for you from the kitchen?”

“I need to slim down. I can’t climb the stairs to the second floor without running out of breath anymore. Today I got on the scales in the butcher’s shop and gasped. I’m over a hundred now, and I’m only a meter sixty-five. So, Maria, you’d better go on, and I’m going to tackle this cabbage.”

When the waitress closed the door behind her, the chief, immediately noting the young girl’s beauty, looked coldly at Vera and asked:
“What do you want?”

“I want to get work, and I’ve brought an application.”

“We’re not hiring now. We don’t have any jobs available,” Semenovna answered rudely. Vera decided she needed to make use of her charm.

“Take a look at my employment record book, please. I have a good work record in the hospitality industry, and I have a recommendation from my former job.”

The green bill stuck out a bit from both ends of the little grey book. The rectangular numbers on the corner designated its value. “One hundred,” the American bill screamed. “My name is one hundred. Take me!” Semenovna pushed her plate away, wiped her hands with a dirty loose woven towel, and took the labor book. Having transferred the hundred to her desk drawer, Semenovna praised the girl:

“You have excellent recommendations. You understand party policy correctly.” She put on her glasses. “The only place you’ve worked is the Ros’ restaurant. It’s a good job,” she said thoughtfully. “Why did you leave? Did you steal something? Or did you massively shortchange someone?”

“No. I just got sick and tired of it. It’s like living in a whorehouse. Every morning you know that you’re going to get screwed that evening, only you don’t know by whom. And every morning, you promise yourself: “that’s it. I’m not giving in to anyone today.” But after supper, you have a glass or two of cognac, and then you don’t even remember the promise you made that morning. In the evening, your breasts fill, your eyes glitter, and in your head, there is only one thought: “Who of the customers has more women.” I sober up in the morning and cuss myself out as well as I’m kicking the customer out of my apartment on his ass.”

“You have your own apartment?” Valentina looked with surprise at Vera over the top of her spectacles.

“Yes. Two years ago, I bought a bachelor's flat in a cooperative apartment building.”

“That means you have a head on your shoulders. And here I thought you were drinking up all your tips.”

“No. Why would you say that? I only drink with the customers and at the customers’ expense. The restaurant staff encourages that.”

“Alright. And why are you coming here? To Uzin?” the chief asked.

“I want to get married. In Belaya Tserkov, almost every man knows me. And those who don’t know me would hear more than enough rumors after we got married. But here, there are a lot of young men. And I may catch somebody’s eye. I’ll be a faithful wife. You don’t have to doubt that. I’ve had my fill of sleeping around. So if I do marry a pilot, you won’t have to feel ashamed on my account.”
“I don’t doubt it. That’s the way I was myself.” She looked at her gold watch and stood up from behind the desk.

“Let’s go to the chief of supply for the base. I’ll recommend that you be hired.” Then the mess chief shook the crumbs of bread from her white smock and added:

“Are you going to have the same sort of “recommendation” for him?” “Yes,” Vera answered.

“Stick it into your labor record book. It’ll be easier to talk with him.”

An hour before the pilots of the transport regiment had lunch in the general assembly hall, Major Vikhrov was busy with the food tasting. At thirty years of age, he had maintained a trim figure. While still a student at the Yaroslavl Higher College for logistics, Vikhrov had developed a habit of not eating anything between breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He would say to himself: "If you don’t want to turn into a pig, maintain your fasting, regardless, how delicious pilot’s chocolate might be.”

Not long ago, the Major had put an end to garnishes as well.

When Semenovna and Vera went into the general assembly hall, there were four plates on the table in front of the chief of provisions. In one of them, there were cutlets, in the second, there were hamburgers, in the third, there was goulash, and in the fourth chops. With a silver fork, Vikhrov raised one of the cutlets. It broke, and the brown halves fell onto the plate.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he asked the chief cook, threateningly, who was standing in front of him with an empty tray in his hands. “How many times do I have to tell you: “cutlets must not break on the fork!”

“We put meat in them and add onion and bread. Everything is in accordance with the technology of the food preparation,” answered the chef.

“I don’t care what you put in them. Put shit in them if you like, but they have to be sturdier. The pilots can’t argue about how they taste. They each have their own taste. But they might toss you out, and me as well, if you give them such stuff as this,” he carelessly moved the plate of cutlets away from him. “If I find anything like this again, I’ll fire you.”

He turned in the direction of the mess boss.

“What do you want, Valentina?”

“I’ve brought a new girl. I recommend that you take her on.”

“Get out of here, Petrovich, and remember: this is your last warning.”

When the chief cook left, Vikhrov called the chief of the mess over and asked quietly:

“Is her recommendation from her previous place of work in order?”

“It’s in order.”

“Does she have her doctor’s certificate with her?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve checked it?”

“Yes.”

“And how is she in general? Have you spoken to her?”

“I’ve spoken to her. Her head is in good operating condition.”

“Well, we’ll check it out right now. You stand behind the door and don’t let anybody in.”

“Only don’t take too long. In half an hour, the pilots will begin to come for lunch.”

“What are you talking about, Valentina? What do you mean, half an hour? I won’t even need five minutes.”

“All you ever eat is meat. What happened to your strength?”

“The small amount of strength I have has been spent working.”

“I know how you have it. Your work, I mean,” the chief of mess said and went to the door. Passing by Vera, she whispered to her:

“Don’t be a fool. I’ve gone to bat for you.”

“Thanks. I’ll try it.”


The chief of mess went out, and the Major, with the distinctive voice of a nobleman, summoned Vera:

“Come here.”

Vera approached the table.

“Give me your employment record book and your letter of recommendation,” Vikhrov stretched out his hand.

Having obtained the money from the record book, he threw the document upon the table between the plates.

“What’s your name?” “Vera.”

“That’s a good name,” the Major placed the money in the pocket of his grey uniform jacket, turned in his chair towards the girl with his face, and unbuttoned his pants.

“Again. It’s the second time today, and I have to do this one sober.”

When Vikhrov had taken care of the buttons on his fly, he spread his legs to each side and pointing with his finger towards the floor between his boots, he said:

“Get to it, then.”

“I hope that this is the last trial for today. Fuck. How I want to get out of here.”

Vera tugged her skirt, unbuttoned her leather jacket, and got down on her knees between the legs of the boss of the provisions service of the airbase. She was disgusted. “When was the last time this pig bathed?” The Major grabbed Vera roughly by the back of her blond mane and pushed her head forward.
The Major was clearly flattering himself when he had spoken for about five minutes. He didn’t even last three. Having done the deed, Vera smiled reluctantly as she rose to her feet. Vikhrov waved a hand at her:

“Go on then, tramp. Tell the chief of the mess that I've confirmed your candidacy. You passed your test with flying colors. You can start work next shift.”
 
Chapter Nine

October 16, 1991. Moscow.

Vera was taking a bus to Belaya Tserkov while Lieutenant-Colonel Sergunin was reading the report of his subordinate.

“From your report, I have not understood whether or not you established the date and location of the object of investigation?”

“I established it,” answered the KGB captain. “Well, how was he able to escape from you then?”

“I stuck a bug on the inner side of his coat collar, but when he was in Kiev, he completely changed his clothes and left his coat in his compartment.”

“Why didn’t you go after him?”

“MacKay got off the train right before it left. The conductor closed the door behind him and would not let me out. I showed her my ID, but she answered me: ‘You’re done giving commands. We don’t have to listen to you anymore.’ While I was convincing her of my rights, it was already too late. I think that she must have been in cahoots with him.”

“You know what they say about this in MacKay’s homeland: ‘Don’t piss on my legs and say it’s raining.’ You understand?”

“Understood.”

“Translate it.”

The Captain said in Russian, “Don’t piss on my legs and say it’s raining.”

“Yes, that’s it. So in your opinion, this American succeeded in corrupting a Soviet woman in just a few moments. And the terror which our organization inculcated in them in the course of seven decades flew away like a little birdie?”

The Lieutenant-Colonel wrote something in his notebook and said to the Captain:

“You’re free to go.”


Viktor went towards the door, and Sergunin called after him:

“Make a call to Lvov. Ask local officers there to remove the position transmitter from the coat. All of MacKay’s things are already in the district command of the Ukrainian security organization.”

Returning to his office, Viktor got from the safe a portfolio of current concerns and stared at the documents with an unseeing gaze. He did not feel like working. “Shit. All it took was losing control for a few hours with some slut in a compartment, and already I’m under the threat of real trouble. If I simply let this bastard MacKay slip away, I would have gotten off with a reprimand, no more than that. But now I have to sit and think about how far Sergunin will go in investigating this. To hell with it. It’s time for lunch.”

Halfway to the dining room, Viktor met one of his coworkers. The Senior Lieutenant cordially stretched out his hand to shake and asked:

“I haven’t seen you in ages. Were you off on a mission?”

“I went to Kiev for several days.”

“You weren’t on the Lvov train by any chance, were you?” The Senior Lieutenant’s face became serious.

“Yes, I was on the Lvov train; what of it?”

“The boss ordered me to meet the train tomorrow and to bring the conductor of the sleeping car to him. Did you forget to pay for your linen, or did you steal a towel?”

The captain smiled at his friend’s joke and said in reply:

“No, not exactly. Don’t take it seriously. Let’s get out of here and have some lunch.”

“My forebodings did not deceive me. If tomorrow our operatives take this Ukrainian bitch, they will crack her like a walnut in a minute. I’ll be fired before I know it. And if they figure out that the girl I fucked was a minor, I’ll be jailed. And it won’t be for just three or four years for having sex with a minor, but about eight. Of course, the prosecutor will prove the causal link and state that if I hadn't screwed up fucking the girl all night, then I would not have let the enemy spy slip away from me the next morning. Nobody knows what harm this prick MacKay’s visit to Ukraine will bring to Russia. If Russia loses enormous resources as a result of his work, then my sentence may be longer than a decade. With a sentence like that, I’ll soon be forgetting the delicious taste of the black caviar in our buffet.”

His appetite disappeared. The Captain pushed his plate away from himself and looked despairingly at the Senior Lieutenant.

“I must clarify when the train from Lviv is coming and meet the conductor and her niece at the approach to Moscow.”

At ten o’clock in the evening, Viktor walked slowly along Gorky Street. At the Intourist hotel, he stopped and looked around. About five meters away from him, at the very edge of the sidewalk, stood three young women. From time to time, cars pulled out of the traffic and slowly drove past them. The women, in turn, unbuttoned their long coats for them to look at.

A black Audi stopped by the sidewalk. The driver opened his window from the passenger’s side and beckoned to the prostitutes. One of them bent over the side and said something to the driver and returned to her colleagues.

The man got out of his car, leaving the Audi engine running, and went up to the girls. The Captain quickly got off the sidewalk and onto the pavement. The owner of the Audi had yet to turn his face to the car when Viktor turned the left corner, jumped into the driver’s seat, and drove the automobile downward towards Revolution Square. The owner of the black auto hurriedly stuck his hands into his pockets. He didn’t have his cellphone. It was still in the glove compartment of his car.

In a loud, panicky voice, he asked the ladies:

“Was that a friend of yours?”

They did not answer and moved from the pavement to the steps of the hotel. The victim interpreted their suspicious glances as making fun of him and went after them.

“I’m going to call the police.”

“Call them, you jackass.”

“Who’s a jackass? I’m a jackass?” the man echoed threateningly.

From the lobby of the hotel, two policemen ran out. They quickly went down the steps and stopped the victim.

“What happened, Sir?” asked the Sergeant.

“The pimp of these prostitutes stole my car.”

The girls laughed softly.

“Did they show you any documents?” the sergeant asked quietly.

“Who?” The man did not understand.

“The thief and the ladies. You called them a pimp and prostitutes.”

“No. But any fool can see who they are.”

“I don’t see it, personally. Get out of here, man. Stop disturbing the peace.”

“Who’s disturbing the peace? Me? I’m the one who had his car stolen and was called a jackass...”

He did not manage to finish his phrase. The sergeant smiled, looked back at his accomplice, and without taking a backward swing, he hit the man with the end of his rubber truncheon in his solar plexus. The victim coughed out the end of his phrase and bent in two. The Sergeant leaned over him, put his hand on the man’s shoulder, and asked:

“Are you going to go on your own steam, or do we have to summon a squad car?”

“I’ll go,” the victim managed to squeeze out.


Accompanying him with a glance, the policemen went back to the hotel. Going past the girls who were smoking, the older of the two commanded them:

“Finish your smoking break and get to work.”


While the owner of the Audi was talking outside the hotel with the corrupt policemen and their cronies, he missed his chance to reclaim his car. Viktor passed the last traffic policeman’s post on the Moscow Ring Road and approached Obninsk.

According to the schedule, the train from Lvov would arrive in this suburb of Moscow at five in the morning and stands there for three minutes. This was the last stop of the train before the Kiev station to the capital of Russia.

Viktor did not rush. He had before him only two hundred kilometers of excellent highway and six hours with which to travel.
“It would be great if I caught the auntie and her niece both in the same compartment. I could solve the whole problem immediately. It’s going to be worse if the girl has somebody in the compartment with her. Then I won’t be able to get her. But there’s also the possibility that she was scared by me and hasn’t taken this train. I’ll shut the conductor’s mouth quickly, and by eight, I’ll be back at work.”

He got a piece of chocolate from his pocket and ate it, driving the automobile with one hand. “Hope, my earthly compass, and luck is a reward for courage.” He remembered the Soviet poet Dobronravov’s words to the song “Hope.” At three o’clock in the morning, he left the car at the entrance to an apartment building near the railroad and went on foot to the station.

The train from Lvov arrived in Obninsk on time. Out of the eighteen cars on the train, doors opened on only three of them. The Captain went up to the sleeping car, retrieved a three-faceted railway key from his pocket, and entered the back compartment.

The train began to move. Viktor stood several minutes in front of the door of the conductor’s compartment. In the compartment, it was quiet.

“They’re asleep. That’s good.” Carefully opening the door, the officer entered the tiny space. Maria lay on her back on the lower bunk. Her eyes were covered with a towel. The wan rays from the blue lamp of the night illumination turned the compartment a grey tinge. Viktor drew back the curtain of the upper bunk. The girl was not in the compartment.

“It’s too bad the girl isn’t here. The chances that she’s on the train or at home in Lvov are approximately equal. Now we’ll ask the aunt.”
Viktor removed the towel from Maria’s eyes and covered her mouth with the hand. The woman’s eyes grew wide with fright. She tried to get up from the bunk, but Viktor would not permit her to do this.

“Be quiet. Where’s the girl?”

He took his hand away from the woman’s mouth.

“She stayed at home. In Lvov,” Maria answered quickly.

“It’s too bad. I wanted to see her. Well, it doesn’t matter. You don’t look so bad yourself, although you’re a bit too old for me.”

“I’m only thirty-seven,” the conductor said, insulted.

“That’s what I said. You’re a bit too old. Get up and make me some coffee.”

He looked at his watch.

“There’s still an hour and a half to Moscow. It will soon be time for you to wake up the passengers. I’ll have my coffee, and then I’ll screw you, then I’ll have an hour’s nap on your bunk. Get a move on. What are you just standing there for?”

Maria took a cup with an iron cupholder, sprinkled a package of instant coffee in it, and went out in the corridor to get water from the car’s boiler.

“Lord, how did he get on my tail? If only Olena doesn’t come back until we arrive in Moscow. This damn devil can destroy her.”

She poured boiling water into the glass and returned to the compartment. Viktor was sitting on the bunk and eating a cookie. The brown title on the wrapper announced “Chessmen.” The officer’s hands were gloved.

“He has white gloves on. He is afraid of staining his hands.” Maria gave the captain the glass.

Viktor looked through the coffee at the dim lamp, took two packages of coffee from the table, and put them into the boiling water.

“You should brew it more strongly for special people.”

“I didn’t know how you like it,” Maria tried to justify herself. “Should I get undressed, or is it still too early?”

Viktor put the empty glass on the floor, leaned against the wall of the compartment with his back, and said:

“Lift your skirt, and take off your panties.”

Maria lowered her warm pantyhose and her not overly large-sized panties to her knees, which had not yet healed, and pulled her dark blue skirt up under her belly.

“Turn to the table and bend over.”


Maria lay with her breasts against the small table. A white curtain with a blue inscription “Lvov” touched her hair. Her head was turned on her cheek, and her eyes followed the KGB officer. Viktor read horror in the eyes of the conductor. He got up from the bunk and gave Maria a pillow.

“Put it under your head. It’ll be softer.”

“How thoughtful he is. And right, before sex, men’s hearts always soften when they see a naked woman’s ass.”

She put the pillow under her head, and parted her buttocks with her hands, rose on her toes, and bent over. Viktor pressed himself to her, passed his palm over her meaty posterior, and with his other hand, took Maria by the hair and turned her head face downwards.

“He’s shy. He’s a strange one: look at how many women he’s had, and he’s still bashful. Well, let him be shy, just so long as he doesn’t press my face too hard into the pillow. Otherwise, I won’t be able to breathe.”

The Captain continues to press Maria’s head against the pillow, obtained a knife from the pocket of his jacket with his free hand, pressed the steel knob. The long narrow blade, with a quiet click, leaped out.

“What the hell was that?” the conductor managed to think when Viktor reversed his grip on the knife and then struck Maria hard with it beneath her left shoulder blade.

The woman shuddered, and the officer pressed her face into the pillow.
A dark spot of blood flowed out over Maria’s grey shirt. The woman’s legs twitched frantically.  It looks like she wanted to say: “Oh! Mom, it hurts!” but her face was smothered in the feather pillow, and all you could hear from her throat instead of the words was incomprehensible gurgling.

The body of the woman grew limp and slowly slipped down the crumpled blanket. Viktor pulled his knife from Maria’s back, supporting the dead woman under her arms, and lowered the body to the tiny space of the floor of the conductor’s compartment.

“You wrote us off too soon, bitch,” he said, looking into Maria’s open eyes. “We’re still in power. We’re still in command.”

The counterespionage agent opened the window. In the distance, the lights of the capital were already visible. He threw his knife into the darkness, along with the glass and its holder, pulled from the conductor’s blouse pocket the dollars that had been rolled up a little wad, and exited the compartment. He got off the subway at the Kiev train station in an hour, and another thirty minutes later, he was sitting in his office.

At eleven, his friend glanced around the corner of his office. The Senior Lieutenant looked agitated.

“Victor, your conductor, was bumped off last night.”

“Oh, go on,” he said, pretending to be surprised.

“I’m serious. Not long before the train arrived at the Kiev station, she was knifed in the back. I found her on the floor of the conductor’s department, naked to the waist. Or, more precisely, from the bottom up. However, the coroner said that she was not raped, but that means that she apparently knew the murderer. I’ve just come from the morgue.”

“Why does he think that she knew the killer?”

“She didn’t have any adrenaline in her blood, and that indicates she wasn’t even frightened before she died. Anyway, don’t go far. The chief wants to talk to you. Wait for a call from above. About an hour from now.”

“Why didn’t he summon me at once?”

“He’s talking with the niece of the conductor right now. When he’s finished with her, then he’ll summon you.”

“Okay,” Viktor smiled at the Senior Lieutenant. “I’ll be here.”

No sooner had the door closed behind the young officer than the captain opened his safe. Inside he found his loaded Makarov 9mm semi-automatic pistol with two spare magazines, which he retrieved along with three passports and left his office.

At thirteen thirty hours, Lieutenant-Colonel Sergunin was reporting to the General about Viktor’s disappearance.

“Comrade General, there are serious grounds to presume that our officer last night killed the conductor of the Lviv-Moscow train.”

“Why would he commit such an act?” the General asked curtly.

The Lieutenant-Colonel gave details about Viktor’s failed assignment and about the administrative investigation for the reasons for his failure.

“Why did you send the Senior Lieutenant to warn him?”

“All of the evidence against him was indirect. I thought it was better to lance the boil than to wait for it to mature and bear the pain. By disappearing, he has signed his own confession. Allow me to put out a warrant for his arrest.”

“Do it,” said the General. “Do you know him well?”

“He was under my command for six years.”

“What is he going to do? Can you predict?”

“I think that he will hideout somewhere in Moscow. He doesn’t have any foreign connections. That means he will not go abroad. The criminal world would prefer to kill him rather than hide him. We know all of his friends and relatives. We’ll find him within two or three weeks.”

“It’s good that you’re sure. How old are you, forty-three? Forty-four?”

“Forty-four.”

“Well then,” the General said in an indifferent voice, “if you don’t catch the fugitive within a month, you won’t reach your forty-fifth birthday in service. For the time being, I’m not going to report to the Director about the Captain. Register him as having a month’s vacation. And start looking.”

The Same Day. Belaya Tserkov.

Vera opened the door of her apartment and, going into the entry, realized her apartment was transformed. A new strip of carpet leading to the kitchen lay on the floor. The girl removed her shoes and carefully looked into the room. On the enormous rectangular bed, covered with an expensive blanket, lay Cameron, reading the magazine Penthouse.

The espionage agent was dressed in a sports suit, and on his nose, the arcs of his spectacles gleamed in their golden frames. Opposite the bed, there stood a glass magazine rack on metal feet. On it lay fashion magazines mixed with Playboys and Penthouses. Vera could not see either her old wooden stand or her television. Instead, there was a fashionable mahogany chest on which, besides the widescreen television, there was a stereo system and a VCR. A crystal chandelier has disappeared from the room ceiling. Only the metal hook from it remained, lonely jutting from the hole above her head. Tall torchiers illuminated the room, standing in all four corners. Their milk-glass-colored bowls directed the light upwards. In all of this, Vera felt a style that was very unfamiliar to her but one which she very much liked. Everything seemed unusual to her but very beautiful and expensive.

She sat on the edge of the bed and touched the mattress with her hand.

“Are all of these for me?” she asked MacKay.

“Yes. But that’s not the main thing. Have you arranged for work yet?”

“Yes. But in order to do that, I had to...”

“Keep the details to yourself. Think about how you’re going to have an apartment five times bigger than this one in the United States and how the furniture which surrounds you will be ten times more expensive. As for all this,” he waved a hand around Vera’s room, “you’ll throw it all into the trash as soon as you finish your assignment. You and I are solving global problems. You’re entering the world of major policy. You are going to be of enormous use to both your present and your future countries. And what you had to or what you will have to undergo doesn’t contain any significance. Have something to eat, take a shower, and come back. Then, we will continue your preparation for new and greater accomplishments.”

Vera did not see such significant changes in the kitchen in the kitchen as Cameron had made in the other room. There was a refrigerator. The gas range and the table with chairs were the same. The only new things were an electric coffee maker and a microwave oven. Having eaten in haste and washed, Vera dressed in a white terrycloth robe. The robe was completely new and very short. Vera kept her clean underwear in a bureau. She crossed the room on her bare feet, wanting to obtain a pair.

“What are you up to?” MacKay stopped her with the question.

“I want to get dressed,” Vera answered simply.


“Forget it. I’m your General. You have to think about me and not about your undies. You’re supposed to be driving me out of my mind. And you only have a limited time to do it. No more than two weeks.”

“I understand.”

“Well, if you understand,” Cameron said irritably, “then why are you planning on getting dressed?”

Vera shrugged her shoulders.

“Go across the room and take a videocassette from the magazine rack. Don’t sit down to chose the film, but bend over in such a way that I can catch a view of your breasts through the opening of your robe. Then turn with your back to me and go to the VCR and insert the cassette. Bend over exactly enough so that I can see the entire length of your legs. Let me enjoy the view completely. Do everything smoothly and unhurriedly. A general at the age of forty-eight sometimes finds the foretaste of intimacy worth more than intimacy itself. After all, how many times can he have you? You don’t know, but I can predict this easily—one time in the evening and one time in the morning. So then, in order to keep him from leaving immediately for home after screwing you in the evening, you must stretch out the intimacy as long as possible. Linger before his eyes. Show him that you are available. But keep yourself busy with something all the time. Turn on the video, the music Dance. Massage his back, his neck, the back of his head. Be next to him. And when you see that he can’t resist any further, then you must disarm him so that he would not have any strength left or any desire to go home. And do the same thing again in the morning, so that he thinks about you the entire working day. And now come to me. Your general is already revved up.”

Vera listened to Cameron attentively and carried out all of his instructions. She turned on the VCR and slowly approached the bed. Behind her back on the television screen, a dirty German film unfolded its simple plot. Down on her knees at the edge of the bed, she undid the belt of her robe, and it fell from her shoulders onto the floor.

MacKay put his magazine to one side and looked at the woman.

“What sacrifices I must make for Uncle Sam,” he thought darkly. Vera, on all fours, crawled up to him. Cameron, aroused by his own words, hurriedly took off his own sports trunks, seized Vera by the waist, and pressed her beneath him.

“A condom,” the girl whispered softly.

“It’s too late,” Cameron answered and froze, his face contorted.

“It really is too late. And what do I care anyway? It will be even better if I get pregnant. The American will double pay me for it. He’s married. He doesn’t need a scandal.”

Cameron woke up at ten o’clock in the morning. The room smelled of fresh coffee. Vera was sitting at the edge of the bed, watching television. Cameron touched her back with his toes, and she turned towards him. The Colonel only nodded his head at her slightly; Vera understood everything and crawled like a snake beneath the blanket. When she drew her tongue over the inner surface of Cameron’s thigh, he thought that he would find it sad to part with such a diligent student. But, in a few moments, he was not able to think about anything.

“Why aren’t you at work first thing in the morning?”

“I’m on the second shift. The regiment has night flights today, so I am working from four in the afternoon until four in the morning.”

“Try to get within eyeshot of the general. Behave boldly, but not impudently.”

“There’s a very narrow boundary between boldness and impudence. It won’t be easy.”

“If he takes the bait, don’t invite him home today. It’s not decent to jump into bed on the first meeting.”

“And on the second?” Vera asked teasingly. “On the second, it’s obligatory.”
 
Chapter Ten

October 17, 1991. Uzin.

Night flights in Uzin began on the same day at twenty hundred hours. The pilots had breakfast at seventeen hundred hours and went to get their preflight orders.

During the forty minutes of lunch commencing at midnight, Vera got her to fill with running back and forth between the tables with a tray as if she were running a marathon. She sat, tired, at the table in the passage between the rows, and with horror, looked at the mounds of dirty dishes standing on the tables.

“Oh God, I’m going to have to carry all of this stuff to the dishwasher. No, work in a restaurant has no comparison to working here. If I’m going to have to feed them dinner, too, then I will die before morning,” she thought.

“Are you tired?” Vera heard the voice of her boss.

“Like a dog.”

“It’s your first time. During dinner, you’ll get a rest.”

“What, are there going to be fewer pilots?” Vera said in surprise.

“No. You’re going to the Air traffic Control Tower to feed the group in charge of flights. There, they have only ten officers. So there won’t be much work.”

“What is the control tower?”

“The command dispatch point,” explained Valentina, “otherwise known as ‘The Tower.’”

At ten o’clock in the evening, the waitress, accompanied by two soldiers, went into the duty officer’s car across the airfield and approached the Control Tower.

Like all Russian military vehicles, the UAZ-469 was reliable but uncomfortable for its passengers. The drive was quick, but the leaf spring suspension made for a bumpy ride. The olive green 4 X 4 halted abruptly at the entrance to The Tower, and Vera suddenly jerked forward in the rear seat. The two soldiers looked to each other and smiled with satisfaction that their lovely traveler was a little bit disheveled. They quickly jumped out of the vehicle and carried four army thermoses with supper into the building, leaving Vera to fend for herself. Undaunted, Vera resolutely adjusted her white cap, looked at her reflection in the window, and satisfied at her appearance, confidently and quickly ascended the near-vertical ladder to the glassed-in-roof of The Tower.

The Tower was a multifaceted aircraft control facility, set on a four-story brown brick building. The mess area and relaxation post were located for off-duty or personnel during a pause in operations on the ground level.
The second level was occupied by the meeting room for the staff officers.
The third floor housed the communications office that was responsible for maintaining the radio equipment in the Tower and on the rooftop that was needed to talk with the various aircraft that took off and landed at Uzin.
The fourth level held the ever-important meteorological staff that was an absolute necessity to conduct operations. The staff worked in shifts to provide a continuous picture of the weather for the nerve center.
At the top of the brick building was the glass dome of the control tower, the center of operations for the Uzine airbase.

Finding herself in the darkness of this glass structure, the girl at first could not understand how one could direct flights at night in complete darkness. But gradually, her eyes became used to the dark, and she saw four men and two women who quietly were conversing among themselves and occasionally giving commands to invisible aircraft.

Inside the dark confines of the glass Dome were four stations, all situated to observe 360 degrees, covering all aspects of refueling, maintenance, and movement of incoming and outgoing aircraft.

The Communications Officer was seated on the left side of the dome. He was responsible for keeping the interaction open between the Tower and all aircraft. To the right of him was the duty Navigator, who was responsible for precision instrument approaches in bad weather conditions and guided aircraft to their proper heading so they could land. Sitting on his right was the Senior Command Officer. Usually, this duty was delighted to the senior pilot, who was overall responsible for the performance of all crews and the safety of all aircraft on the airfield. That night, however, the divisional commander was at the helm of the operation.

Positioning in between the Navigator and Senior Command Officer was the plotting board operators. One was a tall brunette with her hair pinned back on her head. Her tight-fitting uniform accentuated her large breasts. The other was a sultry young blond NCO who was casually smoking a cigarette. A blue haze hung over their station. Their main duty was to arrange small metal toy aircraft on a two-meter square plotting board, which was a miniature version of the airfield.
Sitting with telephone receivers on each head, they would listen intently to the back and forth chatter between the airmen, tower personnel, and radar operators and position the toy aircraft in their respective positions.

Neither gave any indication they had noticed Vera.

The vacuum tube equipment hummed softly, and from behind a thick black curtain, a monotonous male voice could be heard.

“Call sign Two four eight, you are eight kilometers away from the runway threshold, in line and on the glide path for landing.”

“Four hundred,” the aircraft’s altitude in meters was heard in reply.

“Two four eight, you are now six kilometers in line and on the glide path for landing.” The aircraft continued its descent.

“Three hundred.”

“Two four eight, you are now four kilometers in line and on the glide path for landing.”

“At this distance, the flaps and landing gears are down. Request permission to land,” the voice of Igor Popov came through the loudspeaker.

“You are cleared to land,” said the large man with his back towards Vera in a pleasant baritone.

“That must be the General,” thought the girl, and a slight agitation seized her.

To the left of the general was a square table. On it, beneath the glass, was a map of the flight area. Towards the bottom of the map, several red battle lamps were dimly lit. These red lights provided visibility to the Tower crew while inside and, at the same time, preserved their night vision to distinguish objects outside the control tower. The two tracking girls stood bent over the map and, with glass markers, moved tiny aircraft over the glass, blondies smoldering cigarette lay on an angle, at rest in the tin ashtray. Two radio operators continually conversed with somebody on the telephone, but their voices were so soft she could not make out what they were saying.

The on-watch navigator sat at the same style of the table as the general. In front of him were two radar screens. For a moment, he averted his eyes from the glowing dots on display and peered through his black BPOC 10 x 42 military binoculars at the descending headlights of the fast-approaching IL-78.

“Turn on the searchlights,” he said and put the binoculars on the table.

In a second, a bright light flooded the landing zone. Green, blue, and red lamps, which had earlier been visible on the airfield, immediately disappeared. A large, winged machine, flooded with the light from its own headlamps, appeared in the rays of the searchlights. They illuminated it from the tail, and therefore Vera was only able to see the silhouette of the air tanker. The roar of the four turbo-jet engines, which has been put into reverse, shook the air. The aircraft slowly taxied down the runway. The searchlights went out.

The General turned in his chair towards Vera and said:

“I feel somebody drilling my spine with their gaze. Judging by your uniform, you are a waitress and have brought us supper. Am I right?”

“Yes, Comrade-General. Are you going to have it here, or prefer to go downstairs to the dining room?”

The General turned to the desk and looked at his planner.

“Valery Nikolaevich,” he said to the flight shift duty navigator, “if crew Two Four Nine finishes their assignment in the zone ahead of time, keep him circling. I want to see how they land.”

“Alright. I won’t let anyone land until you return,” the Lieutenant-Colonel answered.

“Feed me, wet-nurse,” the General said to Vera.

The girl looked indecisively down the almost vertical metal stairway. The General smiled at her and went first, lowering himself to the concrete floor of the fourth floor of the Tower; he raised his head upward and saw that the girl was cautiously stepping from rung to rung, tightly gripping the metal banisters with both hands.

But this was not what was attracting the General’s attention. His gaze froze as he stared beneath the skirt where Vera’s two long slender legs met.

The waitress was not wearing her panties.

The General’s hands automatically rose upward, and if the girl had fallen from the stairway, her little round bottom would have surely landed in his hands. But Vera carefully chose her steps, and the General seized her by the waist. He took the girl from the last step, put her on the floor, and turned her face towards him. His beefy warm palms remained a bit higher than her hips. Vera looked the General attentively in the face. Cameron was right - the General was not at all like an old goat. She smiled at the Commander of the division and took her hands from his shoulders.

“Let’s go have something to eat, comrade General,” Vera said.

“My name is Aleksandr Gerasimov,” said the General without releasing Vera’s waist.

“Vera,” the waitress answered, sitting down.

The General was truly awestruck.

“I haven’t seen such beauties in a long time. Probably since I took on the division and moved from Mozdok to Ukraine.”

In the tiny dining room of the Tower, there were only three tables. Two captains were sitting at one of them. The officers, the communications officer, and the meteorologist were discussing the Dynamo Kiev football club’s latest victory over Helsinki Football Club in the first leg of the European Cup.  At the other table, with their heads on their arms, the soldiers who had come with Vera from the pilot’s mess were sleeping.

Seeing the General, the officers rose from their places. This was not required during mealtime, but the Captains could not restrain their habit.

Gerasimov said:

“Sit down,” and he asked the meteorologist, “Sergei, do you expect any worsening of the weather?”

“No, Comrade General. The barometric pressure is stable. The wind will die down to zero after midnight. The temperature will go down a couple of degrees. So there is nothing that would indicate a worsening of the weather.” The meteorologist continued to stand.

“Sit down, sit down,” the General gestured with his hands. “There’s no truth on legs, especially when you are in a dining room.”

“Thank you, but we’ve already finished,” said the communications officer, glancing at Vera. As he passed by the table on which the soldiers were sleeping, he shoved one of them in the shoulder.

The soldier jumped up, awakened his comrade, and they both hastily left the dining room. Gerasimov and Vera remained alone. The waitress put a plate of appetizers and a bowl of borscht in front of the commander of the division and sat down opposite him.
“Girl, do you always go about without your undies, or is today a special day?” Gerasimov took an interest, moving his spoon.

“Only when it gets dark, General.”

“I see that you have quite a tongue on you.”

“It’s not only my tongue,” answered Vera.

“I take it. Do you live with your parents?” asked the General, finishing his first course.

“I’m already an adult girl. I have my own apartment in B.Ts.”

“Where? Where is your flat?”

“In B.Ts. That is, in Belaya Tserkov.”

“I also have a condo in Belaya Tserkov. Although it isn’t mine, it’s a service apartment. My own condo is in Kiev.”

“Why do you have two apartments?”

“When I’m flying or directing flights of the IL-78s or TU-95s from Uzin, I live in Belaya Tserkov. But when the flights are TU-160s in Priluki, I go there by car from my Kiev residence.”

“That means you’re almost never at home?” asked Vera.
“Well, what is there to do at home? My daughters have grown up and lived separately, and my wife goes shopping for days at a time. She can’t get used to living in a big city. So I have nothing to do at home. For a man, the main thing is work.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” said she and Vera sang out:

Because we are pilots
The sky is our home
The first thing we’ll spoil aircraft,
Well, the girls?
The girls, we’ll spoil after planes.”

Gerasimov broke out laughing. He liked the girl. She was beautiful with a lively mind, and also she wasn’t shy.

“Have you been working at the mess long?” he asked.

“Today’s my first day.”

“And they had you doing flights right away?”

“The boss had pity on me. While I was serving the third squadron, I almost died of fatigue.”

“From tomorrow, you’re going to be working in the General’s Hall. I’ll give the order personally.”

“Who besides you are going to be eating there?”

“The entire command staff of the transport regiment. Around fifteen men, not more.”

“Thank you, comrade General. I won’t forget my debt.”

“I hope not,” Gerasimov said slyly in reply.


After her shift, Vera decided to sleep the remainder of the night on chairs in the dining room. It would have been too dangerous to return home in some stranger’s automobile. She did not fear being raped by a truck driver or by the owner of a private vehicle. One man, more or less, didn’t mean anything much to her. But the fact that after sex, the driver might become frightened by his own acts and could strangle her or hit her with a wrench over the head, causing her serious worry.

“It will be better to squirm for an hour or two on hard chairs than to sprawl in a ditch with a fractured skull,” thought Vera, putting her purse under her head.

At home, a surprise awaited her. A tall and narrow bookcase stood by the window. On its five shelves stood the collected works of the great Russian writers. In delight, Vera ran her hand along with the worn volumes by Pushkin, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Kuprin.

“Where did you get them?” she asked Cameron, who was lying on the bed with his favorite magazine.
“In the used bookstore. Russian classics were on sale. No one in Ukraine needs them or wants them anymore.”

“You can say that again. Right now, Pavlo Tychyna and Lesya Ukrainka are the most fashionable writers.”

“No one needs them,” repeated MacKay, “except you.”

“What do you want? Do you really mean to have me read all this?” the girl asked with widened eyes.

“Maybe not everything. But you ought to read some of it and learn some of it by heart.”

“By heart?”

“Yes. I have bookmarked the poems you must memorize. Have you seen the General?”

“I saw him,” and Vera told him about her meeting with Gerasimov.
 

Chapter Eleven

October 19, 1991. Uzin.

The crew of the Tu-134 passenger liner in the livery of the USSR Air Force requested permission to land from the air traffic controller of the Uzin airfield.

Major Korolyov tore his lips away from the neck of the young tracking woman and looked at the planning table. This flight was not listed on today’s schedule. He raised the telephone receiver for direct contact with the operations duty officer and asked:

“Sergei, some fucker is asking to land. He’s not on the schedule. Shall I send him off or let him land here?”

The woman tried to get up from the Major’s lap, but he held her back with one hand around her waist, winked at her, and whispered in her ear:

“Don’t rush off. Maybe we’ll boot this character to another airfield, and we will continue.”

“What are you doing sitting at the top? Are you goofing off from work? I thought you must be snoozing somewhere. Ask the crew commander what he needs from us,” the operation duty answered.

“65951, what is the purpose of your arrival?” Major Korolyov asked the crew.

“We have a VIP on board,” the commander of the aircraft answered.

“A very important person,” the Major muttered.

The young woman giggled and stood up. Having given permission to begin the descent, Korolyev called the regimental commander and reported the arrival of a VIP.

“Who exactly is it on board?” the Colonel asked on the loudspeaker.

“I don’t know, comrade Colonel,” Korolyov answered.

“What the hell are you doing there, anyway? Get me the answer immediately.”

Having heard the threatening voice of the regimental commander, the tracking girl went over to the steep stairway and looked questioningly at the Major. He shook his head.

“Who exactly is on board?” he asked the TU-134 pilot-in-command.

“Two stars,” the pilot replied.

“A Lieutenant-General,” Korolyov said softly and waved for the young woman from the communication battalion to leave.

The divisional commander’s service car raced along the road from Belaya Tserkov to Kagarlyk at more than one hundred twenty kilometers per hour. The four-cylinder vehicle began to vibrate as it approached its top speed.

General Gerasimov seated the soldier-driver in the right seat and took control of the black Volga himself.

“Which General could be coming from Moscow to Uzin, and the main question is why? Why didn’t they warn me? If this is a check of military preparedness, then why is the General arriving alone? What kind of dickhead is he to arrive for divisional exercises without having warned the commander about it?”

Gerasimov crossed the Odessa highway without braking and saw out of the corner of his eyes a traffic policeman emerging from behind the bushes along the highway.

The police Sergeant frantically waved his arms, ordering the General to stop, but an instant later, he was already far behind. Gerasimov looked in his rearview mirror and saw the winking blue and red lights as the police car drove out from the ambush. There were still ten kilometers to go to reach the garrison.

“He won’t catch me,” the General said to himself and floored the pedal.

The arrow on the speedometer moved past one hundred-forty, and the vibration of the car amplified.

The white Lada police vehicle, emblazoned with a slender, horizontal blue stripe from end to end, screeched to a halt in front of the gates at the control point. The wailing sound of its siren wound down, but the roof lights remained flashing.

The black Volga containing the general was already concealed well inside the confines of the Uzin airbase. The police sergeant leaped out of his car and ran up to the soldier, standing at the gates.

“Who was that?” he asked the officer on watch.

“Where?” answered the guard, smiling impudently.

“In the black Volga?”

“What the Volga?”

“The one that just went in your gates.”

“What of it?” the soldier wasn’t in any hurry to go anywhere. He had eighteen hours of watch duty left.

“The matter is that he was driving along a narrow road at a speed of one hundred forty kilometers per hour,” the excited police sergeant exclaimed.

“Oh, you just imagined it. Nobody came into the gates. At least, not in the course of the last hour. We’re quite strict about that. We don’t let just anyone into the garrison.”


“Attention!!!” Senior Lieutenant Popov, the officer on watch, yelled and ran toward the General to report.

“At ease,” said Gerasimov. “Are there any strangers at headquarters?”

“The Chief of the Air Force Staff, Lieutenant-General Kuznetsov.”

“Why did you shout “Attention” when a senior commander is already in the building?”

“I’m guilty, Comrade General.”

“You’d better study the regulations for internal duty service, Popov,” Gerasimov said sternly. “That book should be your second bedtime reading, after the flight manual of the IL-78. Understand?”

“Yes, sir!!!”

“And don’t yell so much,” Gerasimov’s face wrinkled. “You’re a pilot, not an infantry General Lopata.”


Lieutenant-General Kuznetsov sat in the office of the divisional commander at his desk. He was talking with the commander of the refueling regiment and his headquarters commander.

“You’ve arrived quickly,” the Chief of Staff said to Gerasimov after he had shaken hands with him.

“I was at the wheel myself,” Gerasimov answered.

“Then, I understand. You were flying at supersonic speed.”

The people present expressed exaggeratedly loud laughs for the visitor from Moscow’s small joke.

“Sit down, comrade commanders,” Kuznetsov urged. “We’re going to have an earnest and top-secret conversation.”

The Moscow guest paused while the officers sat down in their chairs and continued:

“On the first of December of this year, Ukraine will be held the first presidential elections, and at the same time, a referendum will be conducted on the question of independence. It’s not difficult to predict that there will be a newly independent country on the political maps of the world after the first of December. Thanks to its geographic and economic position, Ukraine will not pretend to have a leading role in world politics. Therefore, this means that she will have no need for strategic aircraft. On the basis of this conclusion, the airforce headquarters have decided to remove your division to Russia completely. You will be based in the Gorky region. The one hundred eighty-fourth bomber regiment will be at Pravdinsk, and the refueling regiment will be at Leninskaya Sloboda. Division headquarters will be housed in Gorky.”

General Kuznetsov continued. “In accordance with the order of the Air Force Commander, the personnel of these regiments must be at preparedness level Two, beginning on the First of November. Takeoff could be designated on any day from the first to the seventh. Preparation for rebasing is to be kept completely secret. The circle of people who will be brought into the development of operation ‘Autumn Holidays’ must be limited to an absolute minimum. After the commands begin takeoff, you will have to raise the regiments on the battle footing and distribute their sealed orders about relocation to the commanders of the crews. The packets must be labeled by name and distributed to each aircraft commander under the signature. In order to avoid misunderstanding by the pilots of the importance of this operation, it will be desirable to have the KGB military branch officers' presence. This will lend the war drill greater urgency. The first and second squadrons of the refueling aircraft regiment will have to make a short stop in Priluki and take on board the technical staff of the hundred and eighty-fourth regiment. The third squadron will have to pick up the engineers and technicians of its regiment.”

“We’ll never be able to fit all of our personnel in,” the commander of Uzin remarked.

“You’ll have to take the most valuable specialists. We have no other recourse. For those who will not fit into the cargo holds of the IL-78, prepare travel documents for rail travel to their new place of service.”

“How is it planned to supply the fliers with housing in their new place of service?” General Gerasimov asked.

“We will resolve it,” the General stated with authority. “Money for the construction of apartment buildings for your division is not included in this year’s budget. I think you understand why. For the pilots of the anti-aircraft defense fighter regiment in Pravdinsk, the completion of an apartment block of sixty apartments is anticipated. This is not our department, but I think that the anti-aircraft people will sympathize with us and share their housing. I guarantee that we will ask them for around thirty apartments. And next year, we will arrange to build both in Leninskaya Sloboda for the refuellers and in Pravdinsk for the bombers. We’ll build them one apartment building each in a year.”

“That’s very little,” countered General Gerasimov. “I have eighteen crews of TU-160s of four people each, plus twenty officers. By my rough calculation, there will be around a hundred,” Gerasimov glanced at the commander of the refueling aircraft regiment. “And in the Uzin regiment, there are eighteen crews of seven and again twenty officers. That’s almost a hundred and fifty men. Every flight personnel has families, and we will have to supply them with housing first of all. Otherwise, they won’t be thinking about flying but about family problems. For this purpose, not just thirty apartments but two hundred will be too little. Not to speak about the other military personnel of both garrisons. There are all fifteen thousand people in the town of Uzin; six and a half thousand of them are military and members of their families. We have about the same picture in Priluki as well. Where are we going to put them?”

“We have discussed this problem with the Air Force Commander. I think that the number of military personnel can be lowered. Officers who are near pension age can return to their apartments in Ukraine after they deliver their aircraft. The young people will be able to live in the officer dormitories. And the middle-aged flight personnel by the end of next year will be supplied with the housing. The technical staff of the aviation regiments, the support staff, communications, and maintenance people we can leave behind here. And now, let’s put this topic aside. For now, the main thing is to save the equipment, and as for the people, well, those who really want to serve will have to be prepared to live in difficult circumstances. After all, they swore to ‘bear unflaggingly the burdens and deprivations of military service.’ You’re not going to be able to spend your entire life eating bacon in Ukraine”.

Harsh words appeared from the General’s voice:

“We have to think first of all about defending the motherland, whereas what sort of sacrifices will be necessary to do this is already a question of the second order.”

“It is obvious that the chief of staff did not complete his studies at the diplomatic academy. Difficult questions irritate him. Besides this, he gets tongue-tied. We’ll have to dispose of him as quickly as possible and then discuss everything among ourselves in peace.” The division commander nodded his head in agreement and said:

“In principle, the assignment is clear, comrade General. We will execute it.”

Kuznetsov clapped his hands on his knees and, rising from the division commander’s desk, summarized:

“As long as your assignment is clear and you have no questions for me, then after supper, I will fly back to Moscow.”

In the General’s Hall of the pilot’s cafeteria, Vera was serving two generals. Each time she went out for new dishes, the chief of provisions standing behind the door asked her whether the high-placed Moscow guest liked this or that dish.

After supper, Lieutenant-General Kuznetsov, in the company of the regimental commander, left for the airfield and the divisional commander summoned Vera:

“Up until when are you going to be working today?”

“Until six pm.”

“Wait for me after work at the gates. I’m going to spend the night in Belaya Tserkov, and I will give you a lift.”

“Thank you, comrade General. I’ll save an hour and a half that way.”
As soon as Gerasimov left the dining hall, Vera went to the phone and called her apartment.

“Hello,” a neutral greeting sounded.

“Viacheslav, I’ll have company when I arrive.”

“Excellent. I’ll be in the hotel Ros’,” Cameron answered and hung up the receiver.

Vera went to the gates of the control point at ten minutes to six. Five minutes later, the General’s black Volga appeared from behind a turn. Gerasimov sat at the wheel in his summer greenish-brown jumpsuit. His cap with a gold badge embroidered on it lay on the dashboard. Aleksandr Ivanovich stopped the car and asked the girl to sit in the back. The tinted windows of the Volga hid Vera from the curious eyes of the couple dozen civilian base workers who were waiting for a bus fifty meters from the control point gates.

“Tell me about you,” said Gerasimov without turning his head after the car had left Uzin.

“There’s nothing much to tell. After school, I went to work as a waitress in a hotel restaurant. As soon as I acquired enough money for an apartment and furniture, I quit my job and got taken on at the pilot’s mess.”

“Am I expect right that you want to find a husband among the pilots? Someone young and handsome?”
“A husband or a close friend, however, it turns out. But young or old, handsome or plain, doesn’t really matter. It’s the only flower in a vase that has to be beautiful. Of course, wallpaper on the walls is also not hurt by beauty, but a man must be more than just intelligent. It has to be interesting to be with him. I value intellect in a partner. The externals don’t interest me that much.”

“It’s pleasant to discover that not all of today’s youth is heartless and stupid,” the General answered Vera with pleasure.

In front of them appeared the advertising shield of a roadside restaurant. Gerasimov turned on his right turn signal and reduced his speed.

“Are you hungry, Aleksandr Ivanovich?” asked Vera.

“Yes, will you have supper with me?”

“With pleasure. But not there. I worked for six years in that system, and I know how they prepare food.”

“But in my service apartment, the refrigerator is empty.”

“Let’s go to my place,” the girl suggested. “I have food and cognac. Or wine, if you prefer.”

“Well,” the general hesitated, “is it convenient for you?”

“There’s nothing better than having such a man as you as a guest.”
“I can agree with you on that point,” said Gerasimov, lightheartedly and turned off the turn signal, and increased his speed.

The driver of the trailing Lada slowed down quickly by depressing his brakes and switching to a lower gear. He then swerved around the Generals Volga and pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor. When he overtook them, he sounded his horn in anger several times and twisted his pointed finger against his temple.

This amused the General. On another day, he might have chased the bastard and quite possibly beat the shit out of him, but not today. The proposition to have supper, which had sounded from the lips of the girl, improved the mood which had been spoiled by General Kuznetsov.

Over the past days, he had often recollected his meeting with her at the command dispatcher point and envisioned a different type of relationship with Vera. He didn’t wish to obscure the anticipation of a pleasant evening with a chase after a rusty Lada.

Having passed the electric appliance factory on the outskirts of Belaya Tserkov, the General asked Vera:

“Where shall we go now?”

The girl said her address.

“It’s on the street over from my apartment,” said the General, surprised at the coincidence.

“There are only three new subdivisions in the city. The biggest of them is ours, Tarashchensky. The probability of a coincidence is more than thirty-three percent, comrade division commander, so don’t be surprised that you and I are neighbors.”

Gerasimov stopped the car at a small market, bought a bouquet of red roses from the older woman there, and got behind the wheel again. “Since you aren’t going to have a handsome man as a guest this evening, at least you should have beautiful flowers standing in a vase instead,” he gave the bouquet to Vera in the backseat with a smile.

Gerasimov stopped his Volga in front of the nine-story co-op. He threw his cap onto the backseat of the car. “I should avoid attracting attention,” the General decided.

Having looked the girl’s apartment over, Aleksandr Ivanovich entered the kitchen where Vera was fixing supper.

“You have a delicious taste. Furniture, books, electronics, everything is well chosen.”

“I’m happy that you like it. Open the wine and cognac. I will be finished with the appetizers soon.”

Gerasimov looked through the little glass door of the hanging cabinet at a series of bottles and chose for himself a five-star Armenian cognac “Ararat.”

“Vera, are you going to have white wine to drink or red?”

“Let’s say that since you gave me red roses, I’m going to drink red wine. But if they were asters, I would have preferred white.”

Gerasimov smiled, took the bottles and the glasses, and went into the room. Vera rolled a tray with appetizers in the general’s wake. Aleksandr Ivanovich stood in the middle of the rug with bottles in hand and looked indecisively at the girl.

“There is neither a table nor chairs. Maybe we should go back to the kitchen and have supper there?”

“I’ll get everything ready immediately.” Vera took the videocassettes and magazines from the coffee table with these words, moved a soft armchair up to it, and asked the general to sit in it.

“You sit here, and I’ll be on the bed. It will be more convenient and not so crowded.”

They drank to their acquaintance, then to friendship, then to everyone who had flown off and not returned, then they drank to the health of each person present, and the bottles were emptied.

“Would you like some more?” Vera asked.

“I’ve had enough already, I think,” the general said and rose from the deep armchair.

“Where are you going off to, Aleksandr Ivanovich? The evening is still young.”

“I think it’s probably time for me to go home?” said Gerasimov and swayed slightly.

“I won’t let you get behind the wheel in this condition. You’ll wreck your car, and God forbid you might even kill yourself.”

She moved the coffee table to one side.

“You’d better lie down on the bed. I’ll make you some coffee. It’s only nine in the evening. If in a couple of hours you feel better, you can go home, and if not, you can stay here.”

Gerasimov’s head was spinning. The bottle of cognac that he had drunk in slightly less than an hour tugged him towards the bed. Without taking off his jumpsuit, he lay on the coverlet of the bed and closed his eyes. He definitely did not feel like leaving.

Vera went quietly into the room. She had managed to shower and get dressed in the plush robe that Cameron had given her. The girl sat on the edge of the bed, next to the general, and placed her palms on the General’s neck. Vera’s fingers had undergone good training. They sorted through every muscle of the upper part of his back and then seized Gerasimov by the short hairs at the back of his head. The slight headache which the General had recently had gradually began to disappear.
“Aleksandr Ivanovich, take off your jumpsuit jacket. I’ll give you a real massage.”

Gerasimov willingly obeyed the order given by this beautiful girl and took off his jacket and shirt and lay on his stomach. The girl sat on his back, and the general noticed the dim lighting inside the apartment. A naked derriere was sitting on his back, the same one which he had admired not so long ago at the Tower.

Feeling the touch of a warm body, Gerasimov tried to turn on his back, but Vera held him back with her arms around his stomach. She remembered Cameron’s advice. If she permitted him to take her now, the General would have time to sober up and go home. “Don’t hurry, Aleksandr Ivanovich.”

The General relaxed, and Vera took her robe off and lightly passed her hard nipples over Gerasimov’s back. A slight shudder ran along the general’s body. The massage continued for a long time.

“I haven’t had such a hard-on in quite a while. It’s becoming unbearable. It will be a shame if I lose control of myself like a sixteen-year-old boy.

The thoughts leaped into his head one after another.

“That’s it. I’m going to come. I can’t hold it any longer.”

Gerasimov forced himself to turn on his back, took off his pants, and planted Vera firmly on his lap. The girl rested the soft palms of her hands on his chest and began to move over the general more and more quickly. When Gerasimov arched his back and froze, Vera settled deeply upon him and began to moan. The General softened, and the girl lay on his chest and embraced his shoulders with her arms.

For a certain time, they lay silent. Gerasimov embraced Vera’s back and said quietly:

“Excuse me that it was all over so quickly.”

Vera kissed the General softly on the lips.

“Oh, go on with you. Everything was wonderful.”

“Vera, do me a favor. When we’re alone with one another, call me Sasha. Okay?”

“Sasha,” Vera pronounced. “How sweet that is.”


Towards morning, the General had an erotic dream:

“He was down on his knees, behind the back of a charming blonde, and was forcefully pulling her by her hips towards himself. The blonde bent in his hands and shook her head from side to side. Gerasimov again could not contain himself. What is it with me? Is it my second childhood? Is it delusions of youth? Why should this be happening?”

He passed his hand beneath the blanket; all around him, everything was dry. He opened his eyes and saw Vera’s charming face. Her eyes sparkled, her lips were stretched in an impudent smile.

“You’re a little devil,” said Gerasimov.

“It was time for you to get up anyway. It’s already half-past six, so I decided it would be better to wake you this way instead of letting an alarm go off. You curl up in the bed for now while I make coffee for you and fix breakfast.”

She got out of bed, and the general admired the absolute beauty of the naked girl.

Vera placed one tablet of the new American medicine into the large mug of strongly brewed coffee, which Cameron regularly took when he had been conducting Vera’s training exercises in bed.

A week ago, the girl, for the first time, had seen the plastic drug store vial in MacKay’s hands. The sight of medicine in MacKay’s hands troubled Vera. She had asked him whether he was well or not. Cameron explained to her that he was absolutely healthy and that the tablets he was taking were intended to raise one’s blood pressure. They had been developed in the CIA laboratories for espionage agents.

“This is an aphrodisiac,” said MacKay. “It significantly improves the endurance of the male organism. As a side effect, it sharply raises male potency. You will feed them to your General, only don’t mix them with alcohol. That could cause pain in the muscles, dizziness, and worse than everything, diarrhea. In simple terms, an upset stomach. Especially in those who are approaching fifty. We need Gerasimov alive and healthy.”

Afterward, Vera became convinced that the laboratory workers in the CIA were not being paid their salary in vain. Cameron, during the lessons, worked on her like a Kentucky buck rabbit on his doe. Five or six times a day.

“Those boys have situated themselves well. All you have to do is take a pill, and you’ll screw anything breathing,” she thought, making her customary trip to the shower.

“Now, let’s check whether these pills are going to work on Russian men.”

Vera cut sandwiches and talked to herself.

“I couldn’t give them to him yesterday. He downed that bottle of Armenian cognac all by himself. But now’s the time. He’s sober and emptied. The experiment will be absolutely pure.”

The General sat on the bed with the television remote. The television was showing news in English. A tall, slender woman in a stern business suit stood by a map of the world with a pointer in hand and was commenting on the latest political events. Behind her back gleamed in neon letters “Naked News Studio.”

Vera placed the coffee at Gerasimov’s feet. The general took the steaming mug in his hand and turned the television up louder. The woman reading the news removed her eyeglasses and said in English:
“We will begin today’s news with a survey of political events in the countries of Eastern Europe.” Finishing the phrase, she removed her shoes and walked barefoot closer to the map.

“On the enormous area of the European part of the former Soviet Union...” she unbuttoned the single button on her jacket, “...there have recently appeared several new states.” She removed her jacket and hung it on the chair. The movement of her crimson-colored lips became exaggerated when she next spoke. “Remember their names. Bel-la Rus-sia,” the newscaster indicated Bella Russia with her pointer and slowly unbuttoned her skirt. “U-kraine,” she took off her skirt and placed it on her jacket. “Georg-ia,” the woman took her white silk blouse off. “A-zer-bai-jan,” she unbuttoned her bra and turned to the map. “Oh, Armenia.” She turned her face to the television camera, showed it her beautiful breasts, and stabbed the map with the pointer there, where, in her opinion, Armenia ought to be.

“What did I forget?” she said thoughtfully and lightly drummed her fingers on her lower lip and looked at her panties. “Oh, I remember!” The newscaster smiled and pulled the last part of her costume downward, stripping herself entirely naked. “Moldova,” she pronounced musically and stretched up to her full height, displaying her extraordinary figure.

The newscaster, who was now completely naked by the map, said:

“Unfortunately, the very sexy man, the former president of the USSR, Mikhail Gorbachev, has lost his job. And now, briefly, about sports. The Minnesota Twins won the first game of the World Series by a score of 5-2 over the Atlanta Braves. Poor Atlanta, maybe better luck next time.”
She continued on and listed ‘the extraordinary’ Jack Morris as the winning pitcher and Charlie Leibrandt as ‘competitive,’ but with pouting lips lamented, ‘somebody has to lose.’ The newscaster then unhurriedly redressed herself.
Fastening a button on her jacket, she said sadly, “we will speak of the weather next time.”

Gerasimov was astounded.

“Where did you get that?” asked the general and shut off the television with the remote.

“A woman, I know in Kiev, brought it. Did you like it?”

“Yes, I did. The news was exciting.”

Vera took the tray from the bed and kissed the general on the lips.

“You’re so smart, and you understand English.”

Her hand slipped along Gerasimov’s body. The General felt that he wanted the girl once more. His heart was beating as fast as when they first met.

“What is this with me? I want her for the third time in less than twelve hours. Could this be real feelings awakening for this young girl?”

He got down on his knees, held Vera by the hips, and realized, in reality, his recent dream.

Vera emboldened him with words:

“Good. More. That’s the way. Harder. How great. You’re so strong. You’re driving me out of my mind.”

“And you’re driving me out of my mind, too,” thought Gerasimov.


Chapter Twelve

October 24, 1991. Uzin.

In the secret library of the regimental headquarters, the librarian Lyudmila Petrova was typing copies of the secret orders to the crew commanders of the IL-78 refueling aircraft. The ironclad door was bolted shut from inside.

Dark brown shutters covered the windows, which did not allow the slightest ray in from the street. The steady CLICK CLICK CLICK resonating from the grey metal Swissa-Piccola typewriter reverberated throughout the room.

The chief of headquarters, Lieutenant-Colonel Dolgov, stood behind the typist and dictated to her the dry words of the battle orders. In the places where the last names of the aircraft commanders and the time of takeoff should have been, Dolgov ordered her to leave blanks. He said:

“I’ll insert them personally by hand. Later.” 

Without getting out of her seat, Lyudmila removed the printed orders from the typewriter and handed them to Dolgov. The Lieutenant-Colonel put them on the desk and stuck his hand down the front of her dress. Gently squeezing Lyudmila’s large, soft breast, he suddenly pressed her nipple hard with his fingers and said:

“If I find out that you have told anyone about this order, I’ll court-marshal you.”

Petrova compressed her lips from the pain and whispered:

“It hurts. Let me go.”

The Lieutenant-Colonel removed his hand from Lyudmila’s bra and began to unbutton the fly of his trousers. Petrova raised her eyes imploringly to the chief of headquarters.

“Anatoliy Sergeevich, I’m with Senior Lieutenant Popov now. We are living together nowadays. Igor already proposed to me to marry him. I don’t want to do this anymore. Stop it, please,” she pleaded.

“So you don’t want to. But I do,” the Lieutenant-Colonel answered and took Petrova by the back of the head and pulled her towards him.

“Attention!” the voice of the duty officer on watch at the regimental headquarters, Igor Popov, spread throughout the headquarters.

“The General has arrived,” Lyudmila raised her head upward.

“I hear,” said Dolgov in his low, menacing voice. “Don’t get distracted; keep going. He may summon me soon enough. Speed it up.”


“Popov, are you on duty again?” the General asked in surprise when he stepped into the regimental headquarters.

“Yes, Sir. That is correct, comrade General! The second time since last week!”

“Have you just come on the watch, or are you about to be relieved?”

“I’m going to be relieved soon, comrade General. I’m waiting for the regimental commander to change the watch.”

“As soon as the Colonel appears, tell him to drop by to see me in my office and let the headquarters commander know that I summoned him too.”

“The headquarters commander is in the secret library. Do you want me to pass your order to him at once?”

“No. Let him finish his affairs without hurrying. I don’t need him unless the regimental commander is here.”

Gerasimov entered his office, looked it over, took the black leather attachè; case that was standing in the corner, and put it on the table. The small briefcase was almost empty. A towel, a pair of socks, a razor, toothpaste, and a brush.

“What else does a pilot who is going on alert need? And why does the pilot even need this? After all, in the case of a real alarm, all of the aircraft would be flying only one way. It wouldn’t be within the operational radius of flight as we worked it out at our lessons but to the maximum distance - to dry fuel tanks with full armament. There wouldn’t be any reason to return home anyway, because there would be nobody left. There wouldn’t be houses or runways on our native soil. So no one would have to come back. There would be no place to land.”

Grinning at his sad thoughts, the General began to put into the case the things that belonged to him personally. He removed from the wall the certificate that he had received from Dmitry Yazov, the USSR Minister of Defense, and from the desk the two photographs of his daughters in their little frames. Then he removed from the filing cabinet a pile of working notebooks, two of them he threw into the wastebasket without thinking. On the title page of one, in beautiful handwriting, was written “Marxist-Leninist Preparation.” On the second was written “Political Training Work in the Air Division.”

Having put all of his things in the suitcase, the General sat in his chair and began to think. He felt terrible to be abandoning his office.

“Of course, it won’t be one iota worse in Pravdinsk or Leninskaya Sloboda or Gorky, but small and cozy Uzin will always be with me. And Vera, that a wonderful girl. It’s too bad that I didn’t meet her earlier. What should I do with her? Should I put her with the technicians onto an IL-78 and take her to Russia? But what if she doesn’t want to leave?”

The door of the office opened, and the regimental commander with the headquarters commander exchanged greetings with Gerasimov:

“We wish you health, comrade Major General.”

“Come in and have a seat,” Gerasimov answered instead of greeting them in return. “Have you made your wives happy with the secret news?”

“In general outline, yes,” answered the regimental commander.

“What was their reaction?” asked the general.

“Mine said: “Well, you’ll serve a year, and then you’ll transfer to the reserves and go home,” answered the Colonel.

“And mine,” said the headquarters commander, “told me not to bother returning.”

“Then, the picture is clear, comrades.” General Gerasimov rose from his chair, underlining that their meeting was over. “I’m going to Priluki today to prepare division headquarters and the bomber regiment for relocation. You take care of secrecy and get ready, but don’t hurry.”

“Comrade General, we have another problem in our regiment that needs to be resolved as soon as possible,” said the regimental commander. Gerasimov recognized the hesitation on the Colonel's face.

“What is it about?” said Aleksandr Ivanovich as he sat down back behind his desk.

“It is about Major Korolyov's crew,” the chief of staff said in response.

The General noticed how they exchanged nervous glances with each other. The local commanders were visibly embarrassed about something.

“Alright, share it with me, only please give me the short version of what happened with Korolyov's crew,” Gerasimov impassively looked at his pilot's wind-up wristwatch.

The wing commander forced the words from his mouth.

“A couple of weeks ago, during the day flights, you will no doubt remember that we suddenly had to close our aerodrome due to unexpected thunderstorm activity. All aircraft that were aloft were sent to their alternative airbases.”

“Including Korolyov's crew,” added the regimental chief of staff.

“Yes, Korolyov landed his aircraft in Borispol and parked his IL-78 on the military side of the airport.”

“Proceed to the point,” Gerasimov said.

The regimental commander became slightly apprehensive. “After supper in the pilots' mess, the whole crew was drinking for several hours. They testified later that they consumed only one bottle of pure alcohol, but I’m positive it was much more.”

The general grimaced as if he has a toothache.

“At some point later in the night, closer to the morning, the co-pilot Senior Lieutenant Popov woke up to use the toilet. He later explained he was too tired after flying and somehow mistook the door to the closet with the door to the toilet. He entered the closet and urinated in Major Korolyov’s flight boots, and after that, he returned to bed. The Major found his boots full of his co-pilot urine in the morning when he put them on. As a result of this “incident,” Korolyov wrote a Memorandum requesting to remove his co-pilot from his crew due to 'psychological incompatibility.’”

The General's face turned red.

“Don't fuck with me, Colonel,” Gerasimov said irritably. “I will not change the crew composition because of shit like this. Reprimand Popov for insubordination and advise Korolyov to piss in Popov's flight boots. They will be even after that.”

As soon as the officers left Gerasimov’s office, Aleksandr Ivanovich called the head of the pilot’s mess: “Valentina, good morning.”

“Good morning, Aleksandr Ivanovich. How did you sleep?”

“It’s a good question, and I slept very well, thank you. Here’s what the thing is, Valentina. Vera is not going to be at work for a couple of days, but don’t raise a panic. And you should know that I've called the boss of the financial services and ordered him to give you a bonus for an excellent job in choosing staff.”

“Many thanks, Aleksandr Ivanovich. Are you going to come and have something to eat?”

“No. I have someone now to wine and dine me.”

Having finished his conversation with the chief of the mess, he called Vera.

The girl was lying on her back. Her long, slender legs encircled MacKay’s waist and were crossed behind him. Hearing the telephone ring, Vera froze underneath Cameron. The Colonel pressed out from the bed on his hands, looked at the girl's eyes, and said softly:

“Pick up the phone. It sounds like someone needs you more than I do.”

“Hello,” said Vera.

“It’s a good thing you’re at home,” Gerasimov’s pleasant baritone voice could be heard. “I have already gotten freed up, and I’ll be at your place in an hour.”

“I’m glad. I’ll wait for you,” Vera answered.


Cameron lay on the girl and began moving once again. Vera lay beneath him passively, not responding.

“What is it with you? Have you fallen asleep?” Cameron asked in an irritated voice. “Move. Twirl your hips. This is our last meeting on Ukrainian soil.”

“He’s going to be here in an hour,” Vera answered limply.

“Excellent,” MacKay finally had the last word.

Resting next to Vera, Cameron gave her the final instructions:

“I’m leaving today for Moscow. Everything from now on is going to depend on you. I’m leaving five hundred dollars for you for expenses. I’ll call you as soon as the general decides to leave his division in Ukraine. I will tell you the number of the train and the day of your departure from Kiev. Don’t take anything with you, even documents. I’ll meet you at the station and immediately transfer you to the airport.”

“How am I going to fly over the ocean without documents?” Vera sat naked in bed with her legs beneath her in Turkish fashion.

“I’ll send you via diplomatic post. There will be no customs or immigration control. In the US, you will be met and given new clothes, money, and a new passport with a different name.  I’ll arrive a few days after you, and we’ll fix your life up royally. The main thing is for you to hold on to the general. Keep him, along with his division, in Ukraine. And now, go take a shower and change the bedding and be prepared for a warm meeting.”

Cameron got ready and left. Twenty minutes after his departure, the general arrived. Vera kissed him in the entry, hung his leather pilot’s jacket on a hangar, and invited him to have breakfast in the kitchen.

The General called his adorable mistress affectionately, “Verochka.”

He was looking absentmindedly at the pattern on the cup from the tea service.

“Can you keep a secret?”

“I’ve never had one to keep, so I don’t know.”

“I’m serious.”

“What sort of a secret? Military or personal?” Vera asked playfully.

“You’re such a girl. Okay, I’ll tell it to you straight. I have to go to the City of Gorky.”

“You’re being promoted? I congratulate you,” Vera said in a faked, indifferent voice. Tears came to her eyes. As soon as she was convinced that the General had noticed them, the girl turned towards the kitchen stove and took the tea kettle from it.

“No. Not for a promotion. The entire division is supposed to go with me. I got an order from Moscow to be ready for relocation.”

“That’s too bad. I no sooner think that I have found the man of my dreams than he has to go off somewhere. Would you like some more tea?”

“What a dear little girl. She’s hiding her tears. She doesn’t want me to be upset. She’s bright, she’s beautiful, and she’s a person with a great soul. It’s an unlikely combination.”

“Come with me, please. I’ll arrange everything for you. I'm going to order to open a civilian position at headquarters. You will be a secretary in my office. Therefore, you would always be beside me. You won’t have to run around with a tray anymore.”

Vera blinked her tears away and gave a strained smile.

“Me? In Gorky? Not for anything. It’s such a repulsive name. If it were, let’s say, Sladky, or Soleny, it would be sweet or salty, then I may consider it. But I won’t go to Gorky. And I don’t advise you to go there either. Life there will be bitter.

“Gorky has nothing to do with taste,” Gerasimov said seriously. “The city was named in honor of the proletarian writer Aleksei Maximovich Peshkov, who chose the word Gorky as a pen name.”

“I know Maxim Gorky. We studied his novels and poems in school,” Vera got up from the table. Her face grimaced. Her brows slightly frowned. And her lips chanted:

“Up above the sea's grey flatland, the wind is gathering the clouds. In between the sea and clouds proudly soaring.”
She fell silent for a moment, and Gerasimov thought that the girl was trying to remember the second line from The Song of the Stormy Petrel. But Vera continued in an unexpected direction:

“The Black Jack, reminiscent of black lightning.
Glancing a wave with his wingtip, like a dashing arrow skyward,
It cries out, and Yankee hears its joy in the bird's cry of courage.
In this cry is a thirst for a fight, anger of strength, a flame of revenge, and the Victory approach, the Yankees hear all of this in the roar of its engines.
And Blackjack takes off with war cries was resembling black lightning,
Like an arrow piercing the clouds, with its wing tearing foam from the waves.
So, it throws itself like a demon - a proud, devil of a storm - launches a rocket,
And it sweeps hundreds of lives into the abyss of the ocean.
The damned enemy had a drunken orgy;
The enemy did not notice the cruise missile.
And the aircraft carrier went to the bottom of the sea,
And Blackjack flew to his native home,
Where the blue-eyed blonde meets the commander.”

The General laughed soundlessly. When Vera fell silent, he took her by the waist and pulled her towards him.

“You are my dear blue-eyed blonde,” Gerasimov pushed Vera’s robe apart with his nose and kissed the girl gently on the stomach. “When did you manage to compose that poem?”

“I just made them up on the fly. I looked at you, Sasha, and I felt so sad that I wanted to cry. And so my soul issued forth, these chiseled verses. As a farewell.”

“Don’t be in so much of a hurry to say farewell. It would be better for you to explain how you know about the Sixth fleet.”

“A couple of days ago, I was present for the political indoctrination at base headquarters. The girls were asleep while the political officer was reading the lecture, but it was all new to me. I tried to memorize what I could.”

“You have a wonderful memory. So many talents in one person.”

The General suddenly changed the theme of the conversation.

“And if I were to ask you to marry me, would you go with me to Gorky? On legal grounds, as a General’s wife?”

Vera looked at Gerasimov in astonishment. If she hadn't spied out and loved him genuinely, then this moment would be the culminating moment of her life. But MacKay stood behind her back and, with that, her ticket to a new life in the United States. Vera knew that she would be happy with the General under no circumstances. Cameron would not let her go to Russia so quickly. It was not for Vera’s pleasure that he had arranged all of this trouble with the General.

“I’m enormously grateful to you, Sasha, for your hypothetical proposal, but I, in contrast to other women, and not striving to become a General’s wife. Why should I break up someone else’s family? You already have a wife. Yes, she’s grown old, but she’s spent her entire life with you. And to throw her onto the refuse heap like a worn-out coat would be unjust. It’s for people from the arts to get married to theatre students, to girls that would be their grandchildren. They don’t have shame or conscience, but you, Sasha, are a Soviet General with capital letters, and I’m ready to be your lover until you get rid of me. To my way of thinking, that is both more honorable and more pleasant. So let’s not turn the holidays of our meetings into the everyday boredom of married life.”

“But I don’t want to lose you. Do you understand? I-I think I love you, Veronica,” he stammered.

Unaffected by this startling admission, Vera replied coldly.

“Find a way out of yourself. You’re a man with a big head. Take advice from your friends. Ones you can trust. Maybe it’s not worth leaving for Russia. I would not abandon my parents or my apartment in Belaya Tserkov. Anyhow, you would lose your apartment in Kiev if you accept the transfer. Didn’t you think about that? And Kiev is not Gorky. The Ukrainian capital is a hundred times more pleasurable than any dirty, industrial city in the middle of Russia. Remember Pushkin:

What a wonder Kiev is, what a land.
The dumplings leap into your mouth,
The wine bottles come in twos,
And girls, and women, and girls, and women ...

The General looked at Vera with unconcealed adoration.

“I love Pushkin. I’ve read almost all of him, but I don’t know this poem.”

“It’s called ‘The Hussar.’ I recommend it to you.”

“I promise you I shall find it and read it through.”

“Do it at once. I have eight volumes in my bookcase.”

“No, right now, we’re going to go to my place for a moment. I’ll change clothes, and we will go to Kiev and visit some sort of decent little restaurant there.”

“Sasha, can I give you a little present?”

“An intimate one? You intrigue me.”

“I can give you an intimate present anytime, but today I want to give you a material present. Let’s go into the room.”

She led Gerasimov to a wall cabinet, moved the little rolling door, and obtained from within a padded hangar bearing an expensive tailored suit. While Aleksandr Ivanovich looked it over and touched the fabric of the shirt, which was hanging beneath the jacket, Vera picked a small box up from the floor.

“This is for you. You won’t have to go home. I bought everything from socks to handkerchiefs. Go and wash the airfield, dust off yourself and change clothes.”

“Will you be joining me?”

“Of course, after all, I did promise you an intimate present.”



In the small restaurant by the Metro station “Yaroslavov’s Wall,” there was a first-rate kitchen. At least, that’s what the General thought. In order not to embarrass her suitor, Vera, this time, refrained from commentary. She ordered herself a glass of expensive wine and a vegetable salad. Neither the one nor the other, in her opinion, could be spoiled by the cook.

“Sasha,” Vera turned to Gerasimov after they had slightly satisfied their hunger, “what did you decide about Gorky?”

“Before my morning conversation with you, I was sure that I must obey the order. But now I’ve begun to think. What can I expect in Russia? The maximum benefit will be a service apartment and desolation. No family, no you, no friends,” he fell silent for several minutes. “I’m planning to talk with one of my former subordinates. He is serving in the headquarters of the Kiev military district. I will listen to what he has to say. Theoretically, I could reject the order from Moscow, but I would like to have some cover in Kiev in the event of any unforeseen complications. I don’t want to lose you. But I also don’t want to end up in a KGB prison.”

“I’m certain that a General such as you won’t be turned over to the military counterintelligence for torture by Ukraine. By leaving the division here, you could at least count on the position of the Ukrainian Air Force Commander, and from there, it’s not very far from the Minister of Defence. In Russia, the Minister of Defence, Shaposhnikov, is a pilot. In the United States, President Bush is a pilot. The decade of pilots has arrived. So fate is giving you the chance to distinguish yourself. It is better to be in the first rank of the Ukrainian generals than to lose yourself in the endless line of Russian divisional commanders. Do you know how many generals there are in the Soviet Army?”

“A little bit less than four thousand.” Responded the General.

“Well, two of them will remain in the Russian Armed Forces, and the remaining fourteen republics with their armies won’t add up to an additional two thousand.”

“I’ll discuss this as well with my former headquarters chief.”

“I'm certain that if you remain, this act won’t remain unnoticed by the Ukrainian authorities. Sasha, keep the main press people well in tune with your headquarters, especially the broadcasters from TV and radio stations. Establish contact with the head of the Chernigov’s television station; ask him to keep ready a reporter and a camera operator near to Priluki airbase. And when the Muscovites began to press you, then invite journalists to your headquarters. When they’re around, not only will nobody arrest you, but no one will even be able to raise the voice at you.”

“You ought not to be working in a mess, Veronica; you ought to be my first deputy. You’ve got such a sharp head on your shoulders,” the general put his hand beneath the table on Vera’s leg. “Let’s go to your place.”

“Let’s. But only if I pay for the restaurant,” Vera answered.

Chapter Thirteen

October 25th, 1991. Uzin.

After serving his twenty-four-hour watch, Popov came home, went to bed, and slept for five hours.

Igor woke up at three in the afternoon, turned from his stomach to his side, and saw Svetlana. The girl was sitting with her back towards him, listening to music and looking at the television.

“How can you watch that serial and listen to rock at the same time?” asked Igor.

“And how can you sleep with my mom when I'm twenty years younger her?” The stepdaughter replied.

“You shameless hussy. You’re not even fifteen yet.”

“Yeah, so what? I grew up physically long ago, and I want to have sex every day. You think it’s easy for me to listen to how you are moaning and making the couch squeak behind the closet at night.”

She turned and sat half towards Igor. She was so accessible and desirable. He wanted to grab her by the waist and take her to him. But his fear of Lyudmila stopped him from such a rash act. He knew that if he gave in to his lust and Svetlana’s pleas, no one would be able to save him from prison. As soon as the elder Petrova would find out about it, then the prison door would slam shut on Popov immediately.



“Wait another couple of years, Svetlana,” said Igor. “If you don’t change your mind by then, then you can have me every day if you like. But until you’re sixteen, I’m not going to sleep with you.”

“Well, you’re a fool then,” the girl took offense and went into the kitchen.

At five o’clock in the evening, Lyudmila returned from work. She sent her daughter to the store for groceries, and as soon as the door closed behind the daughter, she said to Igor:

“Today, I typed top-secret orders for every crew in the regiment.”

“What of it? That’s your work,” Igor said indifferently, not tearing himself away from the television.

“The point is that in these orders, all of you are supposed to take off at the same time and land at the Leninskaya Sloboda airfield in the Gorky region.”

“That’s a usual doctrine,” Popov answered just as indifferently.

Lyudmila stepped between him and the television, blocking off with her broad hips not only the soccer match but half of the window as well.

“What is it with you, ‘well, what of it, what of it? You should think for once in your life. The orders don’t contain a date of departure. That means that the commanders are waiting for some sort of event.”

“What event?”

“We are just about to have a referendum on independence and presidential elections. That’s what they’re waiting for. After all, if we separate from Russia, our regiment will belong to Ukraine according to the law. But the Russians want to relocate you to the airbase near Gorky. That’s why this order is top-secret.  Do you understand now?”

“Sure, sure, I understood. Only what does it have to do with me? I served in Uzin, and I’ll serve just as well in Leninskaya Sloboda.”

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

“What do I supposed to do?”

“If you want to, you can come with me.”

“I’ve been waiting twelve years in line for a bachelor apartment in this regiment, and I received it only because I am a single mother. You and I aren’t registered. Isn’t that so? Sure it’s so. Tomorrow you might take off from me with the first sticky whore that you run into, and my daughter and I would stick in Gorky in an officer’s barracks alone. We’d have to wait another ten years for a new apartment. No, I don’t need that.”

“Okay, then, stay here.”
“You no longer need me,” Petrova began to weep. “You don’t love me anymore.” She sobbed louder and louder.

“I love you, I love you, only quit whining,” said Popov.

“If you love me,  you won’t abandon me,” Liuda answered, immediately ceasing to weep.

“And what I have to do? I can’t refuse to obey an order.”

“What are you to do? I’ll tell you what to do. You have to fight.”

“Who do I have to fight with?”

“With the Russians.”

“How can I fight with the Russians when I’m Russian myself, and you, by the way, also are?”

“I don’t mean Russians in the sense of nationality, but in the sense of geographical location. You’ll have to organize a collection of signatures among your service fellows on a petition of the undesirability of transferring to the Russian side. After that, you’ll give this petition to trustworthy hands so that it would reach the highest level. When all of the Moscow plans become known in Kiev, the Ukrainian government will take care of us,  and no one will go anywhere. Neither us nor the Priluki regiment.”

“Great,” he said with resignation. “Write a petition. I’ll speak with the men tomorrow.”

Lyudmila sat at her daughter’s desk and quickly wrote a letter appealing to the president of Ukraine. She could predict with certainty who would be elected the first president at the beginning of December. But, since she was a politically correct woman, she did not name the future people’s choices.

“Dear Mr. President:

We are the military personnel of the refueling regiment. We consider it is our duty to inform you that we have received an order transferring us to the military airbase at Leninskaya Sloboda in the Gorky region, the Russian Federation.

We consider this order to be illegal since our regiment is located on the territory of Ukraine and must belong to the Independent State of Ukraine.

We request you to take all the necessary measures to prevent the transfer of our regiment to Russia.

With respectful greetings from the military personnel of the refueling Regiment IL-78.”

“That’s short and angry,” Igor commented about Lyudmila’s letter when he read it.

“Don’t get cold feet. If you don’t like it, write it yourself,” answered Petrova.
“Print it off in three copies tomorrow, and give it to me at headquarters, during working hours. I’ll gather signatures for it.”

“Why do you need three copies?” asked Lyudmila.

“In the pilot’s component of the regiment alone, there are more than one hundred people. Where will they be signing? On a single sheet?”

“Well, at least you’ve got one thing right, silly Igor.”


Having collected over eighty signatures by walking from one crew to another during the working day, Igor returned home. Popov now had another predicament. He will have to consider very carefully how to get the letter with the petition into the hands of the future president.

“Should I send it by post? Could I trust the post office? A letter addressed to the future president would immediately be redirected to the regional office of the KGB. It’s easy to predict how the security agencies might react. Most likely, they would put it under wraps, just in case. But if they send the information to their Central Office from Lubyanka Square, the heads of Secret Service will immediately order to arrest Lyudmila and me for revealing a military secret. No. No one should trust the post office. Of course, I can deliver a letter to Kiev. But whom I would give it to? I can’t ask a policeman where I can find the future president. It’s a dead-end.  I should wait for Liudmila; let her find the right way.”

Lyudmila had been thinking about this complicated problem the whole day while Popov was walking from one IL-78 crew to another, explaining to his colleagues what ominous threat was hanging over their happy lives. Petrova thought and thought and then thought again. When Igor met her in the reception area and asked her about it, she shared with him her brilliant plan.

“Both of us know who our first president is going to be. That political hack simply doesn’t have any competitors. But despite this, he has an election headquarters in every region and at every populated point. The local representative of the presidential campaign is the person we need to find. Such headquarters are headed up by only people devoted to the candidate. Desiring to do a service for their master, every one of them  will be more than happy to deliver your letter to him.”

On the evening of the same day, Igor sat in the office of the chairman of the regional committee of social service for elderly and poor citizens. The representative of the presidential candidate was reading the short letter attentively.

“What is the problem here?” he asked.
 
“The problem is that two hundred and fifty officers and enlisted men very soon get the order for relocation to Russia. Their families will remain here since there is no housing for them there. And it won’t be ready anytime soon.  Due to the long separation and difficulty in housing conditions, highly probable that many of the families will fall apart.”

The chairman’s eyes expressed emptiness. He demonstrated that the theme of military families divorcing and housing shortages for them did not agitate him. Igor feverishly looks for arguments that might break through the indifference of this petty bureaucrat. Lyudmila’s idea to talk with a social worker about people’s faith wasn’t working.

“Besides the fact that Ukraine would lose qualified specialists, she would also lose expensive aircraft,” Popov said.

“How much all of your planes cost?” the chairman expressed interest.

“I can’t say exactly, but I think hundreds of millions of dollars. All of them almost new.”

“And can your refueling aircraft be applied to our economy?”

“Of course. All you will have to do is remove from the cargo hold the two fuel tanks, and then you can use them as transport aircraft for civilian goods.”

“And how much would carry such an airplane?”

“Fifty tones for several thousand kilometers.”

“You’ve convinced me,” said the chairman.


He called Kiev on the phone and asked to connect him with the chief of staff of the future president. Having read the letter's chief of staff, he told him briefly about what he had heard from Igor. The Kiev bureaucrat expressed the desire to speak with the pilot personally.


“How accurate is your information? Aren’t you just creating rumors?” asked the chief of staff.

“The chief of headquarters, the USSR Air Force, visited our base two days ago. The next day, my wife typed a top-secret order about the relocation of our air wing.”

“Pass my order to the chairman. Tell him to send me your letter by fax. Oh, and something else. Write down my telephone number. If your wing receives an order for takeoff before December, call me personally at once.”

“And if we receive the order after that?” asked Igor.

“After that, we won’t let you go anywhere.”

Igor went home and thought:

“It’s interesting on what level do civil servants cease to think about people and take account only of economic utility? In the army, this boundary lies between the commander of the regiment and the commander of a division. Based on today’s example, one might conclude that this point of transition lies at the level of the region on the civilian side. The chairman of a collective farm still cares about a concrete farmer. But an official on the regional level no longer cares about people. Even if he obligated to take care of them by his position.”

The next morning, immediately after the regimental assembly, the divisional commander called Popov in his office.

“I heard a rumor that you were gathering signatures under some petition yesterday,” said Gerasimov.

“Yes, comrade General, I did it.”

“Did you send the letter?”

“I sent it.”

“By trustworthy means?”

“Through a trusted representative of our future president.”

“Well, then, all that’s left to do is pray. If we stay here, you will be a hero. But if they do pull us out, you’ll go to the KGB prison along with Petrova.”


Except for some of the more appealing diversions, General Gerasimov hated hospitals. He spent the entire next week in the regional military hospital thirty kilometers west from Kiev, in the small picturesque town of Irpen. Even though the hospital was out in the suburbs with plenty of open fields around, the building was very narrow, with nine stories above ground and two below.

“Not such a good design for a hospital, where many people needed to get around quickly,” the general thought.

Once every three years, every military pilot over thirty-five years old is required to undergo a medical examination.

There were four regional hospitals in Ukraine.

All pilots knew that they could get through the medical examination at the Khar’kov hospital even if you are blind, deaf, armless, and legless. All they had to do was give the therapist a bottle of cognac, and any pilot, even one with an ulcer, would get a certification of ‘healthy.’ But the hospital at Khar’kov was extraordinarily decrepit and corrupt, even by Russian standards. Officers and students of the local pilot’s college lived together in twelve-bed wards.

The hospital, built before World War II, has not been repaired for the last thirty years. Wallpaper blistered and peeled throughout the grey-green colored hallways and in the rooms. Square linoleum tiles on the floor lay on spots of acrylic glue, and therefore their corners either looked at the ceiling or were torn off by slippers of temporary guests. Hospital patients did not see hot water for six months. The urban water system turned off hot water for the whole summer. Only sick pilots, limited in money, chose this hospital.

You could also pass your medical inspection in the Odessa hospital unless you were dead, but the Odessa doctors preferred money instead of gifts.

The same could be said about the Lvov hospital.

But, if a pilot considered himself completely healthy and wanted to have a week’s rest in a comparatively pristine environment, he chose Irpen. Here, the doctors did not take bribes, but the living conditions were almost regal.

Gerasimov did not need to buy cognac for the doctors or save money. The handsome general truly believed that he was completely healthy. At his age of forty-eight, he might have been short, fat, with a bald spot on his head and bags under his eyes. All he needed to do was hold his subordinates on a short leash and fly well himself.

But Gerasimov was more like General Lopata, Commander of the Ukrainian Land Forces, or even Commander of the USSR Airborne Forces, General Grachev. He was much taller than average, had broad shoulders, strong arms, and thick curly hair.

When, three years ago, he had undergone his medical examination here, the nurses fought among themselves about who would get the night shift. Each of them wanted to sit at the nurses’ station at least one night during Gerasimov’s week stay in the General’s ward. The girls knew that Aleksandr Ivanovich always went out for a walk at night through the hall and would strike up a conversation with the nurse about jets and flights and his adventures in the air and on the ground. He would break off his story at the most exciting spot and propose to finish telling it in the luxury ward.

“Stories can be told and listened to better if they are accompanied by cognac,” Gerasimov would say to the girls, but he would never return to the theme of the conversation.

After the first small sip of Ararat, the General would ask the girls to undress. These propositions were tantamount to orders, but they were always received with pleasure. It was considered an honor among the nurses to sleep with Gerasimov.

The fact that the General was married was not taken into account by anyone. Each of them believed in the Cinderella story, trying hard in bed to stick in Gerasimov’s memory.

“Maybe in a week, he’ll remember me and take me away with him in his official Volga.”

This time everything happened differently.

October 30. 1991. Military Hospital, Irpen, Ukraine.
On Monday night, the General slept like a new soldier. And on Tuesday night, his daughter came to visit him with a bag of groceries. She was a beautiful, slender blonde, immaculately dressed in the latest fashion, and stood at the doors of the department waiting for her Papa.

“My daughter? Here to see me?” Gerasimov said in astonishment when the nurse told him about his guest.

He put on the fabled brown hospital robe and went out into the long corridor.

“Vera!” he rejoiced, seeing the waitress. “Come to me, my dear!”

Vera took her heavy bag and went into the General’s ward.

“I haven’t seen you for three entire days, and I’m dying of boredom,” tearing his lips away from a long kiss, Gerasimov said.

Even in her high heel black leather boots, Vera was still shorter than the General.

“How did you manage to get here?”

“In a taxi. The driver is waiting for me at the gates to the hospital.”

“Let him wait. I can’t let you stay here, but I can’t let you go, either.”

“I’m in no rush. I’ve brought you some food,” she opened the zipper on her bag and laid out on the table some dry Finnish sausage, Dutch cheese, two bottles of cognac, and three cans of black caviar and several bars of chocolate.

“Vera,” the General implored, “they feed me well here.”

“I work in your pilot’s mess. I know how you’re fed. I brought you a spare supply. Maybe some important guest will drop in to see you, and then you’ll be able to treat him.”

“You’re my dearest guest,” said Gerasimov, taking Vera’s leather jacket off of her.

“I’m just for pleasure, but in between pleasures, you are busy with work. Isn’t that so?”

“It’s so,” answered Gerasimov with a laugh. “But I feel less and less interest in it.”

“Sasha, you remember,” Vera continued, removing her snug angora sweater over her head, “on Friday in the restaurant, you said that you wanted to meet with your former coworker.”

“I remember.”

“Well, instead of going to district headquarters to see him, where you won’t be allowed to talk with him in private, invite him here.”

She unfastened the side buttons on her skirt and turned her back towards Gerasimov.

“Undo the snaps on my bra, please,” she said and added: “Pour him some cognac, recollect your former glories, talk about today’s problems.”

Saying that, she took off her underwear and lay down on the rough hospital blanket.

“I’m totally yours, but the main thing is your tomorrow meeting. Your friend will be more open to you here. You can find out all the news from headquarters from the horse’s mouth.”

Gerasimov stood in his robe in the middle of the ward, listening to Vera. She lay with her hands behind her head, and her firm young breasts were like two hills with steep sides.

“Your place is certainly in my headquarters. I will give you a desk right next to my own, and I’ll give you a job as my confidential advisor.”


November 1st, 1991. Irpen’.

On Wednesday morning, the chief of the hospital laboratory section dropped a report with the result of the blood test of General Gerasimov on the desk of the head of the hospital. Major-General read the conclusion and grew pale. After a moment’s pause, he asked the Major:

“Can it be a mistake?”

“No, we took the blood twice. Both on Monday and Tuesday.”

“Who knows about this?”

“The laboratory technician, you, and me.”

“Warn her that this is utterly secret information. Not a word to anyone, including General Gerasimov.”

“What should I write in the conclusion of the medical report?”

“Healthy.”

“But that isn’t so.”

“It’s not for us to decide "Healthy" he is, or not. I’ll just report about this,”  he put his hand on the page with the result of the analysis, “to the very top. Let them find the ‘appropriate’ words during the conversation with him.”


On the evening of the same day, Gerasimov received a guest. The deputy chief of the Kiev military aviation district headquarters accepted the offer to drink “five drops” of cognac with his former commander. For about an hour, phrases hovered above the table: “Do you remember what we have done during our service at the airbase in Mozdok...” but more often, “do you remember that wench..?”

“Why do we keep on talking about the past?” Gerasimov poured out another full glass. “We don't plan to die. It would be better for you to tell something new about your situation at the headquarters.”

“There’s a lot of movement around. Our headquarters very soon will be transformed into the country of the Ministry of Defence headquarters.”

“It looks like there is some room for growth.”

“Yes. I tell you more, so far, the Minister of Defence position already offered to the commander of the Eighth airforce, Lieutenant-General Trofimov.”

“That’s good news. It’s no sin to drink to such news.”

They sat through another bottle, and near midnight the Colonel left the hospital while Gerasimov phoned the commander of Trofimov.

“Good evening, Nikolai Grigor’evich; this is Gerasimov.”

“Good evening, Aleksandr Ivanovich. What do I owe your call to?”

“Nikolai Grigor’evich, excuse me for phoning so late. I need your support.”

“Where are you now?”

“In the hospital.”

“How can I help you? Can’t you deal with the nurses along?”

Gerasimov swallowed the flat joke of the two-star general and answered:

“I received an order to prepare my division for relocation to the Gorky region.”

“I know this already. I read the letter from your pilots.”

“What letter?”

“I see that you’re not up to speed with what is happening in your division.”

“I’ve been in the district hospital in Irpen’ for three days undergoing a medical examination,” he explained.

“Alright, alright, don’t try to justify yourself. Your pilots are requesting protection from the future president of Ukraine. They don’t want to serve in Russia, do you understand?”

“That’s the very reason I’m calling.”

The Lieutenant-General Trofimov was silent in reply. He was waiting for Gerasimov to speak.

“Nikolai Grigor’evich, it’s not for me to explain to you what position I have found myself in. I need your support. I proposed that we do it this way. I’ll protect my pilots myself, and if it’s necessary, you can cover me.”

“So, I take it that you also don’t wish to return to Mother Russia?”

“No. I don’t want to.”

“That’s a load off my shoulders. I planned to meet with you after the
October holidays and discusses your future and the future of your division within the context of the armed forces of Independent Ukraine. You may consider that we have met and have had our discussion. In December, after my official appointment as Minister of Defence, I will propose several good jobs to you for your choice. I won’t say for the time being which ones. Let it be a surprise. Meanwhile, you just take care of getting through that medical exam, and don’t worry about Moscow; it isn’t going to do anything to you.”

“Thank you, comrade Lieutenant-General.”

“It was nothing. After all, we’re pilots. We take care of each other. We don’t abandon one another when there’s trouble. Goodnight, Aleksandr Ivanovich.”

November 2nd, 1991. Irpen’.

On Thursday evening, Vera once again visited Gerasimov. The General was in a good mood. He told the girl about his meeting with his former colleague and the conversation with the future Minister of Defence. They drank a bottle of wine, spent an hour in bed, and Vera, in her thoughts, said goodbye to Aleksandr Ivanovich forever. Then he took her to the hospital gates, and when she was getting into the taxi, he promised to come to Belaya Tserkov immediately after the October holidays.

“Vera, I’m going to have to spend next week in Priluki. A lot of urgent matters have accumulated that require my attention. As soon as I dig my way through my official duties, I will return to you.”

“Be careful on the roads, my dear Sasha. I will be waiting for you impatiently.”

November 3rd, 1991. Priluki.

Having received the medical certification ‘Healthy, ready for flight in supersonic aircraft without limitations,’ the General left Irpen for Priluki after supper on Sunday.

When he arrived at the division headquarters, a working atmosphere prevailed despite the weekend and the late hour. The officers and enlisted men were pacing the corridors with papers in hand, gathering service documents in cardboard boxes, quietly conversing in offices, discussing the upcoming flight to Pravdinsk.

The “top secret” order had long been known to all the military personnel of the regiment, to the members of their families, to the tradesmen at the market, and to the workers of the plastic factory, the tobacco factory, and the fans of the Disco Club “Europa.” All of them were more than a bit troubled about the unfortunate news of the 184th bomber regiment. Not that most minded seeing drunken pilots and aircrew disappear from their streets and away from their daughters, but the only military unit quartered in Priluki brought in a substantial income for the city budget and provided quite many jobs for the civil population of the town.

The General walked quickly along the corridor of the one-story building of headquarters and smiled. He knew what nobody else yet knew. Gerasimov had taken a decision: the division was not to take off, whatever might be done to convince or threaten it.

“I shouldn’t have bothered packing in Uzin. I should pack up in Priluki. I’m not going to fly here anymore. Nobody is going to. Let the bombers rust on the ground. If Russia wants them, it can buy them from Ukraine, and if it doesn’t want them, then they’re unnecessary. My future is in the Ministry of Defence. And if they don’t offer me a good position in Kiev, then I will do just fine in the refueling regiment. I have Vera, and there are enough aircraft in Uzin that pilots are going to be necessary into old age. We’ll throw the fuel tanks out of the aircraft and re-equip the IL-78s as transport aircraft. There will always be work for us in Africa. We can haul cargo in some Congo or Zaire for our black brothers.”

Having entered his office, Aleksandr Ivanovich phoned the chairman of the Chernigov executive committee.

“Nicolai, this is Gerasimov.”

“Good day, General.”

“Listen, serious political events are on the horizon here. Could you possibly organize a team of television journalists to visit me and some newspaper reporters as well? I’d like to have at least several people. The ones that are the boldest.”

“What sort of events? Share the news.”

“I can’t tell you right now. It’s a military secret. You’ll find out in a couple of days, I promise.”

“Should I arrange a junket for them from the executive committee?”

“No, don’t do that. I will quarter your guys in the military hospital. They will dine in the pilot’s mess, and my financial services will provide them with  per diem, so all of this will be at my expense.”

“And the cognac.”

“Well, yes, of course. And there will be a cognac for you.”

After the conversation with the regional head, the General summoned his assistants to see him.

“Here’s what is coming down, comrade officers. I have taken the decision not to allow the division to be re-assigned to Russia.”

“Thank God,” said the chief of headquarters. “At least I’ll be able to retire peacefully.”

The face of Gerasimov's deputy, Colonel Voronin, turned dark.

“General,” he said. “What about the order? What about our oath? We going be court-martialed for this.”

“I swore an oath to a state that no longer exists.”

“And the order?”

“It is an illegal one. Since August 24th, we are serving on the territory of Independent Ukraine. At this very moment, our Ministry of Defence under creation. And I am not revealing any great secret to you if I tell you that we will have our own army, our own airforces, and our own navy no later than one month from now. Moreover, we will have our own oath.”

“In Ukrainian?” asked Voronin.

“Why not? And you can’t scare me with a court-martial. I have not betrayed my Soviet Motherland. It was betrayed by those who settled this matter in the leadership cottage of Belovezhskaia Pushcha. Let them be afraid of a court-martial. And if they live long enough, they will be judged by history. My decision is final. Announce it to all staff. Whoever disagrees with me and wishes to serve in Russia may leave for Moscow. I will sing their petition.”

“Nikolai Petrovich,” the General turned to the chief of headquarters of the division. “Give the order to the Orderly Room to process travel documents to Moscow and leave tickets for one week for any officer or enlisted man who wishes to serve in Russia.”

“What about the aircraft?” Colonel Voronin could not reconcile himself to the crying injustice. “The strategic bombers will die on Ukrainian soil. They have no place to fly here. Such wonderful technology will perish. Those aircraft are the best that we have built in the entire history of the development of aviation. And what about the airfields? They will soon be covered with weeds. Great landing strips that are two and a half meters thick with concrete. The spaceship “Buran” could land on them.”

“Gentlemen, listen to me, please. According to the predictions of the international association of airports, during the next twenty years, the cargo capacity in air corridors between Europe and Asia and between the Baltic and the Black Seas will increase by sixty percent. This will generate a demand for new transport centers. For example, there is a need for two or three airfields on the route between Warsaw and Moscow. According to the calculations of foreign specialists, the English in particular, Ukraine is the largest effective travel focal point in Eastern Europe. Poland occupies second place. And Poland, from this, earns approximately four billion dollars a year, while the Soviet Union gets nothing. Ukraine will have the ability to put its shoulder to the wheel and obtain at least half of this sum using these airfields for heavy transport aircraft. And as to the bombers, if Russia finds them so necessary, then it will find a political solution to deal with them,” answered Gerasimov. “For your information, one hundred such craft is planned to be built. And so, if eighteen are remaining on the territory of Ukraine, nothing horrible will happen to Russia. I see that you would like to fly in them.”

“Yes,” the Colonel answered firmly.

“I will not consider it to be a betrayal if you immediately call the commander of the Russian Air Force and inform him of my decision. You will also earn points for yourself by making that call”.

Gerasimov shoved the black telephone that contained the direct telephone line connecting with airforce headquarters in Moscow to the edge of the table. The forty-year-old Colonel did not have to be told twice.


Chapter Fifteen

November 4th, 1991. Priluki.

On Saturday morning, a group of journalists from the regional capital of Chernigov arrived at the garrison. The General met them in the vestibule of divisional headquarters and personally escorted them to his office. The journalists sat in front of the Commander’s desk, got their tape-recorders and their notebooks from their pockets, and prepared to hear sensational news.

“You can put your pens away and your tape recorders back into your pockets. Today, you’re not going to write anything down. I'm just going to familiarize you briefly with the purpose of your visit. The main events are going to unfold here in the coming two days.”

The General familiarized journalists briefly with the order that w from Moscow.

“Okey, where’s the sensation?” asked the reporter from the newspaper The Evening Chernigov.

“Everyone has known for a long time that Moscow wants to gather all the toothsome morsels for itself. That news not sensational and does not deserve  even a single line on the last page of any newspaper.”

“The sensation is that I have refused to relocate my division to Russia, and tomorrow or at the latest, the day after tomorrow, high-posted Moscow Generals will be here, and they will try to change my decision by hook or by crook.”

“This already smells of scandal. If everything happens the way you say, then we will not have come here in vain.”

The journalists exchanged curious glances among themselves. Open defiance of an order on such a high level had never occurred in the armed forces of the Soviet Union. A sympathetic bespectacled brunette, the correspondent for The Chernigov Pravda, quietly whispered to her colleague from The Evening Chernigov:

“We’re going to be shot with machine guns along with this mad General.”

“If they place us in the same coffin, then I agree to it,” the newspaperman answered with a grin just as quietly.

“Will we be permitted to take pictures of your meeting?” asked the cameraman for the regional television station.

“I’m the one who gives permission or forbids,” answered Gerasimov. “And if I have invited you here, then it means that you can photograph everything. You can photograph me from front and back, and you can take pictures of how they’re going to pound on the table with fists and stamp on the floor with malice. In order not to miss this historical moment beginning on Monday morning, you will have to be in the hotel and the entire state of readiness.”

“That sounds very military, General. What do you mean?” asked the pretty brunette.

“Do you mean we have to stay dressed all the time, or can we undress from time to time?”

“By utmost readiness,” explained the General, “one understands thirty-minute readiness. If you can get dressed in thirty minutes, then you can get undressed sometimes. And if you can’t get dressed in thirty minutes, then give me a call. I’ll come and help,” the General mused. The crowd of newspaper reporters snickered at Gerasimov’s response.

“It would better if you came and helped me to undress,” countered the young woman slyly.

“You’ve already promised me that,” the journalist from The Evening Chernigov pleasantly objected to the friendly laughter of the journalists.

“What are we going to do until Monday?” asked the cameraman.

“You can take a stroll around the city. Visit the Spaso-Prilutsky monastery. Take a look at the church of Saint Nicholas, the Miracle Worker; in the evening, you can look in at the dances at the Eighth of March footgear faculty club. Although the city is small, all of seventy thousand inhabitants, there are places where you can have a good time.” One could feel from Gerasimov’s voice that the General knew what he was talking about.

November 6th, 1991. Moscow.

On Monday morning, the Minister of Defense summoned the Commander of the Air Forces of Russia, who unhappily reported to his supervisor about Gerasimov’s decision.

“An enormous problem is coming to the forefront, comrade Marshal of Aviation,” said Tolkachev. “The unexpected rebellion of General Gerasimov has put all of our plans concerning the development of strategic forces under threat.”

Shaposhnikov understood how serious the situation that had developed was. The loss of half of the supersonic bombers could cost him his ministerial position. After listening to the three stars General, the Marshal glanced at the model of a TU-160 which stood in his bookcase and said to the Russian Air Forces Commander:

“Fly to Priluki as soon as possible. Find out on the spot why Gerasimov made such a decision and try to convince him to comply with the order. It seems to me that he is bargaining for a better place than Gorky. So, promise him any higher post in Moscow. Say that I have signed an order to promote him the Commander of the Aviation of the Military District.”

“Which of them?” the Colonel-General tried to pin it down.

“Whichever one he wants. Let him name it himself. From Moscow to the Far East, you can also promise him diplomatic work. We have two dozen vacant positions for military attaches around the World. We can send him to any point in his choice. In short, promise him whatever you think he accepts. He must relocate his division to Gorky. And then I’ll talk with him. I'll never forgive him for such a debacle. Have you understood me?”

Tolkachev nodded in appreciation.

“I'm following you, Sir.”

“I'm confident about your inevitable success,” Marshal Shaposhnikov added menacingly.

At Priluki airfield, the Russian Air Force Commander met with the entire command staff of the division headed by General Gerasimov. Tolkachev looked at them through the aircraft illuminator and did not believe his eyes. Under the wing of the AN-24, he was being waited for by people who had submitted to him unquestioningly for many years. Today, they were openly refusing to obey. The last time shit like this happened in the Russian army in 1917.

Back then, the Imperial Army had refused to obey orders, and the Russian empire had perished, taking with it in the fire of the Civil war more than ten million citizens.

“I hope that during this revolution, blood won't be spilled, although some of these officers deserve a bullet to the forehead.”

The crew commander came out from the cockpit and reported to Tolkachev that the propellers had stopped and that the plane on in its chocks.

“Wait for me in the aircraft. Our conversation won't last longer than an hour,” said the Commander to the pilot. “It will be mostly one-sided, in my favor.”

Without exchanging salutes with the officers who were waiting for him, the three-star General walked briskly past them and immediately got into Gerasimov’s service Volga. The airmen dropped their salutes listlessly and looked on only in mild surprise.

The generals drove to division headquarters silently. On the threshold of the building, the Commander had ordered the command staff to gather in the divisional Commander’s office.

“I have already ordered everyone together in the main auditorium. It will be too crowded in my office,” Aleksandr Ivanovich answered.

“Alright then,” Obviously irritated, the Commander answered angrily. “Lead on.”


To the three-star General’s surprise, the auditorium of the headquarters had a lot of people in it. Along with a dozen of the senior officers, the Colonel-General found that he was being waited for by eight civilians.

“Who are these people?” Tolkachev asked Gerasimov.

“The press,” the General answered shortly.

“What the fuck is the press doing here? What are you up to? We have gathered here to decide top-secret matters of international importance. Why did you invite journalists?”

“And television people too,” Gerasimov answered, ignoring the Commander’s irritated tone.

“I got it. You've planned to make a show out of this meeting. I came here to discuss the plan of execution of a secret order, and you called mass media representatives to the discussion of a State matter. That’s a crime.”

“The order hasn’t been secret for a long time. Eighty percent of the flight crew of the refueling regiment signed a petition to the president of Ukraine, asking him to prevent the relocation of division.” Gerasimov roared.

“What kind of president? There is no such thing as president of Ukraine,” the Air Force Commander said, unable to restrain his anger.

“No, but there will be soon enough. Twenty-two days from now,” answered Gerasimov.

“Alright, then. Let’s forget about the refuellers for the time being,” the Colonel-General sat at the desk with his face towards the officers. "I have arrived here to find out why you canceled the preparation of the Tu-160 air regiment for transfer to Pravdinsk. Why did you, comrade Major-General,  disobeyed the Colonel-General's order? My order. Don’t you appreciate your position? Are you tired of living in freedom?”

“Your order, comrade Commander, didn't have juridical force behind it from the very moment of its signing, and you know about this very well. The Belovezhskoe agreement, signed by the first secretaries of the communist parties of the three fraternal republics, states that all material of value, which is located at the moment the document is signed, on the territories of the newly formed states, will belong to those states. The aviation division has large material value. Therefore it will remain in Ukraine.”

“You have to think again, General. You have a brilliant career ahead of you as the Military District Aviation Commander in Russia. The Minister of Defence has already signed the order designating you to this position. He also signed the order to give your family  a three-bedroom condo in Moscow.”

“I have the same size flat in Kiev. And I'm delighted with my position of divisional Commander.”

The cameraman, who had filmed the entire dialogue, commented to his colleague:
“How confidently he said it. With force.”

“Be quiet, I’m recording it,” the journalist from The Kiev News who was sitting next to him pointed to his portable voice recorder.

“Alright, Gerasimov, is it your final decision?” asked the Colonel-General, getting up from behind the desk.

“Yes.”

“It's bad news; however, I will pass your reply to the KGB military branch. I think they will take the opportunity to discuss your decision with you with great pleasure.”

“Don’t try to frighten me, comrade Colonel-General. I am not afraid of the Russian KGB anymore. I am serving in Ukraine now.”

“Gerasimov, I'm no longer your comrade,” Tolkachev snarled. “You are now only citizen Gerasimov to me and my comrades.”

With these words, the fuming Russian Air Force Commander hastily left the auditorium and departed for the airfield in the divisional Commander’s Volga.


Having returned to Moscow, Colonel-General Tolkachev called the Ministry of Defense.

“Viktor Sergeevich, excuse me that I'm spoiling your holiday mood, but Gerasimov has categorically refused to relocate the division.”

“Traitor,” the Marshal said shortly and hung up the telephone receiver.


At nine o’clock at night, in all apartments where the TV sets were turned on, a military march began to play. On each blue screen, the Earth turned a half around. From the starting point of Moscow, a rocket decorated with a red star flew skywards. The Earth rotated on its axis an additional half, and the missile struck the USA. The letters T I M E boldly grew from the depths of the screen. Nina Bodrova and Igor Kirillov, long-time media hosts of the most popular news program, began to report to their fellow citizens in detail about the good news which had come from all corners of boundless Russia. They focused the attention of their countrymen on the bad news coming from abroad and then turned the program over to their Kiev correspondent. Sergei Sheremet told the television viewers about how Ukraine was preparing to celebrate the October revolution anniversary and added in conclusion:

“Tomorrow, in the military parade along the main street of the Ukrainian capital, the Armed Forces and military equipment of a sovereign country will pass in well-ordered columns. The young state is swiftly developing its armed forces, an integral part of which will be strategic aviation.”

After these words, the directors of the program showed the news clip, which the Chernigov television journalists in Priluki had recorded. Gerasimov’s dialogue with the Russian Air Force Commander was broadcast without commentary.

Cameron did not watch the TIME television news program to the end. He didn't care about sports news or tomorrow’s weather. He turned off the television, left the embassy building, and went in the direction of the Arbat. The snow, which had fallen since morning, had melted a bit and was crunching under his boots, dissolving into porridge and squirting out into various directions. Behind his back, he could hear the steps of his tail. Cameron paid no attention to the Russian counterintelligence officer. The American spy did not look back and did not look in the store window. He was not worried about his tail today. MacKay dropped in the nearest post office, stood in line several minutes, waiting for access to the international pay telephones, and called Belaya Tserkov.

“Vera, it’s me. Tomorrow, number two.”

“Got it.”

As they had previously agreed, no further words were spoken—only the day of departure and the number of the train. After calling Vera, Cameron returned to the embassy in the company of his tail.


November 10th, 1991. Moscow.

The long-awaited international tennis match was about to begin in the Olympic sports palace. All forty thousand tickets were sold out long ago. Two rising stars of tennis were meeting in the final for the Kremlin Cup - Jakob Hlasek, a Swiss national, and a young Russian phenom from Ufa, Andrei Cherkasov. The president of the Russian Federation was expected to watch this match personally. According to rumors, he was not only a lover of vodka and women but also adored tennis.

The parking lot by the Olympics has been filled with foreign cars. Cameron turned on his signal light and aimed his car directly at the traffic sergeant. The diplomatic license plate on Cameron’s Mercedes made the appropriate impression on the policeman. He said several words to his colleague on the radio and waved his striped baton to MacKay; go on through.

As soon as the Mercedes freed the entrance to the lot, the policeman’s white-glove stopped the next car in line.

“There’s no place left. Turn back,” the Sergeant said to the driver of the Lada.

“Find a place,” the driver answered imperturbably and showed the Sergeant his KGB officer’s ID.

The Sergeant was talking on his walkie-talkie; a passenger got out of the Lada and quickly made his way to the VIP parking area, to the same place where Cameron had left the car. Within several dozen meters of it, the surveillance officer saw MacKay.

The American was standing in line at the entrance to the Sports Palace. The counterespionage agent worked his elbows furiously, purposely stepped on the feet of fans that would not move out of the way quickly enough, moved forward in line, and got directly behind Cameron.

Step by step, they moved toward the entry. The line of spectators slowly disappeared into the enormous belly of the biggest covered stadium in the country.

At the moment when Cameron showed his ticket to the controller, the KGB officer, with a barely noticeable movement, planted a bug on his overcoat. The sports hat, which was pulled low over his head, hid a microphone leading to the ear of the counterespionage agent.

“We have a signal,” the KGB officer heard.

“Your ticket,” the ticket taker stopped his movement forward.

“One moment,” the officer began to search his pockets.

“You couldn’t have it out ready?” the angry voice of a tennis fan could be heard behind his back.

“I’ve found it,” the officer said in a joyful voice and showed the woman his KGB ID.

While the ticket taker slowly ran her eyes over the inscription, ‘unobstructed entry everywhere,’ Cameron managed to lose himself in the crowd.

“I have lost visual contact,” the KGB agent reported.

“The subject is not moving, and he is thirty meters in front of you. It is standing. Twenty meters, ten. It is in front of you.”

Crowds of fans swam past the young man whose trained glance scanned their faces. From the direction of the court, one could hear the popping sounds of rackets against balls. The contenders for the Kremlin Cup were warming up and exchanging cannon blows.

“He’s not here,” the officer said quietly.

“Look around you. Our man must be there. The location transmitter is showing that there are two meters between you.”

“It’s a trash basket, and the coat is on it. But a man not here. He escaped from us again.”

“Take the transmitter off the coat and return to the car,” said the operator.

Cameron threw his coat into the trash, made his way around the Oval stadium, and went out through the service exit in the direction of the Velo track. He ran down a marble staircase to the parking area where he found a green sedan Moscovite-412 with Moscow license plates and went to the Kiev train station.

MacKay got out of the car on the square in front of the station and walked to railway platforms. A middle-aged man with a hamburger in hand stood at the intersection of two underground passages. The grease from the juicy beef steak was dripping onto his dark blue nylon jacket. As soon as the American walked by him, the man threw the half-eaten hamburger onto the steps. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he made his way to the green sedan “Moscowite-412."

Cameron went out onto the third platform. Express train number two, “Prague-Moscow,” arrived at Kiev train station now. The Colonel did not know what car Vera would be in, but he was sure that the girl would be standing still until he could find her upon leaving the vehicle. That’s how he had instructed her. And to this point, his young coworker had fulfilled all of his instructions precisely.


After receiving the evening telephone call on the ninth of November, Vera was slightly agitated. She was so close to what she had been striving for so long.

“One more night in this country, and tomorrow, a new life begins. Okay, maybe not tomorrow. Maybe it will start the day after. A life where I will have everything that I want and not only what people decide to give me. A life where I will sleep with whomever I want and not with those whom I have to or who pay the most. A life where I will have my car, my apartment, and perhaps even a house. Where there won't be louts and lines, alcoholics, and beggars. A real-life, which I will have earned.”

She fell asleep with a dreamy smile on her lips. The whole way to Moscow, she rode in the passenger car and looked silently out the window. She didn't react to the questions of her traveling companions or to their suggestions that she toasts and drinks vodka for Labor day. As the train approach Russia’s capital and slow dawn, Vera once again seized by worry. According to Cameron’s orders, she didn't take with her any money or documents.

“What will I do at the station if he doesn’t meet me?”

The troubling thought departed instantly as soon as the train entered the station. Cameron was standing at the very beginning of the platform and waving to Vera joyfully when he saw her beautiful face through the couch window.

No sooner had the conductor opened the door than the girl jumped down from the car and ran toward MacKay. The Colonel embraced Vera, kissed her on the lips like a lover after a long separation, pushed her away from himself, and asked:

“You’ve come without your belongings?”

“And without my papers, as you instructed me.”

“Excellent. Let’s go out of here.”

A Ford Transit minivan waited for Cameron and Vera on the private parking lot in front of the enormous building of the train station. Its dark grey color seemed black in the twilight. The rear windows of the vehicle were pasted over with advertising posters for an automobile spare parts store. MacKay sat behind the wheel. Vera stopped at the front passenger door.

“Sit in the cabin,” Cameron told her.

While the Ford was making its way to the Ring Road, Vera told Cameron about her final meetings with the General in the hospital. Mackay was not paying much attention to this chatter as his thoughts were elsewhere. As the Colonel passed the traffic post, he looked at Vera in the rearview mirror, winked at her, and said:

“Take off your dress, Vera.”

It was warm in the vehicle. The girl quickly removed her outer clothing and looked at MacKay indecisively.

Catching her glance in the mirror, the Colonel reiterated his order.

“Take it all off.”

The girl had grown used to submitting to him without much convincing. She stripped naked and waited curiously to find out what would happen next. Cameron turned onto a side road and then onto a still narrower strip of asphalt and stopped in an unpopulated area. Vera wound her arms around his neck and whispered:

“Come to me in the backseat.”

MacKay tenderly kissed her arm a little lower than the elbow and said:

“We’ll have plenty of time for that on the other side of the ocean. Right now, an aircraft is waiting for you. Go behind the backseat. There are bags there with diplomatic posts. Crawl into an empty one. I'm sending you overseas as a package.”

A little surprised that she was going to America as actual mail, she nonetheless shrugged her shoulders and looked behind. On the floor of the minivan, there were lying several stuffed canvas bags. She found an empty one among them. It was a brand new bag; therefore, it pricked her naked body a little. Seeing the girl’s wrinkled nose, Cameron calmed her.

“Be patient. It won’t be for long. I will take you directly to the aircraft. I’ll put you on the transport belt, and you will wake up in the baggage compartment of a Boeing. As soon as the aircraft takes off, one of the crew members will free you from the bag. They will provide you clothes, meals and allow you to sleep as long as you want. You’ll wake up tomorrow in the States.”

Cameron spoke, and Vera listened to him and raised the edge of the bag to her neck. MacKay took the fabric from her hands and tied the ends in a double knot over Vera’s head.

“Stay calm, and everything will be fine.”

With these words, he again sat behind the wheel and slowly went forward along the deserted road.

While suburban Muscovites were washing down salad and cabbage rolls with vodka, celebrating the victory of the proletariat over their long oppression, the Ford Transit came across a small bridge with low sides.

A little stream carried its murky waters to meet with the Moscow River. It was not broad. But at the place where the engineers had erected the bridge, a dredger deepened the bottom of the river, making the shores closer and facilitating the road builders in their task.

Cameron stopped the minibus and opened the rear door.

“What, have we arrived yet?” asked Vera.

“Be quiet. You’re supposed to be mail. The customs officials aren’t far.”

MacKay raised the sack containing Vera’s one hundred and twenty pounds in his arms and walked over to the side of the bridge with little difficulty. Stopping for a second, he looked cautiously in both directions and then threw the sack with the girl into the river.

Vera had no time to cry out before the icy water burned her body. She instinctively opened her mouth from the shock and breathed the turbid, icy water into her lungs. Death came almost instantly. The sack went to the bottom, and the current dragged Vera’s body, turning it over and over on the stones. Splashes of water flew upwards and fell back.

Cameron waited until the circles that were running across the water finally disappeared and then went to close the rear doors of the Ford Transit.

Car’s headlights illuminated him at the moment when he opened the driver’s door and was about to get behind the wheel. The car was unexpectedly close.

“Why didn’t I notice that? Apparently, it drove up with its headlights off. So it can’t be a KGB car. KGB officers would not have let me throw the sack into the river. But then who could it be?” One thought replaced another. “How many of them are there in the car? If there’s only one, then I’ll have to take him, but what if there are two? Those damned headlights don’t let me see anything.”

He shaded his eyes with his hand and stood in waiting.

“Be calm, Cameron. The important thing is not to panic. Let them show themselves, and then we’ll figure out what goes where.”

A man came out of the car. His face could not be seen, but after he said:

“Good evening, Colonel MacKay. I see that you’re eliminating witnesses. Isn’t that so?” Cameron immediately recognized the voice of his recent rail companion.

“No, I’m admiring the beauties of nighttime Moscow here. It's late autumn outside. The air here is so fresh,” Mackay replied in Russian.

“Ye, ye, ye. And in the sack, which you accidentally dropped in the river, there were letters of the embassy workers to their relatives in the USA. How is it that I didn’t guess that right away?” said the fugitive KGB Captain sarcastically.

“Something along those lines,” MacKay played for time and thought:  “Is he alone, or does he have someone with him? It’s too bad that I can’t see his hands.”
Cameron finally saw the black pistol.

“Get into the car.” Victor motioned with his gun. “And don’t make any sharp motions. I’ll shoot you without the slightest regret.”

“Don’t shoot,” Cameron answered, getting into the car. “KGB doctrine doesn’t permit it.”

“I’m no longer working in that system. Now I manage my own business.”
“That’s a pleasant surprise," Cameron thought. " That means that he needs something from me for himself. And for the time being, it’s a little early to call our meeting a failure.”

Viktor sat in the backseat and put his nine-millimeters semi-automatic Makarov pistol into his pocket.

“Where are we going?” asked Cameron, driving out onto the highway.

“To your embassy.”

“You aren’t planning, by chance, to go over to our side?”

“I’m planning, and it’s not by chance.”

“You don’t mean to say that after you lost me in Kiev you were thrown out of the service?”

“Shut up. That doesn’t concern you. After all, you’re a military intelligence man. A narrow specialist. Take me onto the embassy grounds, and there I will talk with the CIA people.”

“Tell me, Viktor. How is it that you found me out?”

“I saw how my former colleagues followed you, and I followed them from the embassy.  When you got in line at the entrance to the Olympics, I got into a line that was parallel to you. While that idiot played the role of a ticketless fan, I went behind your back. I remembered your trick with the coat from the trip to Kiev. You didn't have a chance to cut me from your tail. I could interfere with you for a long time before. I only wanted to see what you would do with the woman. Why did you do it to her that way?”

Viktor burst out laughing.

“Go ahead and share. I won’t tell anybody.”

Cameron listened to Viktor and thought about what he should do to this young KGB man.

“Of course, I could earn a few points by taking him with me. They would make an entry into my file about the successful recruitment of the KGB agent. But they would also enter, in red pen, unsanctioned the Russian woman disposal, and it would be hard to figure out which would have more weight, eventually. No. It isn’t worth risking a career. I have to clean up after myself. I can’t take this guy to the embassy.”

“Lie down on the floor,” Cameron said to Viktor.

“Why?” the young man was suddenly on guard.

“Where do you think the surveillance officers are waiting for me?”

“At the Olympic. Where you left the embassy car.”

“That’s the ones who lost me. But their comrades are standing next to my embassy on both sides of the Garden Ring Road, and while the marines on guard are figuring out why I’m entering the embassy in a van with a Moscow license plate, your people will drag you out from the back seat. So, lie down and don’t argue with me.”

Viktor took his pistol into his hand and lay down on the floor across the Ford Transit. Lying on the dirty carpeting of the minivan, he tracked Cameron’s movements attentively.

MacKay calmly drove the car and didn't show any outward signs of concern. Viktor could see only the right hand of the American, his right shoulder, and a portion of his head. He couldn’t see from where he was how Cameron was sticking his left hand into the right breast pocket of his coat and taking out a small semi-automatic pistol with a silencer.

The Moscow Big Ring Road, which surrounded the vast metropolis, was already several hundred meters behind them. MacKay reduced speed before the traffic light. The car stopped. Viktor bent and pointed the pistol at MacKay’s head.
It seemed as if the American was not paying attention to the officer lying there. He pressed down the clutch, changed gears, and smoothly rolled the minibus into the stream of traffic. Viktor relaxed and lowered his pistol.

MacKay reacted to this motion instantaneously, and without taking his left hand from under his right armpit, he shot the counterespionage agent twice. Both bullets hit Viktor in the chest. He bent from the pain, emitted a snoring sound, and lost consciousness.

Turning the Ford Transit around at the first intersection, MacKay again headed out of the city. At first, he decided to discard Viktor’s body at the same place where he had recently drowned Vera, but looking at the green numbers of the electronic clock, Cameron changed his mind.

“I’ll have to keep drowning these damned Russians until dawn. They aren’t worth it.”

He stopped the car in the woods by the road and threw the dead Captain into the ditch.

“I hope that this time, nobody was watching me.”


Chapter Sixteen.

November 12th, 1991. Belay Tserkov, Ukraine.

General Gerasimov put his attache case into the "Volga" sedan and left Priluki for Belaya Tserkov. At the police inspection posts in Zolotonosha and Vatutino, he was stopped by the traffic cops. The General was unable to drive within the bounds of the rules of the road. As a pilot that regularly flew supersonic aircraft, he loved to speed. He missed Vera and was running the Volga at almost twice the permitted speed. His general's ID came in handy during his frequent meetings with the police sergeants. The traffic policemen's authority was overruled, and Aleksandr Ivanovich rushed ahead.

This insane race ended at the entrance to Vera's apartment building. Gerasimov did not wait for the elevator to descend but ran, skipping steps up to the seventh floor. He held his finger against the doorbell so long that the neighbor across the landing looked out from her apartment and told the General crossly:

"Why do you ring like that? She's not at home. Can't you see that?"

"When did you see her last time?"

"I saw her before the holidays. I was throwing the garbage down the disposal chute, and she was closing her door."

"Perhaps she has a work shift in Uzin," thought Gerasimov and ran down the stairs without saying goodbye to the neighbor.

In an hour, he was talking with the chief of the provisions service of the airbase.

"So, you say that after I left the garrison three weeks ago, she never show up at  work?"

"Yes, sir. At first, Valentina cut her some slack. I, of course, was upset and said that she hadn't even been working for us for a month and had already started abusing her leave. But her boss cited your verbal orders. At the end of October, I called her at home on the telephone and asked if she was thinking about taking leave. She answered that she was sick and didn't know when she would return to work. Three days after that, nobody answered the calls in her apartment."

"Alright. Bring me something to eat."

The chief of provision service left, and Gerasimov called the Air Refueling Regimental military counterintelligence officer. The KGB Captain arrived ten minutes later. The General was finishing the hurriedly fried five egg omelet.

"Bon appetit," said the covert operations officer.

"Thank you, Sergei. Sit down and eat with me. Fix something for him," Gerasimov ordered the chief of provisions. "And make sure that we aren't disturbed while we're talking."

The waitress brought dinner for the Captain and firmly closed the door behind her when she left.

"A month ago, a new waitress appeared in a mess," the General began to bring the counterespionage agent up to date. "I gave her a ride a couple of times from our garrison to her house in Belaya Tserkov. At the end of October, she visited me in the district hospital."

Upon hearing these words, the Captain stopped eating and stared at the General attentively.

"You eat. Eat.  The main thing is coming up now."

"What specifically?"

"She's disappeared. And she's disappeared strangely. When she came to the hospital, she told me that she works every day. In reality, she didn't come to work at all. But it's even worse than that. In the last two days, her neighbors haven't seen her. I don't like this. See if you can't find out what's happened without raising a lot of fuss; ask her neighbors, stop in with the police. Perhaps she was killed. She's a rich girl. As an example, she hired a cab to come from Belaya Tserkov to Irpen'. An additional fact for you, she has some expensive stuff at home," the General let slip.

"Oh, so you were at her house."

"Yes, I visited her on several occasions," said General. "You must report on your findings to me personally."

"I'll do everything within my authority, Aleksandr Ivanovich. But if I find traces of enemy activity, then I will have to report it to my immediate superiors."

"Oh, come on. Do you really think that she was working for the enemy? During the entire two weeks of our relationship, she never asked me about anything and never asked me to do something. The biggest secret that she knew all this time was the size of my dick. But, God knows, that's not a big secret."

November 19th, 1991. The KGB Headquarters, Lubyanka, Moscow.

At ten o'clock in the morning, the Deputy of the Head of the KGB Seventh Directorate went into the office of the Surveillance Department Director.

"Comrade General, our fugitive has been found," he reported and placed on the General's desk photographs of the murdered Captain. “We received these photos from the district prosecutors a couple of hours ago. Popenko’s body  was found at night, ten kilometers from the Moscow Ring Road in a roadside ditch."

"Are the details of the murder known?" the General asked, looking at the dozen snapshots.

"Two bullets to the chest, by a small-caliber pistol. The pathologist report states that the shots came from close range, although no traces of powder were found on his clothing. The killer and our man very likely knew each other and but were afraid of him. According to the explanatory note of the criminal investigator, they found a pistol in his jacket's inner pocket. We check the number of it. Captain Popenko carried with him the service pistol of Makarov that he took from his office. More likely,  Victor was killed in a car. The body was found quite a distance from populated areas."

"What do we get from this?"

"Nothing. The prosecutor has opened a criminal case, and the district police will be searching for the murderer. Most probably, it will be a "sleeper." The Captain could only have been killed by a professional. There are no traces."

"I'm reprimanding you. For the fact that your subordinate did not surrender a handgun before going on leave. And consider that you are fortunate; it could have been a lot worse."

"I accept your reprimand," the Lieutenant-Colonel answered.


November 21, The police station, Khimki, Moscow region.

A morning conference was being held in the Red October District criminal investigation office. At it was present the district prosecutor and the chief of police.

"Two murders in one night. What do you think about it?" The prosecutor asked all of the officers who had gathered. "No clues. Not a single theory. You're not only inefficient but also seem quite stupid."

"We have a working hypothesis concerning the female body found in the river," answered the head of the criminal investigation.

"Alright, share it with me if it's not a secret," the prosecutor said sarcastically.

"The young woman was thrown into the river by the truck driver. We're checking all of the moving companies in the area now."

"Why do you think it was a truck driver?" asked the chief of the district police.

"They found her naked in a sack. It looks like someone was taking revenge on a prostitute."

"The murdered woman had a venereal disease?" the prosecutor expressed the hypothetical question.

"Yes, the worst one," answered the head of the criminal investigation.

"If your theory is correct, then the driver will soon be found himself. Has the woman been identified?" asked the prosecutor.

"Not yet, unfortunately. There is also no one like her listed in the bureau of missing persons."

"What about the second body?"

"The second body belongs to KGB Captain Viktor Popenko. Two officers from his department have already identified him."

"Are they planning to take the case on themselves?" asked the prosecutor.

"For the time being, it's not clear. They didn't say anything about it, at any rate."

"What department did the murdered officer serve in?" asked the Head of the police department.

"In the Seventh Directorate. Simply saying in counterespionage."

"It's possible that they may conduct their investigation and not let us know anything," the head of criminal investigation surmised.

"Perhaps," the prosecutor answered.

Chapter Seventeen

November 12th, 1991. The USA.

Colonel MacKay returned to Washington when the flu epidemic was at its height. All states had been hit by the disease, including Alaska and Hawaii. The epidemic also hit southern Canada and Northern Mexico. It was the usual type of North American flu with diarrhea and vomiting. Ordinary citizens called it the stomach flu. The number of people who died during the first two weeks of the epidemic surpassed five hundred. Poor people tried to save money on doctors, and they paid for it with their lives. Those who had medical insurance sat in lines for doctor's appointments or lay in hospitals.

MacKay fell sick several days after he went back to work. At first, it seemed to him that it was acclimatization that had struck him with a high fever. But when his wife also went to bed with a high temperature, he came to believe that this was the flu. However, after two weeks, most of his fellow workers had returned to their duties, and MacKay remained in his bed. Another week later, Major-General Ash called him. Hearing out the Colonel's complaints, the head of the department proposed to him:

"Maybe you should visit the hospital, Cameron."

"That's probably a good idea," answered MacKay.

The next day, on the desk of the General, lay the report of the military doctor. It was sealed in red stripes at the edges and stamped.

"PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL."

"Does he know?" Ash asked the blue-suited assistant who brought the report.

"No."

"Don't tell him."

A half an hour later, the Deputy of the CIA Director said to Ash:

"The most important thing is not to allow any leaks of information."

"How can we keep it secret? In a few months, he will be unrecognizable. That is going to be such a humiliation for the whole department that we'll be laughed at both by the drunken sailors and the sweaty marines."

The Deputy, who had given careful consideration to this issue, regrettably declared:

"We have to turn him into a hero who died at the hands of the evil Russians. Let everybody think that Russia was getting even for the loss of their supersonic bombers."

"Sir, can I consider that you are sanctioning me to resolve the MacKay problem by any means?"

"Do whatever it takes for Christ's sake to protect our department and the CIA from the embarrassment. This will need to be out-sourced to a completely trustworthy entity.".

"What a fucking mess," Ash said regrettably and left the Deputy office.

After ten days spent in the Walter Reed Army Medical Centre, Cameron felt significantly better. The scores of tablets he had taken had temporarily renewed his strength. He was riding in his wife's car with his head pressed to the side window and looking at the decorations on the houses. His wife was driving the car and kept talking about some nonsense or other; about how she had spent Thanksgiving without him; about how excellent the neighbor's turkey had been; about how their children had grown; about how it was time to decorate the roof of their house for Christmas because all the neighbors had already done it.

"There's still a bit of time left until Christmas," Cameron told her.

"Well, what of it? Everyone has already put Santa Clauses in front of their houses and reindeers with sleighs."

Cameron decided not to argue with his wife. Despite his weakness, he felt as though it were his birthday. By secret order, he was awarded the Air Force Distinguished Service Medal and, on the recommendation of the Secretary of Defense and the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, promptly nominated by the President and confirmed by the Senate to be promoted to Brigadier- General. Major-General Ash had informed him of this when he had visited Cameron in the hospital ward. He was to be presented the medal in a private ceremony early in the New Year. The rank of Brigadier-General would be granted before Christmas.

His wife turned onto their asphalt driveway, and he saw his Buick in the driveway and front of the garage door.

"Why isn't my car in the garage?" he asked his wife irritably.

"I noticed a small puddle of oil under the engine and decided that it would be better to drip on the black asphalt than on the white cement of the garage. You had better bring your car into the shop and let them fix it. It was hard for me to get the spot off the floor of the garage."

"Alright, I'll take it in tomorrow. Only it's going to be even harder to get the motor oil off the asphalt."


The next morning, after having had a good sleep in his bed, Cameron had breakfast and was getting ready to go to the Buick dealer to have his car serviced. He kissed his wife at the entrance to their home, walked to his vehicle, and seated himself comfortably in the soft leather seats of his beloved automobile. During his month in Russia, he had gotten deathly tired of prehistorical cars such as “Ladas,” “Volgas,” and the prehistoric "Moscovites."

"Only America can make real automobiles," he inserted the key into the ignition and turned it.

Julia MacKay had seen her husband off and returned to the kitchen. She planned to put the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. Cameron's wife stood in front of the window with plates in her hands when a powerful explosion came from her husband's Buick. The shockwave threw the poor woman backward, and she hit her back and head against the refrigerator. She lost consciousness from this impact.

The woman’s breast, face, and neck spurted blood. Fragments of the kitchen window had slashed her carotid artery, and blood poured along her shoulder, flowing over her terrycloth robe.

Hundreds of pieces of an expensive car scattered by the explosion burned out in front of the house.

Several fire trucks with sirens blaring arrived at the Mackay household. Two ambulance vehicles came to the scene just seconds behind. After the fire was extinguished, the firemen carefully removed Cameron's charred remains from the Buick and went to the front door of the MacKay family home.

A small, bloodied brunette lay slumped over by the refrigerator. Unconscious and bleeding profusely from many wounds, Cameron's wife didn't have a chance to live.

Julia died without regaining consciousness from the loss of blood.


A cold, grey overcast was present at Arlington National Cemetery, shrouding the funeral of Brigadier-General Cameron Frederick Mackay. After the interment service, the Chaplain backed away as the NCO in charge of the General's detail stepped up to the shining, flag-draped, brown oak and brass casket. The delegation rose in expectation. A white-gloved Air Force Master-Sergeant presented arms with his wooden-stock M14 automatic rifle to initiate the eleven-gun salute worthy of this General Officer. The volleys rang out from the muzzles of the ceremonial assault rifles. The audience could not help but blink with every report from the weapons. The rifle-volley complete, the mournful reverberation of Taps echoed from the lone bugler in honor of the dead. The crowd then seated themselves, awaiting the finalities of the solemn service. As if on cue, the casket team leader robotically commenced folding the flag, twelve creases in all. The flag-folding complete, the team leader presented it to the Officer-in-charge, Major-General Robert Ash.

The compact triangle, along with the Air Force Distinguished Service Medal, was presented to Cameron's mother by Major-General Ash. Looking directly into the tear-reddened eyes of the aged, weeping mother of his comrade-in-arms, the General commenced his recital.

"On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Air Force, and a grateful nation, please, accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service."

In the background, the agent's colleagues, unaware of the actual events that led them to a gravesite during the Christmas season, swore amongst themselves to exact revenge on the fucking Russians. The funeral service was concluded.


At CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, standing in silent tribute to fallen operatives, is a white Vermont-marble Memorial located on the north wall just beyond the main entrance. The wall bore the inscription in gold block letters:

IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS
OF THE CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE SERVICE OF THEIR COUNTRY

Directly underneath the dedication were four rows of engraved stars, each spaced at precisely six inches distance. The director of the CIA and his chief of Special Activities stood together in silence, facing the memorial that was flanked by two pristine gold-fringed, silk flags. Brackets mounted exactly forty-eight inches from the white and gray block marble floor base supported the seven-foot staff. The poles bore the flag of the United States of America, adorned with a shining silver eagle at its peak on the left and a standard bearing the seal of the CIA, an arrowhead placed at its pinnacle, on the right. A black Moroccan goatskin-bound book titled the "Book of Honor" sat in a steel frame, covered by an inch-thick plate of glass twenty-four inches beneath the stars, its slim case jutting out from the wall just below the center of the field of stars. Inside it displayed the stars, arranged by year of death and, if not a state secret, listed the identities of agents, who were killed while in CIA service, alongside them. The identities of the unnamed stars remained a secret, even in death. In 1991, there were 59 stars with only 29 associated names. Soon there would be yet another addition to the somber manuscript, another gold star, another from the Special Activities Division, another without a last name.
 


Chapter Eighteen

Uzin, Late November 1991.

Igor Popov didn't fly all November, and he wasn't the only one who didn't fly. The entire refueling regiment was firmly anchored to the concrete tarmac by an order forbidding even practice flights on the territory of Ukraine. The order was signed by the commander of the Eighth air force, Colonel-General Trofimov.

The pilots discussed this order, shrugging their shoulders uncomprehendingly. All of them thought it was not entirely legal. However, the officers in charge of the regiment were fearful of organizing training flights on their own.

Popov was relegated to regimental duties more often than what was normal. At times he was in charge of a watch; sometimes he was out on street patrol;
sometimes he was the officer of the day for the regiment. Igor got very tired of this, but he waited patiently for the beginning of December. Popov expected promotion for his initiative with the letter addressed to the future President. Everyone had known for a long time that the division would not fly to Russia, and their co-servicemen also recognized the direct Popov and Petrova involvement in achieving this.

"I'll be promoted to the rank of Major very soon. By the age of twenty-eight, I will be a senior officer." Having returned to Petrova's apartment after his duty, Igor lay dreaming on the couch. "I'm not worse than the first man in space, Yuriy Gagarin. But it's too bad that I'll have to forget my dream of becoming a cosmonaut. Ukraine has no place to build space launchers and no space program.
Nonetheless, my career path is now guaranteed with Ukrainian aviation."

He didn't feel like sleeping. Igor had gotten enough sleep spending the last twenty-four hours as the "Officer in Charge" at the garrison guardroom. His time on watch had passed peacefully. Soldiers and NCOs who were arrested for minor offenses didn't bother him or his guards.

Lyudmila's daughter returned from school.

"Are you sleeping?" she asked, looking into the room.

“No," Igor answered.

"Did you sleep on the watch?"

“Yes, I did."

Svetlana changed her clothes in the hall and went into the room. Untied belt hung on her housecoat. She had only three out of five buttons fastened and was holding the long velour hems in her hands. An immodest smile illuminated her face.

"May I lie down under the blanket with you? It's cold as hell outside. I got the shivers on my way home from school."

"Come on in," Igor answered.

He moved his body on the sofa toward the wall to provide the girl with enough space to lie with him.

Svetlana didn't wait for the second invitation. She hopped under the blanket like a playful kitten. Popov put his hand under her head, and she moved closer to him; her whole body was trembling. Igor felt how her body shook uncontrollably. Soon, the girl's excitement transmitted itself to him.


"Listen to how my heart is beating," said Svetlana, and pressed his hand to her left breast.

Having touched the taut maiden's breast, Igor pulled his hand back.

"Don't tell me you've never held a tit in your hand before," Svetlana laughed.
"Or do you only like big and soft ones like my mother has?"

Popov's face grew red. Blood began to pound in his temples.

"Oh, so that's the way you are," and he tore Svetlana's robe off.

The upper and middle buttons flew over his shoulder and landed on the rug in the middle of the room. The lower button, the girl unfastened herself, and Igor kneaded her breasts with his palms. When he slid inside, Svetlana cried out softly, but soon the unpleasant sensation passed, and she began to move her hips, trying to match Popov's rhythm.

The stepfather and stepdaughter were so involved with one another that they did notice Petrova's return from work.

Lyudmila stood in the hall, and through the gap of the missing door in the reflection of a mirror that hung in the wardrobe, she observed some slut was wriggling beneath her boyfriend. When she understood that her daughter was moaning beneath Popov, the light went out in Lyudmila's eyes. She dropped her bag with groceries onto the floor and flew into the room.

Petrova seized Igor by the hair on the back of his head and tugged him towards her. Popov straightened out over Svetlana and immediately got a sharp blow of a tightly clenched fist to his ear. He fell from the couch to the floor and tried to get up, but Petrova toppled him over onto the rug with a kick to the face. Lyudmila threw herself on him and tried to strike Igor in the groin. Popov turned over on his stomach, pulled his legs beneath him, and fended Lyudmila off. Petrova fell on the floor, painfully striking her meaty posterior.

The downstairs neighbors began to knock against the ceiling. Petrova wasn't planning on squabbling anymore. She sat on the floor and sobbed.

“I'll never forgive you for this," she began to scream.

She abruptly pointed her finger to the entrance of the door.

"Pack your fucking shit and get the hell out of my apartment."

Svetlana scooped up her robe from the floor and disappeared into the bathroom.

"I'm going to put in jail for about ten years for raping a minor."

"I didn't rape her. She crawled to me herself," Igor answered limply.

"You're lying," Svetlana replayed from the kitchen. "I only offered you to touch my breasts. And after that, you didn't ask me anything."

"I'm not leaving this apartment, at least not until I prove that she had sex with me freely."

"Oh, so you won't leave? Then we'll leave. Svetlana, get packed. We're leaving, and the police will take care of him."


In five minutes, Igor remained in the apartment alone. The mother and daughter had gone out into the stairwell. They stopped one floor below and looked at one another.

"Little bitch," Petrova hissed and gave Svetlana a firm open-handed slap in the face.

Svetlana laughed maliciously instead of trying to justify herself.

"It was great,” she said.

"What should we do now?" her mother asked.
"I don't know, but we're not going to the police. That's for sure. I don't need that kind of a shame."

"What are you saying then? Are we going to forgive him?"

"Whatever? I think that we can use him in a sequence. You will sleep with him during  nighttime,  and I can swing my hips under him during the day."

"That is certainly not going to happen," Lyudmila said firmly. "I'll forgive him and you only if you swear to me that this is not going to happen again."

"Cross my heart and hope to die; I'll never do it again," Svetlana gave mother her word with a serious face.

"Sure, you won't, but he will. Oh, you'll be the death of me. Oh, never mind. Let's go to Natasha Lazareva. We'll spend a couple of hours there. Let our Igor stew a bit, waiting for the cops."


"What am I supposed to do now? I was planning to become a Major soon. And it looks like they're going to be measuring me for prison clothes instead.”
Not a pleasant picture loomed in Popov's head; he began to worry and feel unbearably sorry for himself.

He lowered his eyes to the floor and went to the bathroom. Igor leaned his arms on the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. Through a thick fog, he saw the handsome smiling face of the first cosmonaut to circle the planet, a twenty-seven-year-old Major named Yuriy Gagarin, which he had often seen in his dreams.

"What have you done to yourself, Igor? You always spend time with successful people, and you, Popov, without a doubt, are everything a fellow could wish to be. I would have gone with you behind a front line for reconnaissance patrol. And now what? Leave all of them, and come to me,” Igor heard an unfamiliar voice in his head.

"What do you mean saying - to you?" Igor whispered, barely audibly.

But the face in the mirror dissolved, and the fog fled. Igor felt that something hot was spilling over his feet. He realized he pissed his pants. His lips were twisted into a grimace. He took off his wet pants, then stripped naked and said out loud:

"Well, never mind, bitch, I'll fix you."

Igor closed the door of the bathroom and locked it, opened the mirrored medicine cabinet which hung over the sink, got a safety razor with which his wife shaved her legs, unscrewed the handle, and took the stainless steel double-edge razor blade out. He scratched away the dried-out foam and hair with his fingernail, raised the blade to the dim forty-watt light bulb, smirked in satisfaction, and sat on the bottom of the enameled bathtub.

Shrinking from the touch of the cold iron, he thought that it would not be a bad idea to fill the bath with warm water, turned the faucet with the red dot to the middle, but the tap only hissed in reply. The hot water had been turned off during the summer and not yet turned back on. Igor had known this but had forgotten.
"Alright then, I'll get to you. I'll get to you, my dear Yuriy Gagarin. And I'll get to you so fast that I won't have time to get cold."

He neatly drew the blade across the veins of his left hand a little bit higher than his wrist. The blood spurted from the wound in thin fountains, in time with the racing beat of his heart. Igor had expected something more. Remaining dissatisfied with what he had seen, he performed the same action with the veins of his right hand, then threw the razor blade onto the brown tile floor, lay down in the bathtub, and closed his eyes.

Lyudmila sat in the kitchen of the apartment of her neighbor and smoked a cigarette. She breathed the smoke in deeply and hadn't had time to shake the ash into the flowerpot, which stood on the windowsill; a thin grey sausage of burnt tobacco fell on her nylon stocking and burnt a hole.

"Fuck your mother," said Lyudmila to nobody in particular. "I just bought a new pantyhose yesterday, and there you go, I've got another hole. I'll go and change clothes, or else Popov is going to make a scene and say that I’m putting him to shame by going about in holes."

Her neighbor Natasha laughed and said:

"Ladies, you've found someone to be afraid of. Ludmila, you can knock him out with a single blow."

"No, if he is feeling angry or drunk, he can give you what you are looking for. When I got the apartment two years ago and had his things brought over on the sly, he lit into me so hard that I thought I'd kick the bucket. He raved and went back to the dorm, but after a week's abstinence, he came back to ask forgiveness. Of course, I forgave him, but only under the condition that he move in with me for good. Now we've had another argument, but I'll forgive him soon enough," said Lyudmila, putting on her slippers and setting off for her apartment.

Igor's things were hanging on a hangar in the hall.

"So he hasn't gone anywhere. But why is it so quiet in the apartment? He's not on the couch." Quickly changing her pantyhose, she went into the kitchen. But Igor wasn't there either.

She knocked on the bathroom door and asked her boyfriend irritably.

"What are you doing in there? Are you reading the newspaper on the toilet bowl again?"

There was no reply. She tried to force open the door, but it was locked from the inside.

"Why aren't you saying anything? Have you fallen asleep?" losing her patience, she asked loudly.

Returning to the kitchen, Lyudmila put a stool by the wall and, climbing onto it, took a look into the bathroom.

The architect who thought of joining the toilet with the bathroom in one-room apartments should be sentenced to spend his life in one such residence. But the person who thought of joining the kitchen with the bath by a tiny window beneath the ceiling deserves better.

Lyudmila couldn't see all of Igor, but what did appear within her field of vision sickened her. Popov's right hand lay on the edge of the bathtub, and blood was dripping from it onto the floor.

For an instant, this bizarre spectacle reminded Lyudmila of the Death of Marat. But this picture turned Lyudmila into a raging rhinoceros who, with bloodshot eyes, rushes through the savannah, sweeping everything from its path.

She jumped down from the stool and ran against the door to the bathroom, hitting it full force with her shoulder. The door opened into the bathroom, and a hundred kilograms Lyudmila turned the weak lock into pieces and tore the door from its upper hinge.

The door collapsed into the medicine cabinet over the sink, and the mirror covers with a spiderweb of cracks. The handsome face of the first man in the Space had appeared for a moment in the broken mirror, smile crooked, and disappeared forever.

The typist of the secret library, Petrova, grabbed Igor by the chest and with the yell of a heavy weightlifter raising a record weight, tore him from the bathtub.
 




Chapter Nineteen

November 29, 1991. Belaya Tserkov.

General Gerasimov lay on the sofa in his service apartment and looked at the ceiling. He didn’t feel like sleeping or reading or watching television. He didn’t feel the desire to drink or be in the company of friends. He didn’t even want to fly. He thought continually about Vera. The girl had disappeared, and Aleksandr Ivanovich had lost his taste for living.

The front doorbell rang melodically. The General was not expecting guests, but he was not surprised to see the KGB covert operative at the entrance of his apartment.

“Come in,” Gerasimov said to the captain instead of greeting him.

“Good evening, Aleksandr Ivanovich,” the operative answered.

“It will only be a good evening if you’ve come with good news,” said the General, passing into the room.

“Unfortunately, I have nothing to cause rejoicing for you. Moreover, there is some not very pleasant news.”

“What, have they found her dead body?” Gerasimov was upset.

“No. The police couldn't find her. I examined her apartment with the local police.”

“Did you find anything interesting?”

“Yes and no. All the things and documents were in place.  Jewelry and money were also untouched. Among them, we found four hundred US dollars. It looks like the waitress left her residence for five minutes and dissolved in the air. I didn't find anything unusual in the apartment, except for one small bottle of pills. The bottle was in the kitchen among the dishes and not with other tablets in the medicine cabinet. Moreover, the first-aid kit was in her bathroom. ‘Why would that be?’ I asked myself. Nothing was written on the vial, whereas all of the pills had labels in the First-Aid kit. As you would expect, I took the stuff from the flask to our lab in Kiev, and I got an extremely curious reply from the chemists.”

“You want to say that there was poison there which was intended for me? That the despicable hand of imperialism set a plot to kill a Russian General?” Gerasimov’s tone was contemptuous.

“No. Aleksandr Ivanovich. No one was planning to kill you. These pills were invented five years ago in the CIA laboratories to increase the endurance of their agents. They raise blood pressure. But subsequently, it became clear that they also have one fascinating side effect,” the operative looked at the General attentively and added, “these tablets not only increased the blood pressure, but they also raised something else as well.”

“What specifically?”

“Well, Aleksandr Ivanovich, don’t tell me you can’t guess.”
The General frowned. The tone of the operative was beginning to irritate him.

“They sharply increase male potency,” said the operative. “And recently, pharmacologists began to release them in the USA as a cure for impotence. This medicine is called Cialis. So, your waitress was feeding this stuff to someone.”

“It’s clear to me who. What isn’t clear is for what purpose,” Gerasimov said thoughtfully.

“Well, since the purpose is unclear and the result of the criminal activity wasn't detected, I won't tell anybody about my finds. But, I would advise you, General, to forget about that lady. This story to foggy. She appeared unexpectedly and disappeared suddenly, like a mirage.”
 

Chapter Twenty

December 10, 1991. Kiev.

In the palace of culture “Ukraine,” all of the regional and city “trusted figures” of the newly elected president had gathered. They had gathered in expectation of receiving the presents they had earned. Those who gathered in the palace didn't expect chocolate rabbits in beautiful paper packaging as a gift. Trusted people were there to share power among themselves over fifty million Ukrainians.

Forty minutes remained before the beginning of the ceremony. General Gerasimov sat in the reception room of the Palace’s manager. The Head of the Presidential office summoned Gerasimov to the palace to meet with the newly elected President. The appointment was scheduled for five-thirty p.m. At six, the President was supposed to take the chair at the presidium of the formal meeting in front of his supporters.

The stern-looking, black-suited bodyguard invited Aleksandr Ivanovich into the office. At the same time, from another door, several journalists entered the room. When Gerasimov reached the center of the red carpet, the President took several steps towards him and stopped a meter from the General. The General, in full dress uniform and medals, saluted crisply.

“I congratulate you, Air Force Major General, upon the occasion of you receiving the title ‘First Kazak of Ukraine.’ Also, in the name of the Government of Ukraine, for your enormous contribution to strengthening the defense capabilities of our great country, I award you this memorial medal. Receive your certificate and medal.”

The President passed a piece of paper into Gerasimov’s hands, along with a plastic box.

“I serve the citizens of Ukrainian,” Gerasimov answered solemnly.

The General stretched out his hand for the President to shake, but he took Aleksandr Ivanovich by the shoulder and turned him towards the journalists. At this moment, the flashes of the cameras clicked. Having finished the photography, the journalists hurried towards the exit of the office. The President and the General continued to smile at one another, standing in the middle of the carpet. As soon as the bodyguard closed the door behind the newspaperman, the President left the General's side, went up to the desk, and took another piece of paper from it.

Continuing with his disarming smile, he said:

“The pleasant part of our meeting has finished. Now read my decree about your discharge from the Armed Forces of Ukraine.”

If Gerasimov had been shot down over the ocean by American fighter planes, he would have no doubt been less surprised. Looking at the order, Gerasimov said:

“What?” and let out a sigh. “What for?”

“Do you think there’s no reason for you firing? Do you really don't understand why? Well, familiarize yourself with the real results of your medical examination.”

Gerasimov looked at the printed letters, and they jumped out in front of his eyes.

“ADIS infection.”

“It can’t be. I’m healthy like a bull.”

“Vladimir Vysotsky sang: “Like two whole bulls,” the President pronounced thoughtfully and turned his back on Gerasimov.

The burly bodyguard came up to the General and said quietly but authoritatively:

“The audience is over.”

“It’s a conspiracy. I did a great deed for Ukraine, and now I’m not needed anymore. This is the way you thank me?” he threw the medal and the certificate onto the floor, tore the order about being relieved to the reserves, and stomped angrily from the office.

“Such a good pilot, but he’s completely unable to control himself. Boris, did you see that?” the President asked, turning to the bodyguard, and without waiting for a reply, he continued in his soft voice with its pleasant southern Ukrainian accent:

“He was a good divisional Commander and an excellent rocket carrier pilot, but now he becomes an AIDS carrier. He is behaving as if we owed him something. He should have obeyed the moral code of a builder of communism and not betrayed his wife with whores.”

The enormous Boris waited silently for whatever other orders his master might pass along.

“Take care of him. He is not a good example for others, and it gives a poor impression when people of such rank fall ill with such diseases.”


Going out of the palace, the General got into his car and said to his driver:
“Take me to the blood transfusion station.”

“I don’t know where they are in Kiev.”

“Ask the first taxi driver you meet.”

In the laboratory of the station, he asked to have his blood analyzed for AIDS.

“Do you need it for work or for yourself?” asked the middle-aged laboratory technician.

“For work,” the answer boiled out of Gerasimov, who had rolled up the sleeve of his uniform shirt.

The thought that Vera could have infected him with AIDS was unimaginable to Gerasimov.

“The waitress could not have been infected. They all have to give their blood for a test regularly. The chief of provisions never accepts the mess employe if she fails to provide such a certificate. He probably sexually tasted them before hiring.”

The nurse did not hurry to tie the rubber restricting band around Gerasimov’s veins. She slowly filled out the medical form, inscribed his last name, first name, and patronymic, and then entered the data about his place of residence and place of work. Finally finishing with the paperwork and said simply:

“General, if you need this for work, then pay me five dollars, and I won't stick this fat needle into your veins. Why should I trouble a good man?”

The General’s heart froze. At once, he understood everything.

“Not a single waitress ever allowed herself to be stuck by a needle in her veins. They simply brought a green five-dollar bill to the laboratory and got the certificate they needed.”

Gerasimov had no reason to give his blood for analysis. He got up and went out of the office.

“That’s it, then. I’m already a living corpse. No one organized any provocation upon me. And there was no conspiracy. It’s simply that the Irpen doctors were afraid to tell me about this a month ago. I had no reason to behave the way I did with the President. But anyway, what does it matter now.”

In a state of despair, the General returned to his car. He wanted to be alone.

“I’ll let you have the day off,” he said to his personal driver and sat behind the wheel.

He didn’t want to go home to his wife. He knew he transferred the disease to her, and that knowledge made his life even more miserable. He returned to his service apartment in Belaya Tserkov. At nine o’clock in the evening, his assistant called him and asked him to come urgently to Uzin.

“They’re not wasting any time in getting rid of me. They won’t even let me collect my thoughts.”

He took the car out of the city and uncharacteristically maintained his speed at a steady one hundred kilometers per hour. At night, Aleksandr Ivanovich drove twenty kilometers per hour slower than during the day. He drove and thought about how the past two months had changed his life.

“Two months are like the flight in the rocket to space. The sudden quick start, weightlessness, and the horrible fall that destroys everything. At first, it destroyed countries, then I lost my beloved, and now I am losing my work and my health, and along with that, my life. And now this damned tractor. Where are you going at night?”

Overtaking the slowly moving four-wheel tractor ‘Belorus,’” Aleksandr Ivanovich turned the wheel of his automobile to the left and covered the few dozen meters in the opposing traffic lane. The blinding lights of the suddenly on-coming heavy-duty KAMAZ transport truck prevented him from returning to his lane.

Impact and death were nearly instantaneous. The thin sheet metal crumpled and screeched in a twisted mass. The glass exploded outward as the General catapulted through the front windshield of the Volga. His lifeless body struck the steel radiator of the truck with full force. The broken and bloody mass slid down the crumpled hood. The KAMAZ truck dragged the disfigured Volga sedan fifty meters and stopped. The tractor turned onto the service road and raised dust between the rows of yet unharvested corn.

December 12, 1991. Kiev.

As the faithful bodyguard, Boris was pouring tea for his President, he casually remarked:
“Makar Danilovich, did you know General Gerasimov perished in an automobile accident?”

“What?” the President raised his gaze, tearing himself away from his papers.

“General Gerasimov perished in an automobile accident,” repeated Boris.

“How?” taking off his glasses, the “Master,” asked.

“Last night, he missed a turn and slammed into a KAMAZ truck on the road from Belaya Tserkov to Uzin.”

“What happened to the truck driver?”

“The driver at that time was running along the parking lot near the roadside restaurant. He was a hundred kilometers from the place of the accident. The KAMAZ truck was carrying carpets from the port of Odessa to Kiev, and while the driver was having supper, unknown criminals stole his truck.”

“How could a truck get on the road going from Kagarlyk to Belaya Tserkov? It’s well off the Odessa highway.”

“Probably, thieves tried to avoid the traffic police.”

“And what happened with the thief?” the president asked, frowning.

“He escaped. A car with accomplices was following the truck, and they picked him up. Immediately after the traffic accident.”

A chessboard with an unfinished game stood on the magazine table in the President’s office. Makar Danilovich took the white rook from the board and threw it into the trash basket.

“It’s too bad the General perished,” the President said dispassionately.
“He was a good pilot.”

Epilogue

February 2, 2001. Priluki.

The Deputy Minister of Defence of Ukraine, Commander of the Air Forces Colonel-General Viktor Strelnikov, strode along the red carpet which had been laid out on the runway in the company of Thomas Quenning, highly-placed US military representative in Ukraine. Only minutes remained before the beginning of the ceremonial destruction of the last of the strategic airbase’s TU-160s. The former sworn enemies were engrossed in a discussion of their previous meeting when under similarly solemn circumstances, five hundred air-to-ground X-55 cruise missiles had been destroyed.

“How is our TU-95MS with the number ninety-four on the side? Have you already put it into the museum in Washington?” the Air Force Commander asked.

Listening to the question as it was translated by the Senior Lieutenant, who was mincing along behind the generals, Mr. Quenning answered:
“It’s even more popular than our B-52. The public is especially astonished at how you were able to enclose turbines turning in different directions in the same engine.”

“Yes. The co-axial rotation of turbines was a good discovery by the Soviet designers of aircraft engines. We have the same sort of thing on helicopters,” said Strelnikov searching for words.

“I know. The Kamov production plant in Kumertau built them,” the American answered without particular enthusiasm.

The Commander of the Priluki Air Base, Colonel Litvinenko, ran up to the distinguished guests who were conversing.

“Comrade Colonel-General, the sub-units of the airbase have assembled for the ceremonial dismantlement of the last TU-160. Will you permit us to begin cutting the fuselage?”

Strelnikov looked at his foreign guest, and Quenning nodded his head to answer the commander's silent question.

“Get underway,” the Ukrainian Deputy Minister of Defence commanded.

The music of Derry Straits began to boom out over the Air Base.

A robust metal cutting machine crawled up on tractor treads across the concrete towards the TU-160. The ranks of officers parted, and the hands of many of the military personnel reached for handkerchiefs. Tears reflecting shame, disappointment, and sadness, slipped down on many cheeks of presently serving personnel and be-medaled veterans alike. Others muttered oaths. Only the children did not understand that the supersonic bomber regiments "flew away" forever. They cheerfully ran around on the grass.

The enormously large mechanical scissors of the Japanese technological marvel touched the cabin of the aircraft, and its sharp nose dropped unceremoniously to the ground. The glass cabin shattered, and instantly the nearest ten meters were covered in its shards. Next, the metal scissors amputated the plane’s wings and tail.

Regimental aviation mechanics armed with chainsaws emotionless approached the bombers and began cutting the larger sections. They cut lines precisely mapped out a long time ago by American aerospace engineers. The Americans and the Ukrainians did everything to disallow the reconstruction of these marvelous airplanes in the future.

“I hope you used those seven million dollars that we allocated to you for destroying all bombers on the territory of Ukraine.” Thomas Quining said to Strelnikov.

“Yes, certainly. However, the contract for the utilization of the strategic bombers was signed for thirteen million dollars. When will we receive the last six?” answered Strelnikov.

“Never,” was the stern answer. “You shouldn’t return those eight Tu-160s and those three Tu- 95s into Russian in 1999. Not to mention the five hundred eighty cruise missiles, which you also gave away to them. I personally asked you not to do it.”

“That wasn't my decision. You know better than I that this question was decided on an international relations level. In exchange for eleven jets and almost six hundred cruise missiles, Russia wrote off two hundred seventy-five million dollars of Ukrainian gas debt."

"Then why are you worrying about the six million that our Congress promised you?"

"But we didn't get that money from Russia; they wrote it off our national debt. And we need real money."

"Everybody needs real money, Viktor. Mark my words, when your country finds more cooperative government officials, you will have real money," replied Thomas Quinning.

The Colonel-General was visibly irritated. Catching Strelnikov's mood swing, Quinning added, "And for your information Viktor, our Secretary of Defence William Cohen signed a bill to continue to finance the program for the conquest of offensive weapons systems until 2006. Congress will allocate another sixty-nine million dollars towards this. So, Ukraine still has a reliable overseas partner. I think it’s time for us to go to Kiev; maybe a glass of good Russian vodka is in our future? Your technicians can finish cutting up this pile of scrap metal without us.
 


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