Seduction of Empire

The Story of One Betrayal

From the first days of its independence, Ukraine avowed three fundamental principles: it would not accept, manufacture, or acquire nuclear weapons.

After the dissolution of the Soviet Union, Ukraine suddenly found itself in possession of the world's third-largest nuclear weapons arsenal. This included 176 intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM) launchers carrying approximately 1,240 warheads. Among these were 130 SS-19s, each capable of delivering six multiple independently targeted re-entry vehicles over a range of six thousand miles. Additionally, 46 of the 60 SS-24s were able to carry ten nuclear weapons each, also to a distance of six thousand miles. Ukraine also inherited around 3,000 tactical atomic devices.
Of particular importance to Russia were several dozen IL-78 Midas aerial refuelers, TU-22M Backfire medium-range nuclear bombers, the venerable TU-95 Bear bombers, and the latest marvel of Soviet supersonic design, the TU-160 Blackjack. These bombers, stationed at airbases in Priluki and Uzin in central Ukraine, represented the pinnacle of Soviet airborne strategic nuclear capability. Armed with about 600 air-launched nuclear missiles and gravity bombs, they rounded out an arsenal that totaled approximately 5,000 strategic and tactical nuclear weapons.
In these heady days, the crumbling Soviet hierarchy considered the ICBMs and tactical weapons expendable. However, they fully expected to relocate their prized strategic aircraft from Ukrainian soil to Russia before Ukraine gained full independence.
For the Russian Air Force command, there was no question about the return of the aircraft and their crews. The strategic air regiments stationed in Ukraine were elite. The most loyal and disciplined aircrews operated them, and their commanders were handpicked and beyond reproach.
After all, Ukraine had no need for strategic aviation.


Chapter One
October 1987, Uzin
A cold autumn drizzle fell over the formation of officers and enlisted men of the 409th Air Refueling Regiment. The unit had been standing in silence on the small parade square adjacent to the main administration building for ten minutes, awaiting their commander for the twice-daily muster.
Just what we needed. Thought Popov. First day back and this miserable weather. And civilians wonder why we officers get paid more. Idiots. They should be forced to stand out here in this godforsaken place, with these awful boots, in the rain. Then they wouldn’t ask so many questions. I’ve rubbed my feet raw—and on the first day, no less. There are such things as shoes, after all. Why in the world does the regimental commander insist we wear sword belts and these leather high boots? I’m sure that three-time Hero of the Soviet Union, fighter ace Kozhedub, wore these same boots when he shot down 62 fascists in the Great Patriotic War!
“Dismissed!” yelled the headquarters commander, cursing under his breath as he turned back towards the building.
“Once again, the regiment commander didn’t show up—what a surprise,” laughed the navigator Dorokhov, turning to Popov.
The light-haired, round-faced officer, his wheat-colored mustache curling with a smile, asked Igor,
;“Popov, are you planning to integrate yourself into the collective?”
“Well, I thought I was already part of the collective as of today,” Popov replied, confused.
“Ha! Quite the optimist, aren’t you? To be part of the collective, my friend, you need to drink vodka with us until it’s coming out of your ears. That’s the tradition—you drink with every man you’ll be flying with. Welcome to the brotherhood.”
“Alright,” said Igor. “Tomorrow, after work, I’ll be expecting the whole crew in my room at the officers’ residence.”
Dorokhov’s subtle hint about vodka didn’t go unnoticed. Popov took it seriously and organized a drinking session for the entire crew, as a young officer was expected to do. Six members of the crew gathered in his room, and after five bottles of vodka were consumed alongside a sparse snack, the evening took a different turn. The idea of "enhancing" the male company with some female presence quickly became the top priority.
A squadron navigator, well-versed in these matters, went off to find what they called "crew sluts." Exactly how five women from the base operations and logistics team ended up in Popov's room, he couldn’t later recall.
Waking the following morning with a severe headache, Popov found himself utterly undressed in a narrow single bed, tangled up with an enormous, naked woman. The middle-aged woman lay snoring beside him, her elephantine leg draped over his body. He was pinned to the wall, staring in horror at the disarray of his room.
On the neighboring bed slept his crew commander, Major Korolyov, entangled with a petite blonde who was pressed against his hairy chest, smiling sweetly in her sleep. The blanket had slipped off them, revealing her back almost to her waist.
Damn, she’s hot. Igor thought, his gaze lingering as he instinctively reached for the sheets. In doing so, he accidentally pressed himself against the ample breasts of the woman lying beside him—exactly what he had hoped to avoid. She stirred awake, and Igor’s heart sank. He felt a wave of shame wash over him as he realized this hefty, middle-aged woman in his bed must have been at least fifteen years his senior. She blinked seductively at him, running her hands over his body with an inebriated smile.
"What else would you like, sweetie?" she asked, her breath a mix of stale vodka and tobacco, wafting unpleasantly into Popov's face.
An attack of nausea surged in his throat, and fearing he might vomit, he shook his head vigorously. But it was too late. Lyudmila Petrova, a corporal in the finance services, was already closing her eyes in anticipation.
God, what am I doing? I’ve never done this before. And if I ever imagined being with a woman, it certainly wasn’t like this.
The metal bed screeched loudly.
Korolyov, who had just awoken, stared blankly at Popov and Petrova for a moment, trying to piece together where he was and who these people were in the next bed. Then, with surprise, he noticed the young blonde nestled against his chest.
So, Korolyov thought, how am I going to explain this to my wife? I’ll need a good excuse.
Lost in thought, he pulled the blanket higher, shielding himself from the reality of the situation. The blonde stirred and tried to kiss him, but Korolyov squirmed away. She gave up, nestling her head under the blanket.
On the floor between the beds, the navigator Dorokhov lay sprawled with a saleswoman from the military canteen. Empty vodka bottles and remnants of last night's supper were scattered on the rickety wooden table above them. At the entrance to the room, wrapped in his overcoat, lay Popov's neighbor—a scruffy, non-flying lieutenant from the communications corps.
Lyudmila Petrova snuffled like an old steamship setting out to sea, mumbling something incoherent as she reached out for Igor again. Captain Dorokhov opened his eyes, gazing up at the underside of the table and muttering:
Looks like I’m already in the grave.
With a groan, the navigator pushed the overcoat off himself and crawled out from under the table, navigating through the scattered clothes. He pulled on his underwear and staggered toward the toilet. On his way out, Dorokhov purposely slammed the door against the back of the communications officer, jolting him awake.
"Can’t you be quieter?" the lieutenant grumbled.
"I’m no friend of yours," Dorokhov shot back. "Who are you anyway, and what are you doing here?"
"I live here!" the lieutenant responded indignantly. "And by the way, you’re wearing my slippers.
“You’d better get out of here before your guests leave. It’ll be better for you,” said Captain Dorokhov as he closed the door behind him. The sound of the lieutenant’s slippers shuffling down the long, empty corridor of the officers' residence lingered for a while.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Valentina, the saleslady from the military canteen, propped herself up on her elbows and glanced over at Popov’s bed and Korolyov. Both officers were quite occupied. Her own partner had vanished without a trace. However, about two meters from the table, the young communications officer lay wrapped in his overcoat, staring at her. Valentina adjusted her hair with one hand, shaking it loose until it fell over her shoulders. As she moved, the sheet slipped down, baring her chest to the gaze of the communications officer.
With a sly smile, she beckoned to him with her index finger.
“Boy, crawl over here,” she whispered.

Without thinking, the young lieutenant slid off the bed and crawled the short distance between them, slipping beneath the sheets with her.

Returning from the toilet, Dorokhov glanced around the room.;
“Where did the communications officer disappear to?” he asked.
“While you were off wandering, he took your place,” Valentina replied in a breathless voice.
It was only then that Dorokhov noticed a pair of legs sticking out from beneath the table, toes pointed downward, and saw Valentina smiling seductively at him, lying on her back.
Putting the pieces together, Dorokhov cursed loudly.
“You sluts! I can’t leave you alone for five minutes! I can’t even take a piss without something happening.”

With that, he hastily threw on his pants and shirt and moved toward the table. His throat was parched. He needed something to drink, but there was no beer or water to be found. He poured himself half a glass of vodka and downed it in one gulp. Korolyov, watching this unfold, commented to his navigator:
“Don’t drink any more of that. Grab some onion to take the edge off.”
He glanced at his watch.;“The regiment assembles in an hour. We’d better get moving.”
“Popov, will you be ready soon?” Dorokhov asked, addressing his co-pilot.
Before Igor could respond, Lyudmila chimed in:;“He’s already spent. If you want to take his place, be my guest.”
With that, she pushed the exhausted Igor aside and made a suggestive gesture toward Dorokhov.
“Not with you, Madam Lyudmila,” Dorokhov replied flatly.
Korolyov, resigned to the situation, lifted the blanket and glanced at the blonde lying beside him.;“Alright, let’s get this over with quickly. We’ll be late for the assembly.”
“Indeed,” she answered with a smirk.
The communications officer emerged from beneath the table, looking sheepish. He shot Dorokhov a guilty look.;“Don’t blame me,” he started, but before he could finish his sentence, the navigator cut him off, pointing at the woman’s legs.
“You can keep those treats for yourself. Consider them my gift to you,” Dorokhov said with a grin.
From beneath the table, Valentina’s voice piped up,;“And yet, last night, you said you loved me. You called me your dear, your one and only.”
Dorokhov burst out laughing.
;“Love? I don’t even know those words!” he said, chewing the green end of an onion. “That’s what cursed vodka does to a man—it makes him flatter every whore in the room. We should finish off what’s left of it.”

He poured himself another half glass of vodka.
“That’s enough,” Korolyov, the IL-78 aircraft commander, cut him off. Suddenly, Korolyov tensed up, his body stiffening like a bowstring, gripping the iron bedstead tightly. Then, after a moment, he relaxed.
A young woman slipped out from under the blanket.
“Look away, you shameless boys. Let a decent girl get dressed,” she teased the navigator, the communications officer, and Popov.
The men laughed heartily in response.

Chapter Two
September 20, 1991. Washington.
Major General Ash had decided to recall Colonel Cameron MacKay from his leave.
Cameron and his wife, Julia, strolled through the reception area of the Marriott Beach Club Hotel, savoring the cool respite provided by the lobby’s air conditioning as they approached the elevator. Julia, her beach bag slung over her shoulder, was still in vacation mode, her mind likely on the ocean. Cameron, adjusting his glasses, felt a pang of unease as he heard hurried footsteps behind them. Turning, he saw a hotel desk clerk rushing toward them, an envelope in hand.
"This can’t be anything good," MacKay thought.
“You have an urgent message from Washington, sir,” the desk clerk said, his Hawaiian accent thick with the local cadence. He handed the envelope to Cameron, stepping back slightly, expectantly, as if waiting for a tip.
Cameron opened the envelope, scanning the contents. Without looking up, he replied, “Call the travel agency and have them move my flight to Washington from Wednesday to today. And order me a taxi to the airport.”
“Will your wife be flying with you, sir?”
“No. I said I’m leaving, not my wife,” MacKay replied, irritation edging his voice as he and Julia stepped into the elevator.
“Dear, why were you so short with him? It’s not his fault our vacation is ruined,” Julia asked softly, trying to ease the tension.
“Of course, it’s not his fault,” Cameron muttered, staring at the elevator doors as they closed. “It’s the Russians—always the Russians.”
The rest of the trip, from Lehua on the island of Kauai to Honolulu and then onto Washington, passed in a haze of frustration and brooding. MacKay’s thoughts circled around the abrupt recall, and he couldn’t shake the suspicion that it was linked to the recent coup attempt in the Soviet Union.
"What a damn waste," he thought bitterly. "I came to Hawaii to play golf at one of the best courses in the world, and now, because of Moscow’s mess, I’m missing a whole week." He clenched his fists. "Couldn’t they have waited to stage their little coup?"
The following day, MacKay reported to the Pentagon. Descending to the fourth underground level, he presented his special pass to the Marine Corps guard. The corporal, immaculate in his starched uniform, briefly examined the pass and gave a crisp “Sir,” gesturing MacKay toward Major General Ash’s office.
Ash stood by a large political map of the world, his eyes fixed on China. The tall, bespectacled former Air Force intelligence officer had a square jaw and a detached demeanor, as if he were staring into a distant, invisible battlefield. His official title—Assistant to the Deputy Director of the CIA’s Special Activities Division (Covert Political Action) for Eastern Europe—was as imposing as the man himself.
But at that moment, Ash seemed lost in thought, his gaze drifting across the Mongolian steppes. MacKay, lingering in the doorway, wasn’t sure if the General was actually studying the map or simply waiting for the right moment to speak.
Then, without warning, Ash smiled, a brief flicker of amusement crossing his face. He turned halfway toward MacKay. “Good morning, Colonel. I see you’ve managed to get a tan. How’s everything?”
“Not bad, sir, thanks,” MacKay replied, addressing his superior, who was more commonly known as the head of the Eastern Europe Bureau.
“I’ve been staring at this map, Cameron, and I asked myself a question: which country is the most independent in the world? Do you know?”
“Yes, sir. It’s the USA,” MacKay answered without hesitation.
“No, Cameron. The most independent country in the world is Mongolia,” Ash said with a wry smile. Before MacKay could ask why, the General added, “Because nothing depends on it.”
Ash walked around his desk and settled into a chair by a small magazine table.;“But I didn’t call you here to discuss my fascinating geopolitical insights,” he continued. “We won’t be talking about Asia—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 has just appeared. You’d better take a seat. This conversation is going to take a while.”
“Countries like Mongolia?” MacKay asked.
“Some of them are practically as ‘independent,’” Ash replied, making air quotes with his fingers. “But we’re still going to have to work on the independence of the others. Up top,” the General nodded toward the ceiling, “they’ve turned their focus on introducing a New World Order. By the middle of the twenty-first century, there won’t be any superpowers left—except us. We’ve successfully dismantled the Soviet Union, and soon enough, we’ll deal with Russia. Then, it’ll be China’s turn. Neither Europe, India, nor the Arabs will be able to stop us.”
“Why not invest in Russian separatism now and end the Russian bear with a single blow?”
“That idea has been considered,” Ash said. “William Taylor, a State Department coordinator I know, told me there was a heated debate about it. Many influential voices supported the idea of crushing Russia immediately after the USSR dissolved, but the moderate view won out.” MacKay nodded, agreeing internally. “The argument was that if Russia were reduced to a patchwork of petty feudal states like in the 13th century, it would become impossible to control the spread of nuclear weapons. Local warlords might sell them to the Middle East or even North Africa. So, a strong Russia is in our interests for now—at least as a collector of nuclear weapons from the former Soviet republics.”
“But what if Russia, after collecting all those nuclear weapons, tries to assert itself as a global leader again?” MacKay asked.
“Then we’ll create internal conflicts,” Ash responded calmly. “We can stir up tension in the Muslim-dominated regions, for example. Or sour their relations with their ‘former fraternal communist brothers,’” he added with sarcasm, “like the Ukrainians. There’s already tension between Ukraine and the former Russian territories of Crimea and the Donbas. But even that might be unnecessary. Most likely, Russia will focus on its own internal problems—closing foreign bases, recalling its fleet, and dealing with the mess at home.”
“Do you really believe the brass is that confident in Russia’s new leadership?” MacKay pressed.
“As long as Moscow’s ruling elite is more concerned with winning elections than with future generations, they won’t make moves against us,” Ash said, his tone dismissive.
“And what about Ukraine?”
“At first, we’ll strengthen it,” Ash explained. “We’ll create the illusion of a bright, independent future among Ukrainian politicians. We’ll pull them as far away from Moscow as possible. Once even the faintest trace of Russia is gone from Ukraine—when the children stop writing and speaking Russian in schools, when Russian-language newspapers disappear, and when television broadcasts only in Ukrainian—we’ll abandon them. Let them sink into their own black soil. They won’t ask us for bread, and we won’t let them into Europe. Ukraine will make an excellent buffer zone.”
“But that buffer zone still has nuclear weapons—strategic ballistic missiles,” MacKay pointed out. “They’ve got 130 SS-19s, 46 SS-24s, plus 30 launch sites. Ukraine is now the third-largest nuclear power.”
“Yes, I’m aware. Our specialists are already working on the 43rd Army Strategic Rocket Corps in Pervomaisk, in Ukraine’s Nikolaev region. We’ve sent operatives to ensure those ballistic missiles and their silos are destroyed. Their main task is to prevent the weapons, along with their operators and technicians, from falling back into Russian hands.”

“How can you prevent rocket specialists from being transferred to new places of work?” MacKay asked
.
“Very simple,” Ash replied. “In your opinion, what’s the biggest problem faced by the Soviet armed forces?”

“Poorly maintained military equipment,” Cameron answered without hesitation.
“No. The main headache for all military personnel in the Soviet Union is housing. That’s what the Russians have never had enough of. According to our data, in Russia alone, more than half a million military personnel across all branches are homeless. The army accounts for nearly a third of that. Almost ten thousand officers’ families are living like gypsies, camped out in sports arenas, warehouses—some are even living in garages. Homeless soldiers have become as common in Russia as beggars at train stations. We’ll use the housing issue to keep the former Pervomaisk rocket men planted firmly in Ukraine. The Secretary of the Treasury has already earmarked funds to build living quarters for valuable specialists whose transfer to Russia would be, let’s say, particularly undesirable for us.”
“We’ll have to spend a lot, especially considering that half of it will probably be stolen in Ukraine,” MacKay remarked.
“It’s cheaper to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars housing officers’ families than to spend millions countering a fully deployed rocket division.”
Cameron fell silent. He wasn’t particularly interested in the logistics of managing a rocket division. Instead, his thoughts drifted to Ukraine, a country he had come to feel deeply for. He spoke Russian and Ukrainian fluently, and his education at the Davis Center for Russian and Eurasian Studies had imbued him with a love for both Russian and Ukrainian literature: Pushkin, Shevchenko, Tolstoy, Gogol, Dostoyevsky, and Lesia Ukrainka. He knew that Russia, with its vast natural resources—oil, gas, gold, diamonds—would manage. But Ukraine, he thought, was in for a much tougher future. The realization that Ukraine’s fate was largely out of his hands saddened him.
Ash, seemingly oblivious to Cameron’s shift in mood, continued his philosophical musings about the future of the Black Sea Fleet, the political outlook for the Transcaucasian republics, Central Asia, and Eastern Europe. But MacKay had mentally checked out of the conversation. Sensing his subordinate’s loss of interest, Ash shifted gears, returning to the main topic of their meeting.
“Besides ballistic missiles, Ukraine inherited a significant portion of the aircraft and a few key elements of the Black Sea Fleet. We don’t need to worry too much about the fleet—it’s not going anywhere outside its little puddle and will only pose a threat to the Romanians. But we need to talk about the aircraft. Tell me, Cameron, what do you know about the bombers and strike aircraft still stationed in Ukraine?”
MacKay snapped back to attention and shared the latest intelligence on the disposition of Soviet strategic aircraft in Ukraine.;“Several regiments of strategic bombers remain 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 naval strikes. This division is part of the Black Sea Fleet.”
“Let’s forget about the Bears and Backfires for the time being. What can you tell me about the TU-160?” Ash asked.

Drawing on his years of experience as an Electronic Warfare and Intelligence Officer, MacKay paused for a moment before replying.;
“Sir, the Blackjack is an all-weather, multi-role strategic bomber. It’s the largest bomber ever built and was originally designed to counter the Rockwell B-1A. It can perform low-altitude penetration strikes at high subsonic speeds or high-altitude missions at speeds exceeding Mach 2. Depending on the mission, it can carry twelve long-range X-55 cruise missiles or twenty-four shorter-range X-15s. As a bomber, it’s capable of carrying up to 40 tons of bombs or mines, both nuclear and conventional. Fully loaded, its combat radius is approximately 4,000 nautical miles. The aircraft is equipped with automatic terrain-following radar, multichannel digital jamming-resistant communications, satellite communication systems, astronavigation, and a comprehensive active/passive electronic warfare suite. It also has in-flight refueling capability, which can double or even triple its range.”
MacKay continued his analysis.
“Starting in 1984, the Kazan Gorbunov aircraft factory built 25 Blackjacks. Six of them are still at the factory but are set to be delivered soon to the Engels Air Base in the Saratov region. The Russians plan to replace their M4 bombers in the 1095th Heavy Bomber Regiment with TU-160s. There are also 19 operational Blackjacks assigned to the 184th Airborne Regiment stationed in Priluki, in the Chernigov region of Ukraine. In total, the Soviet Union originally planned to produce 100 TU-160s, but with the collapse of the country, Russia will likely have to reconsider those ambitious plans. In short, General, the Blackjack, in the hands of an experienced crew, is a formidable aircraft.”

Major General Ash smiled, clearly pleased.
;“My number one has a brilliant memory,” he thought. “He didn’t know why I recalled him from leave, so he couldn’t have been prepared for these questions. That’s exactly the kind of man I need.”

“I have a few other quick questions. What’s the maximum takeoff weight of the TU-160?” Ash asked.
“275 tonnes,” MacKay replied without hesitation.
“And its ceiling?”
“Over 50,000 feet. Plus, its rate of climb is impressive—around 13,000 feet per minute after takeoff.”
“Who commands the division that the Priluki-based 184th regiment is part of?”
“Major General Aleksandr Ivanovich Gerasimov,” MacKay answered.
Ash compared MacKay’s responses with his notes and nodded.
;“Excellent, Colonel. If you handle your assignment as well as you’ve handled my questions, you’ll soon be wearing your first star.”

MacKay thought, “A first star? That means I definitely wouldn’t be pulled from Hawaii for some lousy European assignment.”
Ash stood up from his chair, poured coffee for himself and MacKay, and sat across from him. MacKay accepted the porcelain cup, silently waiting for the General to brief him on his mission.
“I practically promised you a promotion just now if you complete this operation in Ukraine, but I haven’t asked—are there any personal circumstances that would prevent you from spending a few months abroad?”
“No, sir. As it happens, my calendar is completely clear,” MacKay responded with a touch of sarcasm.
“Good. Let me give you a brief outline of your mission. As you already know, the Russians have 25 Blackjacks. Each one can carry and launch 12 long-range cruise missiles. That gives the two regiments a total launch capacity of about 300 missiles. If those bombers flew over the North Pole, the Canadians wouldn’t be able to shoot them down. We’d need real-time, accurate intelligence and an early warning from NORAD to forward-deploy our fighters in time. Even with that, the F-15s from Elmendorf, Alaska, would struggle to intercept and shoot down those bombers. The Canadian fighters wouldn’t be much help.”
Cameron, who had served as a USAF ELINT officer at the Distant Early Warning station at Stokes Point, Yukon, nodded.
;“I know. I served in Northern Canada. It still gives me chills thinking about how underprepared we are. They’ve only got one airbase up there, and not many interceptors.” Ash continued, “So, in the event of an attack, we would have to bear the brunt of the defense. The Canadians, while our allies, can’t be relied upon for more than minimal assistance. At best, maybe 50 percent of the Blackjacks could be shot down between us and the Canadians. But even that number is overly optimistic according to our analysts. These odds are unacceptable. Therefore, to weaken Russian strategic aviation without starting a full-scale conflict, we’ve been tasked with a more feasible solution: keeping the 184th Airborne Division in Ukraine.”

“They also have 21 TU-95 Bear bombers stationed in Uzin, along with a refueling squadron,” MacKay added.
“The Boss doesn’t take those into account,” Ash said, referring to the Director. “Those aircraft are pushing forty years old. The Russians just aren’t ready to declare them obsolete, like the TU-16 Badgers.”
“I don’t completely agree with you, Sir,” the Colonel countered. “The Bear ‘MS’ version is relatively new. The Russians have been manufacturing it in Taganrog since 1983. This model can carry six X-55 cruise missiles inside the fuselage and up to ten more under the wings. These missiles have a range of roughly 1,000 to 1,500 nautical miles. The rockets, AS-15 Kents, can be fitted with either conventional or nuclear warheads, each yielding close to 200 kilotons. Even considering that these Bears fly at over 500 miles per hour, they’re still a genuine threat as a backup striking force.”
“Alright then, stop giving me more headaches. You know better,” the General conceded. “In principle, your task includes the Uzin bomber regiment as well. It’s part of the same division as the Priluki one.”
Ash pulled a brass Zippo lighter from his pocket, along with a cheroot from inside his tunic, and lit it. MacKay, feeling the awkwardness of having lectured his commander on the TU-95s, was the first to break the silence.
“Am I traveling to Ukraine officially or unofficially?”
“You’ll go as a military translator to our embassy in Moscow. Naturally, you’ll be issued Soviet passports to carry out your extracurricular activities. I’ll give you a week to prepare and two months to complete your assignment. Any other questions?” Ash asked, puffing on his cigar.
“No, Sir.”
MacKay considered the conversation over and stood up from his chair.
“Excellent. What are you doing after five?” the General asked.
“Nothing in particular,” Cameron replied.
“Then let’s have a couple of games of squash. How does that sound?”
“Fine, Sir.” Although, at that moment, a stiff drink of single malt scotch sounded far more appealing than playing squash with his boss.
“Do you have your racket here, or did you take it home?”
“It’s here,” Cameron smiled wryly. “In the office.”

Chapter Three
September 1991. Moscow.
On September 27, Major General Antonov, head of the KGB’s counter-espionage division, sat in his office skimming the daily newspapers. Several articles caught his eye, but he couldn’t focus on them. His mind kept drifting to the uncertain future.
The new broom, as people had come to call the recently-elected president, was sweeping out old colleagues from every government office with relentless efficiency. Not long ago, his bodyguards had dragged the drunken president from a creek near his dacha, and now he was busy introducing his “you know, you must understand” policies. In less than a month, nameplates on half the doors in the KGB’s massive headquarters had already been swapped out.
“In theory, I shouldn’t be fired,” Antonov reassured himself. “I don’t have access to foreign contacts. Party money hasn’t passed through my safe. Maybe they’ll leave me alone. Though, in the chaos, they could get a wild idea and forget my service record.”
“Comrade General,” his secretary Liuba said softly over the conference line. “Lieutenant Colonel Sergunin is here with the report.”
“Send him in,” Antonov replied.
A young man with light hair entered the office, wearing a sharp, gray double-breasted suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark blue tie. He looked more like a successful Western businessman than a senior officer in the KGB’s counter-espionage division.
Sergunin approached the General’s desk, holding a leather portfolio secured with a zipper.
Antonov tugged a wet napkin from a cardboard box, wiped the newsprint from his fingers, stood up, walked around his desk, and sat down opposite the Lieutenant Colonel.
“Take a seat, Vladimir,” said the General.
The Lieutenant Colonel sat at the desk, opened his portfolio, and, without waiting for further instructions, began his report.
“Our embassy in Washington has issued a six-month entry visa to a Mr. Cameron MacKay, a U.S. citizen,” Lieutenant Colonel Sergunin began, flipping through several pages before pulling out the document he needed. “His visa application lists him as a translator at their embassy. At my request, we received a response from Washington.”
He paused briefly, then continued. “Our colleagues in the espionage division have some interesting things to say about our friend Cameron.” Sergunin opened the dossier with MacKay’s name on it and began reading.
“Cameron Frederick MacKay, born March 21, 1945, in Crestview, Florida, son of a U.S. Army Air Forces fighter pilot. MacKay is a combat veteran of the Vietnam War, where he served as an Electronic Warfare Officer on EB-66 surveillance and targeting aircraft. He was based at the Royal Thai Air Force Base in Korat and flew a total of 123 combat missions. He’s the recipient of the Distinguished Flying Cross and multiple Air Medals. He also received a Purple Heart after one of our SA-2s damaged his aircraft, causing shrapnel wounds.”

Sergunin flipped through a few more pages before continuing.
“After Vietnam, MacKay was assigned to the 77th Tactical Fighter Squadron at RAF Upper Heyford, where he flew in the F-111. He became the senior Electronic Warfare Officer (EWO) instructor for his squadron and also directed EWO training and developed standard operating procedures for the 20th Tactical Fighter Wing. He was highly sought after by other NATO countries for his expertise.”
Sergunin paused, glancing up at the General.
“Now, for the more exciting aspects of our American hero,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “MacKay was eventually transferred to the Headquarters of the United States Air Forces in Europe, based in Wiesbaden, Germany, where he served as Chief of the Electronic Reconnaissance Branch for the Defense Intelligence Agency. Concurrently, he graduated from the Department of Slavic Philology at Harvard University. Almost immediately after graduating, he entered graduate school, and two years later, he defended a brilliant dissertation. MacKay speaks Russian, Ukrainian, Bulgarian, and Serbo-Croatian fluently. He also reads German, Spanish, and Portuguese.”
“Who paid for his education?” General Antonov interjected.
“The U.S. Department of Defense paid for his graduate studies, but it’s unclear who financed his undergraduate education,” Sergunin responded.
“Shall I continue?”
“Proceed,” Antonov said, leaning back in his chair.
“After defending his dissertation, MacKay briefly worked for the BBC. He was then sent to the Yukon Territory in Northern Canada, where he worked at a radar station monitoring the aircraft of our Northern Fleet. Since that station was closed, and the Americans have pulled their personnel from the Canadian North, MacKay has been serving in the Pentagon, working in espionage—in the CIA, to be precise.” Sergunin emphasized the last part. “At present, he holds the rank of Colonel.”
Antonov furrowed his brow.;
“It’s interesting that he’s fluent in almost all the Slavic languages, yet he’s coming to Moscow under the guise of a translator.” Antonov pulled the dossier toward him, examining the pages stamped Top Secret and pulling out a photograph of MacKay. “

“An ordinary Colonel of military intelligence doesn’t need to be here. What’s important is that the Americans are trying to pass him off as a translator. Since you’ve made the inquiry, you’re responsible for him. Be careful with this polyglot. I don’t like their Slavic specialists. When is he arriving?”

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

Chapter Four
October 1991. The United States Embassy. Moscow.
On October 2, Colonel Cameron MacKay sat in his office on the third floor of the American Embassy building on Garden Ring Road, poring over the latest immigration documents. Although it was daytime, his desk lamp was on, casting a warm glow over the paperwork. The rays of sunlight barely pierced through the room due to the metal screens covering the windows.
Russian counterespionage had mastered the use of laser installations to measure the frequency of window vibrations, allowing them to decode conversations inside the embassy with ease. As a result, shielding the building with metal screens had become a necessary standard procedure.
It’s a shame we can’t just cover all of Russia with a mesh screen, MacKay mused while flipping through photographs and application forms. Though that wouldn’t be enough. The Iron Curtain didn’t work, and even a stone wall—reaching to space—wouldn’t stop them. The Russians are like a creeping plague, like the flu. They infiltrate everything. It’s in their blood, a legacy of the Mongols. Even the Great Wall of China couldn’t keep them out. The only way to hold them back is by surrounding them with a buffer zone made of their former allies. My bosses are right about that.
MacKay was tall and heavy-set, with deep-set eyes, dark brown hair, and prominent bald patches on his high forehead. He had the look of a heavyweight boxer who had hung up his gloves.
The Colonel’s desk was piled with thin cardboard folders, each containing a case file for a potential Russian emigrant to the U.S. There could easily have been a thousand more such cases. He felt as though he might drown in them if he hadn’t instructed his secretary to narrow the search to a specific category of applicants. Yet, even with his tight parameters, the number of applications was still overwhelming. He could hardly believe how many unmarried women from Ukraine under the age of thirty had applied to immigrate to the U.S. in the past six months—more than a hundred.
Cameron hurriedly skimmed through each completed form. He wasn’t interested in English teachers, economists, or doctors. He put aside the applications from programmers, accountants, veterinarians, and speech pathologists. He didn’t exactly know what he was looking for, but he was certain that the right candidate’s file would stand out. After three days of work, only three folders remained on his desk. Taking them with him, he headed to the secretary's office.
“What’s the immigration procedure for Russians?” he asked as he settled into a deep armchair.
The secretary began her explanation.;“Everything starts outside, beneath the embassy windows. In the mornings, people who want to become American citizens form a long line and wait for the embassy clerk to hand out application forms. Once they’ve filled out the necessary paperwork and provided the required documents, they return and pay nine hundred dollars each to have their applications processed. Then they wait. It can take months for a decision to be made. If we’re interested in a candidate, we summon them for an interview. During the interview, the consul decides whether to continue the immigration process or reject the application. If we reject them, they get four hundred dollars back, and that’s the end of it. But if they’re deemed suitable, we send them for a medical examination.”
“So the embassy keeps five hundred dollars for each rejected applicant?” Cameron asked, intrigued. “That’s a lot of money for Russians.”
“Yes. We invite about one percent of applicants for an interview. Of those, more than seventy percent are rejected during the interview. Of the ones who pass, about twenty percent fail the medical exam. All of them lose their money.”
“Five hundred dollars is two months' wages for the average Russian worker,” Cameron noted thoughtfully.
“Who told you Russian factory workers apply for an immigrant visa? Among the hundreds standing in line outside along Garden Ring Road, you won’t find a single ‘redneck.’ Only the intelligentsia—the cream of society—stand out there, no matter the weather.”
“That’s strange,” Cameron said, puzzled.
“Not at all. It’s not just that we prefer university-educated specialists, but the workers themselves don’t want to come to the U.S.”
“That’s why I said it’s strange. Our factory workers live much better than theirs,” Cameron replied, still confused.
“No argument there. But our factory workers actually work.”
“And the 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 spent his whole life lounging on the stove because the fish granted all his wishes. And their favorite film star? The alcoholic who famously said, ‘Whoever doesn’t work, eats. Learn from me, student.’ Their folk sayings reflect this mentality: ‘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.’ They hate hard work.”
“I’ve heard all these quips before.”
“Of course you have; you’re a linguist,” the secretary replied with a mocking tone.
MacKay didn’t appreciate her condescension. He could feel the subtle sense of superiority that diplomats often held over espionage officers. Deciding to shift the conversation back to his specific interest, he handed her the three folders.
“I’ve selected these three women. None of them meet the basic qualifications, but I want you to call them for an interview. During the conversation, give them hope that they might be allowed to immigrate, but reject them at the very end. I need them to be psychologically broken. Conduct the interviews in your office. I’ll be observing from the room next door,” MacKay ordered, inwardly enjoying the thought. “How does that feel, asshole? Now you’ll know how it feels to be lectured.”

Three days later, MacKay was sitting in a small room behind a one-way mirror, watching the consul conduct the interviews. The first girl was a hairdresser from Kiev. A small brunette with a charming, animated face, she had a slight pug nose and large, expressive eyes. She was attractive, but MacKay didn’t like her figure—she was too thin. Her sharp-edged shoulders, slender arms, and angular knees made her look more like a schoolgirl than a grown woman.
“I couldn’t tell that from the photograph,” MacKay thought irritably. “She’s not what I need.”
He considered signaling the consul to cut the interview short but decided against it.;“Let him earn his pay,” he thought.
The second girl was more promising. She had long flaxen hair, an oval face, glasses, large breasts, and a narrow waist. However, below the waist, she was too plump for MacKay’s liking. Her hips were too broad, and her legs too thick. He dismissed her mentally and tuned out the conversation, waiting for the final candidate.
When the third girl entered, MacKay’s interest was immediately piqued. She had no physical drawbacks. Tall and slender, with blonde hair, she was stunning. As she exchanged greetings with the consul, MacKay leaned closer to the one-way mirror and turned up the volume on the hidden microphones.

“What is your full name, please?” the consul asked as the girl sat down.
“Vera Vikherko.”
“Vera, tell me a little about yourself.”
“I was born in 1967 in Fastov. I finished high school in 1984, and since 1985, I’ve been working as a waitress at the Ros’ restaurant in Belaya Tserkov’. I don’t have any children.”
“Have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?”
“No.”
“Were you in the Young Communist League?”
Vera hesitated for a moment before answering.;“No.”
“That wasn’t such a confident ‘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?” the consul asked.
“I’m tired of putting up with rudeness. 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 people, especially women, are respected and protected by law. Where it’s stable—not like here, where there’s always a war or revolution, or palace coups.”
“Why the United States in particular?”
“Where else would I go?” Vera asked, genuinely surprised.
“You could go to Canada, for example.”
“Noooo, it’s warmer where you live,” she smiled.
“Alright then,” the consul said, jotting down her answer. “What kind of work do you plan to do in the United States?”
“I’ll work as a waitress.”
“But you don’t speak any English. How do you plan on communicating with customers?”
“Just give me a visa, and I’ll learn American English in three months,” Vera answered confidently.
“So self-assured,” Cameron thought. “I studied Russian for four years in university and three years in graduate school, and I still can’t speak without an accent. And she thinks she’ll learn English in three months? That’s probably stupidity rather than self-confidence. But both traits are useful in this case. She lies, she’s conceited, and she holds her surroundings in contempt. What more could I ask for?”
“Which of your relatives will remain in Ukraine?”
“My father and mother.”
“Are you living with them now?”
“No. I bought my own apartment recently. I’ve been living alone for about a year.”
“So, you have money of your own?” the consul asked. “Am I understanding you correctly?”
“Well, what do you think? That I run around with a tray for free?” she retorted, a hint of aggression in her voice.
“Quite aggressive,” Cameron noted with amusement.
“Thank you, Vera, I have no further questions.”
The consul made a note in Vera’s file and stamped the upper corner with a red rectangular mark.
“Unfortunately, I have to refuse you an entry visa. You don’t meet the requirements for potential U.S. citizens.”
“Requirements? What do you mean? Why don’t I meet your requirements? Is it because I don’t speak English?” Vera’s eyes welled with tears.
“No, it’s because you’re not a qualified specialist.”
“Can I get my money back?”
“Yes, you can go down to the first floor and collect four hundred dollars from the cashier at today’s exchange rate.”
“But I paid nine hundred!”
“You should have read the conditions for applying. The process fee is non-refundable.”
“This is robbery,” Vera whispered as she left the office.
She felt a deep sadness. A dream that had felt so close was suddenly ripped away, along with five hundred American dollars. Vera sat in a chair in the corridor and began to weep.
A tall, muscular Marine with a crew cut, stationed by the stairway, noticed her distress. His khaki shirt stretched tightly over his athletic build, and the creases in his dark blue trousers were sharp as a blade. He was halfway to her when MacKay exited the consul’s office. The Colonel reached Vera before the Marine, who then returned to his post.
“Why are you so upset?” MacKay asked in fluent Russian, his tone sympathetic.
“My visa was refused,” Vera sniffled. “And they won’t give me back the five hundred dollars.”
“Which are you more upset about, the money or the visa?”
“The visa, of course. I can always earn more money.”
“Do you really want to go to the United States that badly?” MacKay’s voice carried a quiet confidence, a suggestion of power that Vera noticed. She thought that a man like him could change her fate if he wanted to. After all, an official from the embassy wouldn’t waste his time on her unless he could help.
“Yes, very much,” Vera replied, hopeful. “Can you help me?”
“Come with me, and we’ll talk in my office.”
As they passed the Marine, Cameron showed his plastic access card, which hung around his neck on a long cord. The Marine inspected the card carefully. When he straightened, all the creases in his trousers disappeared.
“Good morning, Sir,” the Marine said, acknowledging MacKay’s restricted-access pass.
“She’s with me,” MacKay said in English.
Cameron led Vera down the stairway into the basement, where they entered his office.
“Your Russian is outstanding,” Vera said pleasantly. “Where did you learn it?”
Ignoring her question, MacKay said,;“Our conversation will be unofficial, but your chances of getting to the United States depend on how it goes.”
Vera sat down opposite MacKay, her curiosity piqued.;“But they already refused my visa.”
“That was just a preliminary interview, conducted on my behalf. Under certain circumstances, you can still make it to the United States. You won’t need a visa, money, or even a plane ticket. Everything depends on your willingness to cooperate with us.”
“Are you senior to the consul? Are you the ambassador?” Vera asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.
“In a certain sense, yes.” MacKay replied calmly. “So, are you prepared to cooperate with the United States government in exchange for citizenship?”
Without hesitation, Vera responded with a firm, “Yes.”
“Excellent.”
Cameron stood up from his chair, retrieved a sheet of paper from the desk, and handed it to Vera.;“Sign it.”
“But it’s written in English,” she said, glancing at the document.
“There’s a Russian translation beneath the English version, but you don’t need to read it. It simply states that you agree to cooperate with us. After your signature, write your full name clearly: Vera Vikherko.”
“How do you know my name?” she asked, filling in her first and last names under her signature.
“I know a lot about you, Vera. As I mentioned, you’re here at my invitation. By signing this document, you’ve entered into my service. From now on, you are to follow my instructions without question. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” Vera answered cautiously. A sense of dread began to creep in as she realized she was involved in something far bigger, possibly dangerous. What had initially seemed like an opportunity for a fresh start in America now felt uncertain and ominous.
Cameron smiled, settling back into his chair.;“Now, let’s see how well you understood me. Take off your clothes.”
“What?” she exclaimed, shocked.
“Strip bare,” MacKay said coolly.
“This must be a test,” Vera thought, trying to reassure herself. Hesitantly, she undressed completely and stood in front of MacKay, her hands folded over her torso in an attempt to cover herself.
“Walk to the wall and back,” Cameron ordered.
Vera did as she was told, walking to the wall and returning. MacKay observed her closely, studying her every movement. His eyes roved over her body, and he seemed satisfied with what he saw.
“That’s enough. You can put your clothes back on.” He paused, watching her redress before continuing. “When you return to your city, go see a gynecologist and a venereologist. Also, get blood drawn for an AIDS test. I’ll visit you in a few days—I already have your address.”
“What do I need to do for the U.S. government to become a citizen?” Vera asked, still feeling unsettled.
“We’ll discuss that when I arrive.”

Chapter Five
October 2, 1991. Headquarters of the Air Forces. Moscow.
At nine o’clock on the morning of October 2, the Commander of the Russian Air Forces, three-star General Tolkachov, summoned the Chief of Air Force Headquarters to his office.
“Oleg, I spoke with our new defense minister recently. He assured me there would be no personnel changes in our department.”
“But how long will that last?” Brigadier General Oleg asked, doubt lacing his voice.
“We can count on at least a year of stability,” Tolkachov replied, standing up from behind his desk and pacing the office. “Thank goodness for that. These endless shakeups in the upper ranks have made it impossible to focus on our actual work.”
The Chief of Headquarters, following his superior’s movements, nodded in agreement.;“I completely agree. August and the first half of September have been a write-off. We’ve already lost a month, but now we need to roll up our sleeves and get to work. The first thing we must do is analyze what we’re going to lose in the former Soviet republics and assess what aviation equipment we can salvage. Prepare an analytical report detailing the losses that are inevitable and what steps we need to take to minimize the damage to the Russian Air Forces caused by the collapse of the Soviet Union.” He paused before continuing, searching for the right words to describe the new countries, “Include information about the command structures of regiments and divisions currently stationed outside Russia. And think about where we can house personnel withdrawn from...” Tolkachov hesitated again, finding nothing politically correct, “...from our neighbors.”
The Chief of Headquarters jotted down the instructions. Once the Colonel-General finished speaking, he reviewed his notes and replied:;“I’ll have everything ready by the end of the day after tomorrow.”
“Good. Schedule a meeting with the senior officers of headquarters for 1700 hours on the fourth.”

Two days later, at five o’clock in the afternoon, the large meeting hall of the Air Force Headquarters was filled with the commanding staff of the Russian Air Force. Officers and generals took their seats in the same formation they would use when assembling on the parade ground for ceremonial occasions. To the left of the presidium sat the officers from strategic aviation; in the center, the tactical and frontline aviation officers; and to the right, those from the transport and refueling divisions. The higher the rank, the closer they sat to the stage. In the front row, their golden shoulder epaulets gleaming, sat the generals. Most bore the insignia of Honored Pilots of the USSR, and several wore the red ribbon and gold star of Heroes of the Soviet Union on their formal tunics, pinned above their left breast.
While the deputies of the Chief of Staff hung a map and schematics behind the commander, Colonel-General Tolkachov scanned the rows of officers and generals, his mind heavy with thoughts.;“How many of them will still be here six months from now?” he wondered, a sense of melancholy overtaking him.;“I’ll miss these men. Many of them have become real friends over the years. And all this upheaval, for what? Because that bald fool failed to prevent a conspiracy of drunkards.”
Tolkachov’s thoughts wandered, tinged with bitterness.;“It would make sense if the leaders of the far-off Soviet Asian republics—Niyazov, Ayev, Nazarbayev—had quietly plotted to leave the Union. I could understand that. The Muslims grew tired of collecting crumbs from the Orthodox table. But the so-called reformer with the black birthmark on his head didn’t notice what was happening in his own backyard. Kirgizstan is far from Moscow, up in the mountains. How do you set up surveillance inside a shepherd’s tent? It’s impossible. But here, just 500 kilometers from Moscow, in a forest dacha, with a dozen KGB officers standing guard, the leaders of three Slavic Soviet republics conspired to dismantle an empire. It had taken our ancestors centuries to build this empire. How many lives were lost defending it? And what was our leader doing during all of this? Asleep at the wheel? And where were his loyal KGB watchdogs? Feeding from foreign hands, no doubt. That’s it. Someone close to the leader had been playing us for fools, working for Uncle Sam, perhaps.”
Lost in thought, Tolkachov failed to notice that the preparations were complete and that the officers and generals were growing restless. A murmur of whispers spread through the hall. Realizing he had been silent too long, the commander raised his right hand, and the room fell into immediate silence.
“Comrades,” Colonel-General Tolkachov began, his voice steady but grave, as he addressed the assembled officers and generals without rising from his chair. “The Air Forces of our country have suffered immense losses. With the dissolution of the Union, we have lost more military technology without a single shot fired in peacetime than we did in all the accidents and catastrophes since the Great Patriotic War. In addition to losing aircraft, we are also losing many experienced pilots and navigators. These losses are not just difficult to replace—they are catastrophic for our headquarters.”
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle over the room.;“As our aircraft numbers dwindle, there will be inevitable personnel cutbacks at all levels, including here at headquarters. The ranks of responsible generals and officers will also be reduced. Today, we must think hard about how we can minimize the upcoming losses. Tomorrow, we’ll take action in the regiments and divisions to preserve what remains of the Air Force for Russia and, hopefully, our positions for ourselves. The salvation of the drowning lies in their own hands. Today, that slogan is more relevant to us than ever.”
Turning to the chief of the operational division, Tolkachov signaled for the next speaker.;“Colonel,” he said, “report on our general situation.”
Colonel Andreyev stepped up to the podium, opened his portfolio, and began reading from the detailed report he had prepared.
“Comrades, officers, and generals,” he began, his tone formal and focused, “approximately forty percent of the aircraft of the Air Force are currently stationed on the territories of the former Soviet republics. As the legitimate heir to the USSR, Russia has the right to demand the repossession of these aircraft. According to preliminary data, none of the Central Asian or Transcaucasian republics has expressed any intention of retaining the military aircraft stationed on their soil. They lack the specialists needed to maintain the technology and the pilots to conduct air missions. We may have to leave behind a few helicopter squadrons, but this is insignificant. The bulk of the aircraft can be transferred to our airfields.”
He glanced at the officers in the room and continued,;“Belorussia will not be an issue. The government there has already confirmed its willingness to transfer all aviation equipment to us or allow it to remain under our command at its current bases. In total, these regions account for only fifteen percent of the aircraft. The real challenge lies with Ukraine, which claims ownership of a significant portion of the remaining aircraft. Ukraine controls about twenty-five percent of the Soviet Union’s former aviation assets, and for certain types of aircraft, that figure rises to thirty or even fifty percent. The Ukrainian government considers these assets to be its own, much like the Black Sea Fleet based in Sevastopol. Now, let me remind you of the specific losses we face.”
Colonel Andreyev moved to the large map of the former Soviet Union that was hanging behind the presidium. The map highlighted the airfields where aviation regiments were stationed.
“As painful as it is to admit,” he said, pointing at various locations, “there isn’t a single major regional center in Ukraine where our technology isn’t located. Let’s begin with transport aviation. The Sixth Guard Air Transport Division, which includes two regiments of IL-76s stationed in Zaporozhia, and a regiment of AN-12s in Melitopol. Then, there’s the Belgorod-Dniester transport division, with IL-76s in Artsiz, and separate transport regiments in Odessa, Borispol, Lvov, and Vinnitsa. In total, that’s about 150 combat and support aircraft, with half of them being IL-76 heavy transport planes.”
The room remained silent, the tension thickening as Andreyev continued.
“Now, the situation with tactical aviation is no less complicated. We stand to lose more than two dozen regiments of attack, fighter, and helicopter aviation in Ukraine. Many of these pilots were battle-hardened in Afghanistan. As much as it pains us, we will have to reconcile ourselves with the loss of our frontline aviation assets. Ukraine needs its own air force, and we simply don’t have the capacity to house an additional 350 aircraft and helicopters within Russia.”
He took a breath before delivering the most sobering part of the report.;“The heaviest losses, however, are in long-range aviation. We face the potential loss of two divisions of strategic bombers. The Poltava division, which includes two regiments of supersonic TU-22s, and the Priluki division, home to a regiment of TU-160s. In Priluki, there are also two regiments stationed in Uzin, including a regiment of TU-95 strategic bombers and a regiment of IL-78 refueling aircraft. With the loss of the TU-160s, we’re losing 100 percent of our combat-ready aircraft of this type. As for the TU-95s, we’re losing ten percent of our total fleet.”
Andreyev’s voice grew more somber.;“If we could offset the loss of the Poltava division by drawing on similarly equipped aircraft that belonged to the Baltic Fleet, which were recently withdrawn from Bykhov in the Mogilev region of Belorussia, we’d still be left with nothing to compensate for the loss of the TU-160s. That, comrades, is irreplaceable.”
After outlining the broad situation, Colonel Andreyev delved into the specifics of each regiment. He presented detailed information to the assembled officers regarding the readiness level of aviation maintenance, the remaining flight resources of the aircraft, and the military preparedness of the flight crews. He also assessed the engineering and technical personnel’s qualifications and readiness. Furthermore, Andreyev gave a moral and political evaluation of the command structures for the long-range and transport aviation regiments, highlighting both strengths and concerns.
In concluding his report, Andreyev offered data about the average age of personnel, noting which individuals were still required or could be phased out. He also touched upon the housing situation for the officers, a key issue given the recent instability.
When Colonel Andreyev finished, General Tolkachov addressed the room.
“Comrades,” he began, his tone heavy with the gravity of the situation, “you now understand the serious position Russian aviation finds itself in following Ukraine’s declaration of independence. As the chief of the operations division has clearly stated, we face significant losses. Given Ukraine’s geopolitical position in Europe, there may be some acceptance of the fact that it will retain tactical and fighter aviation. But let me be clear: Ukraine has no need for strategic bombers or heavy transport aircraft. I do not believe we should reconcile ourselves to losing those assets.”
Tolkachov raised his voice slightly, emphasizing his point.;“We must take from Ukraine everything we can—whether it be jet fighters, attack aircraft, or even helicopters. But when it comes to strategic aviation, we simply must do everything in our power to ensure the transfer of those regiments to Russia. We must reclaim the TU-160 and TU-95 regiments, the TU-22 divisions, the refueling regiment, and all the transport aircraft. That is our task today.”
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in before continuing.;“Ukraine cannot make use of them. It will always remain a purely European state, limited in its global influence. Russia, on the other hand, is destined to continue playing the role of a world power. And it is our duty, comrades, to uphold this status. We bear a great responsibility to ensure Russia’s future strength.”
With that, Colonel-General Tolkachov placed his hand on the portfolio of documents before him.;“Here,” he said, tapping the folder, “are my orders to conduct Operation ‘Autumn Holidays.’ Those of you involved in its execution will become acquainted with the details by tonight. Almost all of you will have a role to play. You have ten days to prepare and one week to complete the mission in Ukraine. Three weeks from now, you will report back to the chief of headquarters with the results. You will receive copies of your orders from the deputies of the chief of staff.”
Tolkachov looked out at the officers gathered before him, his eyes steely with determination.;“I wish you success.”

Chapter Six
October 13, 1991. Moscow.
Colonel Cameron MacKay left the gates of the American Embassy in a dark green Jeep Cherokee, turning onto the Garden Ring Road and heading towards the Kiev railway station. Almost immediately, a surveillance car began tailing him, but the Colonel was unfazed. He didn’t bother glancing into his rearview mirror or taking a convoluted route to shake his tail. He knew that the surveillance would end eventually—but not today, and not in Moscow.
Cameron focused on the road, observing how autumn had firmly taken hold of the city. The trees were bare, their leaves long gone. Muscovites had swapped their jackets and raincoats for heavier overcoats, and the once-busy streets, filled with rollerbladers and outdoor lovers, were now subdued. October in Moscow is certainly not like October in Washington, he thought to himself as he opened the car window and glanced up at the sky. Low, gray clouds hung overhead, threatening rain. By the time he parked near the Kiev railway station, a light drizzle had already begun.
He passed by stalls selling everything from chocolates and flowers to condoms and liquor before entering the busy ticket hall. Crowds of passengers lined up at the counters, and Cameron scanned the hall before making his way to the booth marked with a sign: “In the direction of Kiev”. After waiting his turn, he reached the front and requested two tickets for a sleeper to Lvov, departing today.
“Will the two of you be in one compartment, or do you need separate ones?” the cashier asked.
“Excuse me?” Cameron asked, not quite hearing her.
The cashier pressed the microphone button and repeated her question. “I said, can you share a compartment, or do you need two?”
MacKay hesitated for a moment, and the woman, assuming she wasn’t being heard, muttered under her breath, “Blockhead.” She was confident the thick glass between them shielded her insult, but Cameron—skilled at reading lips—caught the word.
He smiled sadly. “No, you will never become cultured,” he thought, but he responded politely.;“One, please.”
After paying 400 rubles for the two tickets, Cameron wandered toward the newspaper kiosk. He hadn’t gone far when his cellphone rang, its high-pitched rings echoing in the hall. Extending the antenna, he pressed the green button and brought the phone to his ear.;“Hello,” he said.
“A man in a brown leather jacket with a black attach; case just presented his badge to the cashier. After a brief chat, he bought a ticket. He was three people behind you. I think he’s your tail.”
“Okay,” Cameron replied calmly, retracting the antenna and pocketing the phone. He retrieved his tickets and turned in the opposite direction, just as a broad-shouldered man in his thirties, wearing a black leather jacket and carrying an attach; case, approached. In the man’s other hand were two tickets for the same train to Lvov.
As they crossed paths, MacKay observed the man discreetly. “I’m traveling with him in the next compartment,” the man mouthed, unknowingly revealing his assignment to Cameron, who expertly read his lips.
On the other end of the line, Lieutenant Colonel Sergunin’s metallic voice responded:;“I’ll call our people in Lvov and have them meet you at the station.”
Although Cameron couldn’t hear this, he didn’t need to. He had no intention of reaching Lvov.
Stepping into the man’s path, Cameron casually asked, “Excuse me, do you know which platform the train to Lvov is leaving from?”
The man, in an almost military manner, responded, “The eighth gate, fifth platform, in fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you. Are you also going to Lvov?” Cameron asked, falling into step beside him as they made their way to the underground passage leading to the platforms.
“Yes, I’m being sent there on a work trip.”
“What a coincidence,” Cameron said. “I’m returning from one.”
The two men walked together through the dimly lit passage, their footsteps echoing on the worn tiles. Around them, passengers rushed by, many hauling large trunks, likely bound for the newly independent Ukraine. Others, freshly arrived from the same destination, hurried toward Moscow’s markets and stores, ready to make the most of their trip. The passage walls, haphazardly painted over graffiti, bore signs of the times: faded slogans and cryptic messages. Above an elderly woman begging for coins, a crude slogan in red paint proclaimed: “SPARTACUS DEAD.”
Near the stairs to the fourth platform, a policeman argued with a group of gypsies. Everything seemed ordinary on the surface—nothing to indicate that an American intelligence officer and a Russian counterespionage agent were engaged in polite, meaningless conversation.
When they reached the fresh air of platform five, they paused by the sleeper car. The wind had picked up, driving slanted streams of rain between the train and the platform’s overhang.
“Today has been full of coincidences,” Cameron remarked, showing his ticket to the conductor.
The officer smiled. “If we end up in the same compartment, I’ll believe anything.”
"No, guys, you have tickets for different compartments," the conductor replied in Ukrainian, handing the tickets back to both men.
"Thank you," Cameron responded in perfect Ukrainian and climbed into the train car.
At the door of his compartment, Cameron placed his small suitcase on the floor and pulled the handle. The metallic scraping of the worn wheels had barely faded when the counterespionage agent, Viktor, approached him.
"So, you're Ukrainian? I couldn't quite place your accent. That's interesting," Viktor said, smiling amicably.
Cameron turned slightly and replied, "I’d like to clarify that. In your terms, I’m really a ‘Westerner.’ My family’s a mix of Hungarians, Poles, and Ukrainians."
"What’s your name?" Viktor asked, curious.
"Viacheslav," Cameron replied smoothly.
"That's a very Russian name."
Cameron smiled wryly. "Then I suppose the leader of the People’s Movement of Ukraine, Viacheslav Chornovil, is a Muscovite in disguise," he quipped as he entered his compartment.
Viktor, mildly amused by the remark, introduced himself.;"My name’s Viktor," he managed to say just before Cameron closed the door. "Perhaps we could celebrate our acquaintance in the restaurant car later?"
"Sure," Cameron responded. "If you pass by my compartment, knock a couple of times."
"Consider it done," Viktor said, smiling.

Later that evening, the two men sat in the restaurant car, sipping Zhigulevskoe beer. The waitress placed plates of sausages and fried potatoes in front of them, politely asking them to pay upfront before she left. Once alone, Cameron casually leaned in and asked,;"Viktor, what do you do for a living?"
Viktor took a swig of his beer before answering.;"I’m with the criminal investigation department. I’m sure you know our headquarters on Petrovka. And you?"
"Yes, I do." Cameron paused for a moment, then added with a smile, "I’m the principal of a school in Lviv. Ukraine might declare its independence, but it’ll still have to send its specialists to Moscow for certain things."
Viktor raised an eyebrow. "Why’s that?"
"I run an intensive English language training school," Cameron explained. "And like it or not, the best linguists are still in Moscow. So, I head there from time to time for consultations. What about you? Couldn’t catch your own criminals, so you’ve come hunting for Ukrainian ones?"
Viktor chuckled. "No, no. We’ve got enough criminals back home. One of our Lviv colleagues caught a local suspect and needed help questioning him."
Cameron smirked. "Well, good luck with that," he said, finishing his dinner.

At eleven o’clock that night, Cameron was in his compartment, undressed and preparing for sleep, when a soft knock echoed from the door.
“That pest of a fake policeman,” Cameron thought, smiling slightly as he opened the door just a crack.
But it wasn’t Viktor. Standing there were the train conductor and a scrawny girl, no older than fifteen. Both of them smiled awkwardly, and the conductor leaned in, speaking softly in Ukrainian.
"Excuse me, sir, I noticed you're traveling alone. Perhaps you're bored? This girl could keep you company. It’s not expensive—just fifty American dollars for the night."
Cameron blinked, then reached for his trousers hanging nearby. Taking out a ten-dollar bill, he handed it to the conductor.;"Thank you for the offer, madam. This is for your trouble. But maybe try the man from Moscow—he’s younger than I am."
The train conductor took the money, smiling gratefully.;"Perhaps you'd like some vodka instead? I have a bottle of Swedish Absolut."
Cameron shook his head. "No, thank you. I’d prefer to get some sleep. Could you just let me know when we reach Kyiv?"
"We’ll be there at eight o’clock," she replied.
"Wake me at seven, and bring me coffee in the morning."
The conductor’s face lit up. "I have some good coffee. How about Nescaf;?"
"That would be fine," Cameron replied, his voice tired. He gently closed the door, locking it behind him.

At seven o’clock the next morning, the conductor returned with the promised coffee. She looked exhausted, her eyes puffy and swollen from what appeared to be tears.
"What happened?" Cameron asked, sitting up on his bed.
The conductor hesitated, then spoke softly, her voice strained. "Your neighbor... he hurt my niece."
Cameron’s expression darkened. "How could she be hurt when you put her in his bed?"
"He enjoyed himself with her all night," the conductor said, her voice trembling with indignation. "He didn’t let her get a wink of sleep. At every station stop, he went out to smoke, walked along the train, and just before departure, came back to his compartment and climbed on top of my niece again. Why did he do this to her?"
Cameron leaned back slightly, feigning indifference. "Well, that's her job, isn’t it? What does she have to complain about? You get all kinds of customers."
"It’s not just that he wore her out," the conductor said, her voice growing more strained.
"Then what’s your point?" Cameron asked, pretending to care.
"Instead of paying her in the morning," the conductor continued, "he flashed his KGB officer’s ID and threatened to turn her in to the police for prostitution once we reach Kiev. The poor child is in my compartment now, crying her eyes out in fear."
Cameron sighed and folded his arms, his expression still unmoved. "Why was your niece doing this kind of work in the first place?"
The conductor’s eyes flashed with frustration. "Because it's better to be with men in a train compartment than with gangsters in a dark alley. At least here, she’s somewhat safer. I can’t keep her at home no matter what I do."
"That's a deeply philosophical outlook," Mackay replied sarcastically.
After a brief moment of thought, Cameron reached into his pants pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed the conductor another twenty dollars.
"Here’s an extra twenty for you. I did suggest you send her to my neighbor, so I feel partially responsible for what happened. Besides, I’m going to need your help once we reach Kiev."
The conductor’s demeanor shifted immediately. She stuffed the fifty dollars into her pocket and, with a slightly obsequious tone, said, "I’ll do anything you need, sir."
Cameron looked her squarely in the eyes. "When we arrive in Kiev, I’m getting off the train just before it departs again. I might even jump off while it’s still in motion. Don’t rush to close the door right away, but as soon as I’m off, lock it and don’t let the KGB officer follow me. Tell him it's not allowed to exit the train while it’s moving."
The conductor’s eyes widened, her face a mixture of surprise and curiosity. "Are you running from him? You’re not a spy, are you? It was you he had under surveillance all night, wasn’t it? That’s why he kept my niece awake."
Cameron shook his head with a dry chuckle. "No, I’m not a spy. I work for the People’s Movement of Ukraine. We’re worse than spies as far as the Russian KGB is concerned."
"Why’s that?" the conductor asked, her voice lowering to a whisper.
"Because we want complete independence from Russia—politically and economically."
The conductor quickly glanced around, making sure no one else was listening, then leaned in and whispered back conspiratorially, "I’m for independence too, from men like that scoundrel."

The express train to Lvov slowly approached the first platform in Kiev, the metallic clang of its buffers reverberating through the station as it came to a halt. The station’s loudspeakers played an arrival march, blending with the hissing of the train’s brakes and the creaking of opening doors. Tired conductors wiped the vertical handrails with dirty cloths, while passengers began to step out onto the platform in a slow, unhurried manner. Soviet-era car owners milled about, offering rides to the newly arrived passengers, while porters rushed past with their iron carts.
Cameron slipped into his jacket and took a final look at his small suitcase on the floor of his compartment before stepping out. He left his belongings where they were, knowing they served no immediate purpose in the plan forming in his mind. His sleeper car stood directly opposite the central entrance to the station building. As he crossed the platform, he hummed quietly to himself, in tune with the station’s resounding march:
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.
As he neared the glass doors of the station, Cameron spotted Viktor, the counterespionage agent, emerging from his own car onto the platform.
“Good boy,” Cameron thought, observing Viktor’s movements. “At least you’re alone.”
He meandered over to a nearby newspaper stand, casually buying a copy of the Morning Kiev News. As he returned to his compartment, he saw Viktor standing at the entrance to his sleeper car, smoking and keeping a close eye on him through the station’s windows.
"Good morning," Cameron greeted as he approached Viktor.
"Good morning," the young officer replied.
"You look a little tired," Cameron remarked with a hint of sarcasm. "Did the sound of the wheels keep you up all night?"
Viktor gave a slight nod. "I had some coffee before bed. Didn’t get much sleep until after midnight."
Cameron chuckled softly. "Don’t worry. You’ve still got quite a way to Lvov. Plenty of time to catch up on sleep during the day." With that, Cameron re-entered his sleeper car.
As the mechanical voice of a female announcer crackled through the station’s loudspeakers, it declared:;"Express train number seventy-three, Moscow to Lvov, is now departing from the first platform. All non-passengers, please exit the cars."
Cameron glanced one last time at his neighbor, Viktor, knowing the next few moments would be crucial.
The Captain tossed his unfinished cigarette onto the asphalt and glanced through the window into MacKay’s compartment. Cameron sat on the lower berth, reading a newspaper and finishing the last of his cold coffee. Viktor checked his watch and entered the train car. As soon as Viktor’s footsteps passed Cameron’s compartment, the American stood up quietly, grabbed a nylon jacket, sports trousers, and a knitted cap from his suitcase, and changed clothes swiftly. Without a sound, he slipped out onto the platform.
The train began to move.
Viktor glanced out the window and spotted a man dressed in unfashionable clothing stepping onto the platform. "I don’t remember seeing this passenger before," the Captain thought, but then, almost immediately, he recognized the gait—it was Cameron. In a flash, Viktor rushed down the aisle, passing Cameron’s now-empty compartment. The scraping sound of the car door closing behind Cameron reached his ears.
The conductor, Maria, had just closed the door behind MacKay and bent over to pick up a discarded chocolate bar wrapper when Viktor burst through the corridor. He collided headfirst with Maria, whose uniform skirt-clad rear blocked the narrow passage. Thrown off balance, Maria stumbled forward, falling to her knees and smacking her head against the door.
"Are you crazy or what?" she yelled as she struggled back to her feet.
"Open that door!" Viktor barked, flashing his KGB officer’s ID.
"It’s not allowed. The train is already moving," she replied, her voice tense.
"Do it, now!" Viktor demanded, pulling his PSM 5.45mm semi-automatic pistol from beneath his jacket and pressing the cold barrel to Maria’s forehead.
The blood drained from Maria’s face, and fear washed over her as the pressure of the gun triggered a warm stream of urine that soaked her underpants and dripped down her legs into her low-heeled shoes. With trembling hands, she fumbled for the key and unlocked the door. But it was too late—the train had already picked up speed, and the station was now several hundred meters behind them.
Enraged, Viktor yanked the handle of the emergency brake. The train jerked violently, and Viktor, carried forward by inertia, slammed into the wall of the car. Recovering quickly, he pushed himself off the wall and leaped from the slowing train onto the black-greased gravel of the trackside, unaware that in places, the gravel was also stained with human excrement. Ignoring the filth, he sprinted back toward the station, hoping to catch sight of the American.
Meanwhile, as Maria was being confronted by the KGB agent, Cameron casually walked across the square in front of the Kiev station and climbed into the first available car.
"Take me to Bila Tserkva," he said, his voice steady.
"Twenty bucks," the driver, a gray-haired man with a short-cropped haircut, answered, glancing at Cameron in the rearview mirror.
Cameron nodded silently, and the white Lada accelerated, disappearing into the stream of morning traffic.
As the car sped away, the martial music that Cameron had hummed in the station continued to play in his mind:
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 moment, Viktor, breathless and panicked, sprinted through the station’s waiting hall and out to the taxi stand. But Cameron was already gone. Viktor scanned the bustling crowd as they streamed into the Central Train Station’s subway entrance, realizing with growing frustration that he had failed. His heart sank as he pulled out his cellphone and dialed Lieutenant Colonel Sergunin in Moscow.
"Vladimir Sergeevich," Viktor said, struggling to catch his breath, "I lost him at the railway station in Kiev."
There was a heavy pause on the other end before Sergunin replied, his tone thick with sarcasm. "Great. Get back here at once."

As the Lada rolled down the highway toward Bila Tserkva, Cameron leafed through a magazine the driver had left on the backseat. One article caught his attention:
"The Red Hordes Under the Command of Executioner and Sadist, the Communist Muravyov, Occupied the Left Bank of Kiev..."
The article described how Muravyov’s forces had set up artillery on the Dnipro River’s banks and, over ten days, bombarded central Kiev. The piece lauded the wisdom of Ukrainian Nationalist Army commander Symon Petliura, who, rather than subject the city to ruin, had withdrawn his forces to Bila Tserkva.
Cameron raised an eyebrow and chuckled to himself. "Who’s the smart one here?" he thought. Flipping back a few pages, he found the author's name—Doctor of Philosophy in Historical Sciences, Kozubenko.
"Of course," Cameron mused. "Not even six months since the fall of communist power, and already the scholars are rewriting their histories. I bet you, dear Pan Kozubenko, that when you defended your thesis in the Department of Scientific Communism ten years ago, you were a devoted Leninist. And now? Now you’re leading the charge to bury the dead lion." He smirked, shaking his head in amusement. "My colleagues at the CIA would love jackals like you."
His thoughts wandered as he considered the article's exaggerated language. "Executioner, sadist, and communist," Cameron murmured. "Muravyov might well have been all three, but using these adjectives together is a clever trick. It stirs emotions. Well done, historian."

The Lada entered Bila Tserkva as the morning fog began to lift.
"Where should I drop you?" the driver asked.
"Take me to a hotel."
"The central hotel by the market, or the Ros'?"
"The Ros'," Cameron replied, his voice calm. He smiled slightly and quietly resumed humming 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 MacKay sat in the hotel restaurant, casually scanning the room. Several waitresses in short skirts and white aprons stood by the cash registers, chatting idly amongst themselves. As he looked around, he spotted Vera. She was smoking a cigarette leisurely, her gaze wandering over the few patrons who had come in for a late breakfast.
Suddenly, a wave of unease swept over her. A strange, unpleasant sensation of impending trouble gnawed at her mind, making it hard for her to focus on her conversation. She had responded to her colleagues several times in a robotic, absent-minded manner before realizing the source of her disquiet. The modestly dressed man sitting across the room wasn’t a random customer. He was the same man from Moscow—the agent from the American Embassy she had met just days before. He smiled at her, his expression warm but purposeful.
"Wenches, that's enough jawing. Get to work," Vera ordered her coworkers, masking her anxiety with authority. She grabbed an aluminum tray and made her way toward Cameron.
"That bitch has lost her mind," one of the other waitresses muttered under her breath. "We never start work this early. Let them wait. The hungrier they are, the more they’ll order."
Vera reached Cameron's table and placed the menu in front of him.
"Sit down," Cameron said quietly, his tone leaving little room for argument.
"We’re not allowed to sit with customers," Vera replied, her voice barely concealing her fear.
Cameron opened the menu, scanning it without interest. "My name is Viacheslav Kondrat'evich. I’m your uncle on your mother’s side. After work, you’re going to go straight home. No guests. I’ll come to see you after dark. Got it?"
Vera stiffened, struggling to control the tremor in her voice. "What do you want for breakfast?" she asked, her lips moving awkwardly, fear clouding her thoughts.
"You choose," Cameron responded smoothly, still looking at the menu. "Relax. You’ve gone pale. Smile, do your job, and don’t worry. I’ll eat, pay, and leave. You won’t see me until tonight."
Vera nodded, forcing a smile, and took his order. She moved about her work as if on autopilot, but her mind raced with questions, unsure of what the evening would bring.

After finishing his breakfast, Cameron left the restaurant and decided to explore Belaya Tserkov. He strolled down The Forty Years of Victory Prospect, passing by the covered collective farm market, before cutting across to the sports complex. From there, he made his way to Petr Zaporozhets Square. In a row of small shops across from the central hotel, he purchased a suitcase, two inexpensive suits, several shirts, jeans, slippers, a sweater, running shoes, a raincoat, and a hat. He packed everything into the suitcase and hailed a taxi back to the hotel Ros'.

Later that evening, Cameron stood outside a modest one-room apartment on the outskirts of Belaya Tserkov and rang the doorbell. When Vera opened the door, he entered silently, placing his suitcase on the floor. Without removing his shoes, he inspected the apartment, moving through the small vestibule, kitchen, and bathroom.
Satisfied, Cameron thought to himself, "Modest and comfortable. Exactly what I expected." After a silent supper, during which neither he nor Vera spoke a word, he sat on the sofa, gesturing for her to sit across from him.
"You have to quit your job tomorrow," Cameron said, his voice flat and commanding.
Vera blinked, caught off guard. "But how am I going to live?"
"That’s no longer your concern. Just listen and don’t interrupt." Cameron's tone left no room for argument. "As soon as you leave the restaurant, you’ll take the bus to Uzin. There’s an Air Force base there. You’re going to apply for a job as a waitress in the pilots’ cafeteria."
Vera’s face twisted in defiance. "I’m not going to spy."
Cameron sighed, shaking his head. "No one’s asking you to spy, Vera. Besides, you wouldn’t even know how."
"What if they don’t hire me at the mess?" she asked, still unsure of where this was headed.
"I don’t know anyone in the former Soviet Union who can resist a bribe," Cameron said coldly. "Put one hundred dollars in your employment record book and hand it over with your job application to the boss of the mess."
Vera shifted uncomfortably, still unsure. "But what if she asks why I left the restaurant? What should I tell her?"
Cameron’s voice remained steady, rehearsing the lie as if it were fact. "Say that after six years at the Ros’, you’ve secured yourself financially. You don’t need the leftover cheese and sausage the waitresses collect from the pilots' tables, and you don’t need the meat or cutlets the chef takes home. Tell them you want to settle down. At twenty-four, you're dreaming of marrying a brave young pilot."
He handed her a couple of hundred-dollar bills. "Give one to the boss of the mess and the other to the head of provisioning at the airbase. And if the boss looks at you like a woman and makes his own... requests, do what’s necessary. You must come back from Uzin with a job." Cameron emphasized the word, drawing it out deliberately.
Vera’s face paled, but she nodded. "And then what? What is all this for?"
"What then? You'll find out soon enough." Cameron’s voice was firm, signaling the end of the discussion. "Now, make the bed. I need to sleep."
As Vera prepared the bed, Cameron watched her, his eyes lingering on her slender figure. He found his thoughts drifting, recalling his wife back home. God will forgive me if the necessities of my work require a few pleasant nights with this Ukrainian beauty, he thought, rationalizing. And most likely, He won’t even find out about it. After all, my God doesn’t sit in heaven, but in the fourth underground floor of the Pentagon.
When Vera had finished setting up the bed, Cameron broke his reverie. "Do you remember the instructions you received in Moscow?"
"Yes," she replied, retrieving several documents from the bureau. "Here’s my massage certification and the notes from the gynecologist and venereologist."
Cameron barely glanced at the certificate, only checking the dates and diagnoses on the medical notes.
"These are ten days old," he observed.
"I didn’t know when you’d be coming," Vera explained nervously.
"Fine," Cameron replied, now taking off his clothes. "Show me what you learned in your courses."
He lay down on the couch, arms wrapped around a pillow, ready for the massage. Vera worked diligently, using the skills she had been taught. Within ten minutes, Cameron’s back, shoulders, and neck were glistening with olive oil, his skin red and sensitive.
"That’s enough," he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion, before sinking into sleep.
Vera showered, then quietly made a bed for herself on the floor, accepting her place. Cameron believed, almost devoutly, that normal people should sleep at night—business and pleasure, in his view, were daytime activities.

The next morning, Cameron awoke refreshed. He stood over Vera’s inflatable mattress, pulling the blanket off her. She stirred, blinking awake. Without a word, he beckoned her to join him on the bed. Vera rose, her face impassive, and obediently lay down beside him.
Cameron frowned. "No, this isn’t what I expected from you." His voice was laced with disappointment. "I’m preparing you for something different. You’re acting like a bad wife who’s spent her whole life with her husband—just silently offering yourself without any passion." He narrowed his eyes. "You shouldn’t behave like that."
Vera looked up at him, her confusion evident. "You still haven’t told me what I’m supposed to do for the United States. I don’t understand what you want from me."
Cameron’s mood shifted, the desire that had stirred within him just moments ago evaporating. "Alright," he said, his tone now purely businesslike. He sat up, lacing his fingers behind his head, and outlined the next steps of his plan. "Let’s talk about what I need from you."
"Once you get the job at the pilots' mess," he began, "your task will be to attract the attention of Major-General Gerasimov, the commander of the aviation division. As soon as possible, you need to initiate a... personal relationship with him."
Vera looked uncertain. "How old is he?"
"Forty-eight," Cameron replied matter-of-factly.
Vera shrugged. "Consider it done."
"Good," Cameron said, pleased with her compliance. "But this isn't just about sleeping with him once. You need to make him fall in love with you. He has to be completely captivated.”
"What if he doesn’t want to be intimate with me? Or what if, after the first time, he doesn’t want me anymore?" Vera asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
Cameron leaned forward, his tone sharp but patient. "That’s what you’ll have to work on. I’ll furnish your flat with new furniture, a videocassette recorder, and a music system. We’ll create such a cozy nest that even I wouldn’t want to leave. And, naturally, I’ll have to teach you a thing or two. Although, I’m still not entirely sure what you’re capable of."
Vera frowned slightly, a new question forming. "Does he have to marry me?"
"Under no circumstances," Cameron said firmly. "Quite the opposite. If he brings up marriage, you’ll need to tell him you like things just the way they are. He mustn’t feel threatened by you or that you’ll disrupt his peaceful family life. You need to satisfy not only his sexual fantasies, but also make sure you’re useful in every other way—massages, dinners, breakfasts, gifts. You’ll even pay for restaurants and taxis when he suddenly wants to go home to his wife."
Vera blinked in surprise. "You want me to pay?"
"Exactly," Cameron continued. "And sometimes, you’ll buy small gifts for his wife and give them to him. You’ll need to become the perfect mistress. No matter how difficult it is, you must make it seem effortless." He paused, his tone softening just slightly. "If he falls in love with you and things go as planned, I’ll bring you to the States. We’ll make sure you have a good life there."
Vera’s eyes narrowed. "What happens then? Let’s say I get this general to fall in love with me—what do I do for you? What’s the end game here?"
Cameron chuckled, leaning back and regarding her. "First, he’s not an ‘old goat.’ He’s six foot two, built like an ox, with thick black hair going slightly gray at the temples. He’s healthy and mildly attractive."
Vera tilted her head, curiosity sparking. "Six foot two? How much is that in centimeters?"
"A hundred and eighty-eight." Cameron smiled briefly at her sharpness. "Secondly, this isn’t about doing something for me. It’s about doing something for your country. The division General Gerasimov commands holds enormous material and military value. Each aircraft in his fleet is worth more than twenty million dollars. Independent Ukraine can’t afford to lose a single one of them."
Vera's eyebrows shot up. "How many planes does he have?"
"Eighteen bombers in Priluki, twenty-one bombers, and twenty refueling aircraft in Uzin. Around sixty planes in total."
Her eyes widened further. "That’s over a billion dollars!"
Cameron nodded. "Exactly. Smart of you to figure that out so quickly."
Vera frowned, still confused. "But the division is already here, in Ukraine. How could we lose it?"
Cameron’s tone darkened. "Right now, while politicians in both countries are squabbling for power and ministerial positions, no one is paying attention to the division. But once they settle into their cozy offices, they’ll remember it. And the Russians will be the first to try and take it."
"Why would they care?" Vera asked, arms crossed defensively.
"Because they need them. They manufacture these planes in Kazan and Taganrog—they know exactly what they're worth. Plus, Russia has the space and infrastructure to maintain these aircraft. Ukraine doesn’t."
Vera shrugged. "So, let them take them if we don’t need them."
Cameron smiled patiently, as if explaining to a child. "Imagine you had a gold ring, but it didn’t fit you. Would you just give it to one of your colleagues?"
"No. It’s gold. I’d probably sell it if I could," Vera admitted.
"Exactly. And Russia is trying to take these golden planes for nothing."
Vera’s expression hardened, and she folded her arms, giving an invisible Russia the middle finger. "For free? Screw them!"
Cameron laughed softly. "You’re a quick learner. Within a month, maybe two, senior air staff from Moscow will come to Priluki and Uzin. They’ll try to convince the regimental and divisional commanders to fly their planes into Russia. A lot—if not everything—will depend on Gerasimov. Before that happens, you need to make sure he’s so tied to Ukraine, and to you, that he won’t want to leave."
Vera nodded, her confidence growing. "I can do that. As long as he’s unfaithful."
"Oh, he is," Cameron assured her. "When he commanded the regiment at Mozdok airbase, he didn’t let a single dusky-skinned girl slip through his fingers."
Vera smirked. "Sounds like he’ll be easy to handle."
"Good. But don’t get overconfident. This isn’t just about getting him into bed. You need him to fall for you completely." Cameron’s tone became instructive again. "Let’s go over a few things. You already know the first rule—don’t keep a man from sleeping. The second rule is that when he calls you, you need to transform into a sex kitten. I’m not talking about acting like a bad prostitute. When you approach him, don’t sprawl out next to him with an expression of contempt for his lust. No, you’ll move slowly. Crawl on all fours toward him, and make sure he sees the curve of your waist and the shape of your hips." Cameron smiled darkly. "And don’t forget to smile, Vera. Men love that."
Cameron, who had been sitting on the divan, now lay back, covering himself with a blanket and putting his hands behind his head. "Imagine I’m the general. Show me what you’ve learned."
Vera hesitated for only a moment before crawling under the blanket. Cameron didn’t let her get far. He firmly guided her, positioning her head over his waist. When he was finished with her, she slipped off the couch and onto the floor, her face twisted in a grimace of disgust. Cameron, however, seemed satisfied—if not amused.
"Remember," Cameron said, "never show a negative reaction to anything. He’ll want to see a sly little smile, not a sour face." He gave her a stern look. "And don’t crawl back into bed afterward. He won’t need you for at least forty minutes, maybe more. Go to the bathroom, clean yourself up, and prepare breakfast. You have a tray?"
Vera shook her head, unable to speak. Her throat burned with the sticky residue she couldn’t bring herself to swallow or spit out.
"I’ll buy you one today." Cameron’s voice softened slightly. "After he’s eaten, you’ll take away the tray, strip off your robe, and snuggle up next to him. Say something nice—compliment him. Men love compliments more than women because they hear them less often. Tell him he has strong arms, a broad chest—never comment on his manhood unless it’s exceptional, and don’t bring up his gray hair. Stick to what’s true, but only say what he wants to hear. Understand?"
Vera nodded silently, her face pale but expressionless, as if accepting her fate.
"Uh-huh," Cameron responded, his voice dripping with control. "Then march on into that bathroom. Take a shower. And show me what you’ve learned."
Vera hesitated for just a fraction of a second, her mind racing, but her body obeyed. She turned and walked towards the bathroom, the cold tile floor beneath her feet amplifying the chill that had settled deep inside her. The door closed behind her with a quiet click.
As the water cascaded over her skin, Vera felt the weight of her situation pressing down harder than ever. Each drop felt like a reminder of the path she was now forced to follow—a path of manipulation, deceit, and entrapment. The hot water couldn't wash away the heaviness, but it gave her a moment to collect herself, to build up the emotional armor she would need.
She shut off the water, dried herself quickly, and took a deep breath before stepping out of the bathroom. As she entered the room, her movements were careful and deliberate, each step a performance in the game Cameron had laid out for her. The quiet tension in the air was thick as she prepared to show him exactly what he'd asked for.
Her heart beat loudly in her chest, but her face remained calm, betraying none of the anxiety swirling inside her.
"I’m ready," Vera said, her voice barely above a whisper, yet steady.
Cameron looked up from where he sat, eyes scanning her coldly, as if she were nothing more than a pawn on his chessboard. "Good. Now let’s begin."

Chapter Eight
October 16, 1991. Uzin.
Uzin Airbase sprawled across the Ukrainian landscape, an imposing relic of Soviet military ambition. Built in 1937 as an unimproved airfield, it had grown over the decades into a massive military hub, housing an array of major Soviet bombers and attack aircraft. At the time of its construction, Stalin’s Soviet Union was expanding its air force to become the largest in the world, though it often lacked modern technology.
In 1939, squadrons of ANT-40 bombers arrived, fresh from their support of the Republican forces in the Spanish Civil War. However, their glory days were short-lived. In the early phases of the Great Patriotic War, these formations were decimated by the more advanced German BF-109s or destroyed on the ground by Yunkers-87 Stuka raids during the opening stages of the Battle of Kiev. By September 1941, Uzin had fallen to the Germans, functioning as a Luftwaffe fighter base until Soviet forces retook it in December 1943.
Post-war, Uzin was rebuilt by the Red Air Force, becoming a permanent fixture in Soviet military infrastructure. New concrete runways were laid down to support IL-4 medium bombers of the 303rd Bomber Aviation Regiment, and later the TU-4, a reverse-engineered Soviet copy of the American B-29, flown by the 106th Heavy Bomber Division.
By 1991, Uzin had grown into a bleak but vital military installation. The barren, concrete expanse was an eyesore, starkly contrasting the fertile Ukrainian land surrounding it. The base, though essential, was a crumbling relic of Soviet-era construction, where hastily built concrete buildings deteriorated rapidly. Shoddy Soviet concrete, mixed with too much sand and water to meet quotas, had led to buildings shedding chunks of their exteriors, with cracks running through plastered walls inside. Yet, despite its decay, Uzin housed some of the most important aircraft in the Soviet military arsenal.
The two and a half miles runway, which sliced across the landscape, was extended in 1955 to accommodate the massive TU-95 bombers. In the mid-1980s, it was further reinforced to serve as an emergency landing site for the Buran, the Soviet space shuttle. This runway remained the base's centerpiece, with refueling areas, aircraft parking, and revetments for TU-95s and IL-78 refueling planes forming a crown-like layout around it.
The town of Uzin, with a population of under twenty-thousand, was largely dependent on the airbase. Up to six thousand people worked at the base, though the locals harbored deep resentment toward the military presence—particularly the Russian officers stationed there. Despite their economic reliance on the base, many saw it as an unwelcome symbol of Soviet control.

At 10:30 a.m., Vera stood on the crowded bus from Belaya Tserkov to Uzin. The bus was old and grimy, a reminder of Soviet inefficiency, as it rattled over the bumpy road. She held the overhead rail tightly, trying to maintain her balance, while her mind raced with anxious thoughts.
“Is America worth the humiliations I’m enduring—and the ones yet to come?" Her stomach twisting as the weight of the situation settled deeper inside her. Cameron’s words echoed in her mind: “Get the job, get close to the general, and do whatever is necessary.”
Suddenly, a rough hand slid over her leg, creeping upwards with an uninvited boldness. She stiffened, her pulse quickening, as the coarse fingers hooked onto the fabric of her pantyhose beneath her skirt. The material stretched and tore under the pressure, leaving ugly runs in its wake.
Her face flushed hot with fury. Without hesitation, she turned to the unshaven man behind her, eyes blazing with a quiet but lethal rage.
"Buzz off, you old goat. Or I'll knock your teeth into the back of your throat."
The man froze, his hand lingering a second longer as if testing her resolve. Vera’s jaw clenched, her body tense with disgust. With one swift movement, she lifted her heel and brought it down hard onto his foot, the sharp point of her boot digging into his instep.
The man yanked his hand away, grunting in pain. He shoved her roughly, trying to reclaim some of his lost pride, but the damage was already done. Vera didn’t flinch. She held her ground, her breath steady as he limped back, muttering curses under his breath.
"No," she thought, the fire of anger still burning within her, "I can endure this. I just have to be patient.”
Viacheslav Kondrativich had promised her that the operation would last a month, maybe two. "In America, I won’t need to ride public transport. He’ll buy me a sports car, something sleek. A Jaguar." She smiled bitterly at the thought. "And no one will ever lay a hand on me again unless I want them to."

Her thoughts shifted as the Uzin Air Force base loomed ahead. To the left of the main checkpoint, standing like a relic of a bygone era, was an aging TU-95. Perched on a concrete pedestal, the massive aircraft—the Bear—seemed to silently guard the entrance to what had once been a symbol of Soviet might.
The TU-95, with its hulking silver body and swept-back wings, wore its red stars proudly on its fuselage and towering tail. Even now, grounded and retired, the plane looked powerful, its massive Kuznetsov NK-12 engines still fitted with the iconic 8-bladed counter-rotating propellers that once roared as loudly as thunder. Vera had heard stories about the Bear’s reputation—the fastest propeller-driven aircraft ever built, and one of the noisiest, its deafening roar unmistakable. To some, the Bear was a legend. To others, it was a nightmare.
The Bear was more than just a war machine; it had carried the weight of history. It had been the mainstay of the Soviet Cold War strategic nuclear bomber force, the very aircraft that dropped the Tsar Bomb, the largest thermonuclear weapon ever detonated. The 50-megaton explosion had echoed across the world as a reminder of Soviet power. Now, the old bomber stood frozen in time, resting on its massive tricycle landing gear, its flight days long behind it.
As Vera approached the checkpoint, the Bear’s cold, metal frame seemed to loom over her, its in-flight refueling probe pointing directly at her like an accusing finger. The aircraft, once a symbol of Soviet strength, now felt like an omen—a silent threat, watching her every move. But Vera barely spared it a glance. Her mind was elsewhere, consumed by the task ahead.
The sounds of engines and distant voices filled the air as she made her way to the administrative building, clutching her employment documents. Her heart pounded in her chest, not just from fear, but from the sheer magnitude of what she was about to do.

The duty sergeant at the guard station glanced up as she neared. Vera adjusted her coat and steeled herself, putting on a calm, practiced smile. The game was only beginning, and she had no choice but to play her part perfectly.

"Can you kindly tell me where I can find the pilots' mess?" Vera inquired, her voice steady but impatient.
The sergeant smirked, leaning casually against the gate. "I could tell you," he teased, "but then I’d have to kill you."
Vera’s face remained stony, clearly unamused by the joke. Her eyes narrowed, locking onto the sergeant’s face with a gaze that cut through his bravado. The smirk faded from his lips as he felt the weight of her silence.
Clearing his throat, the sergeant straightened up, adopting a more serious tone. "Why do you need to go there?" he asked, his earlier flippancy gone.
"I’m applying for a job," Vera replied curtly, her words clipped.
The sergeant studied her for a moment, the tension hanging in the air. "It’s forbidden to allow civilians through the gate without an escort," he said after a pause. "Wait here."
A flicker of something crossed his face, and his thoughts wandered momentarily. "Though I’d certainly let you into the guard post alone... maybe for a little show," he mused to himself, biting back a grin. But sensing that Vera was not someone to be trifled with, he quickly suppressed the thought and called over one of the soldiers on duty.
"Petrenko!" the sergeant barked. "Take this lady to the pilots' mess and be quick about it."
"Yes, Sergeant," replied the young soldier, snapping to attention.
Vera glanced at the fresh-faced conscript, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen, his new khaki uniform stiff and slightly oversized, the blue epaulets too bright against the dull fabric. A Kalashnikov bayonet dangled from his belt, making him look like a boy dressed up for a parade rather than a soldier guarding a military base.
As they walked away from the checkpoint, Petrenko turned toward Vera, trying to strike up conversation, his voice tinged with nervous politeness. "So, lady... how old are you?" he asked, his eyes flicking between her and the path ahead.
"Close," Vera replied without looking at him.
The young conscript blinked in confusion. "What do you mean ‘close’?" he asked, clearly taken aback by the cryptic response.
Vera shot him a sharp glance, her lips curling into a faint sneer. "Wipe the snot from under your nose," she said, her voice dripping with malice.
Petrenko recoiled slightly, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. His attempt at small talk crushed, he bowed his head and chose silence over further humiliation. The sharp sting of her words had cut through whatever youthful confidence he had, and he walked in quiet deference beside her.
They continued through the base, passing the desolate parade ground, the looming mechanics' shop, and the dull gray electronics building. Soldiers and airmen watched them as they went, their eyes drawn to Vera like moths to a flame. Whistles and crude comments followed her wherever she stepped, the leering gazes of the men making it clear that she was an anomaly—fresh meat in a world where such appearances were rare.
Petrenko, stung by Vera’s earlier dismissal, kept his mouth shut, deciding it was safer to avoid any further damage to his pride. The walk to the mess hall stretched out in uncomfortable silence, though Vera barely noticed. She had become accustomed to the predatory stares, her mind focused solely on her mission.
When they arrived at the mess, the young conscript gestured meekly toward the door. "You can go inside here," he mumbled, his arm barely lifting as he pointed.
Without a word, Vera walked past him and entered the building. Petrenko turned quickly on his heel and hurried away, eager to escape her presence.
Inside the pilots' mess, the atmosphere was thick with the smell of fried food and cigarettes. The hum of low conversation filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clatter of dishes. Vera made her way through the tables until she spotted a waitress, her uniform slightly wrinkled and her expression one of wearied indifference.
"Excuse me, where can I find the chief of the mess?" Vera asked, her voice low but firm.
The waitress gave her a quick once-over, sizing her up with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. She seemed unimpressed but nodded curtly.
"Follow me."
Vera trailed behind the woman, her heels clicking softly against the worn linoleum floor as they ascended to the second floor. The waitress led her to an office at the end of the hall, where a nameplate hung on the door: "Chief of Mess. Stepanova Valentina.”
The waitress knocked briefly and opened the door without waiting for a response, gesturing for Vera to enter. "Good luck," she muttered before walking away, leaving Vera standing in the doorway.
Vera stepped inside, her eyes quickly scanning the room. Seated behind a cluttered desk was a middle-aged woman with sharp features, her hair pulled into a tight bun. She wore a stained, white smock that did little to hide her bulk. Years of indulgence, pilfered delicacies, and a life of sedentary routine had turned her into what could only be described as a hulking figure, far removed from any youthful vigor she once possessed.
The woman was hunched over a bowl of cabbage salad, stabbing at it with a fork as if it had personally offended her. As she bent forward, her heavy, fleshy breasts rested on the desk, adding to her air of careless disregard.
"Valentina, are you sick?" one of the waitresses called over her shoulder, pausing in the doorway.
Valentina grunted but didn’t look up. "No. Why?"
"Tearing into cabbage like that... maybe I should grab some meat from the kitchen for you?"
Valentina sighed heavily, her gaze still fixed on her salad. "I need to slim down. Can't even make it to the second floor without feeling like I'll collapse. Got on the butcher’s scale this morning—over a hundred kilos, and I’m only one sixty-five. So, yeah, Maria, I’ll stick to my cabbage."
With that, the waitress gave a nonchalant shrug and exited, leaving Valentina alone with Vera, who had been silently watching from the doorway. Valentina looked up, her eyes cold and critical as they swept over Vera’s slender figure. "What do you want?"
Vera remained composed. "I’m here to apply for a job. I’ve brought my application."
Valentina's eyes narrowed with immediate dismissal. "We’re not hiring. No vacancies." Her tone was sharp, clearly designed to shut the conversation down.
But Vera wasn’t about to give up so easily. She knew charm wouldn’t be enough here. Instead, she pulled out her employment record book, the edges slightly raised where a crisp hundred-dollar bill was tucked neatly inside. She handed it over to Valentina, letting the green flash of American currency speak on her behalf.
Valentina paused, wiping her greasy hands on a worn towel, then opened the book. Her eyes flicked briefly to the cash before her fingers deftly slid it into the drawer. Without a word, she adjusted her spectacles and pretended to read through Vera’s work history.
"Ros’ restaurant, huh?" she said after a moment, her voice neutral. "Why’d you leave? Stealing from the till? Or maybe you screwed over the wrong customer?"
Vera met her gaze evenly. "Neither. I got tired of it. The Ros’ is basically a brothel now. Every day, it’s the same—some guy pays for dinner, expects more by dessert. And every morning, I swear I won’t give in. But after a couple of drinks in the evening, it’s like clockwork." She shrugged, her lips curling into a sardonic smile. "You wake up cursing yourself, kicking some idiot out of your bed, promising it’ll be different tomorrow."
Valentina raised her eyebrows, clearly amused by Vera’s candor. "Sounds like you’ve seen it all. And now you want a fresh start?"
"That’s right," Vera nodded. "I’ve bought myself a small flat. I’m done with the games. I want to settle down—find someone decent. Maybe a pilot. Someone who doesn’t know me, doesn’t know my past."
Valentina chuckled, pushing her chair back from the desk with effort. "Smart girl. You're looking for a fresh batch of idiots, huh? Well, you’ve got a head on your shoulders, I’ll give you that."
Valentina glanced at her gold wristwatch before standing up with a groan. "Come on, let’s go see the chief of provisions. If I recommend you, he’ll take you on."
Before they left, Valentina gave Vera a knowing look. "You’ve got another ‘recommendation’ for him, right?"
Vera nodded. "I do."
"Good. Stick it in your record book again—it’ll make things go faster."

The chief of provisions, Major Vikhrov, was busy in the general assembly hall, his stern face twisted in displeasure as he conducted a food tasting. The man was trim, unusually so for someone in his position. At thirty, Vikhrov had developed a disciplined routine during his time at the Yaroslavl Higher College for logistics. He refused to eat anything outside of breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Now, his hawkish gaze was focused on a plate of cutlets that sat before him.
"What is this?" he growled at the head chef standing nearby. "How many times do I have to tell you—cutlets should hold together. These fall apart the moment you touch them!"
The chef, sweating slightly under the pressure, mumbled, "We followed the recipe. Meat, onion, bread—everything’s as it should be."
Vikhrov waved a hand dismissively. "I don’t care what you put in them. You could make them out of garbage for all I care, as long as they stay together. Pilots don’t care about taste—they care about quality. Serve this again, and I’ll have you replaced."
The chef hurriedly gathered the plates and scurried away, leaving Vikhrov to turn his attention to Valentina and Vera.
"What do you want, Valentina?" Vikhrov asked, his voice slightly softer, though his expression remained stern.
Valentina stepped forward. "I’ve brought a new girl. I think she’ll be a good fit."
Vikhrov’s eyes slid to Vera, his lips twitching in faint amusement. "New, huh?" He gestured for the head chef to leave, and as soon as the man was out of earshot, he lowered his voice. "Her papers in order?"
"Yes, everything checks out," Valentina replied smoothly.
Vikhrov nodded, then glanced at Vera. "Let’s see the record book."
Vera handed it over, the hundred-dollar bill once again slipping into Vikhrov’s eager fingers. He glanced at it briefly before shoving it into his pocket.
"Vera, is it?" he asked, looking her up and down with an appraising eye. "Well, Vera, let’s see what you're made of." He shifted in his chair, spreading his legs slightly, a lecherous grin spreading across his face as he began unbuttoning his pants.
"Valentina, wait outside. I won’t need long." He chuckled darkly, not bothering to hide the lust in his voice. "Five minutes should do the trick."
Valentina smirked, brushing crumbs from her smock as she moved toward the door. "Just don’t forget, Major. The pilots are expecting lunch in less than half an hour."
"Don’t worry," Vikhrov sneered. "This won’t take long."
As the door clicked shut behind Valentina, Vikhrov gestured toward the space between his boots. "Come here."
Vera’s stomach twisted in disgust, but she kept her expression blank, refusing to show him the revulsion bubbling up inside her. She leaned forward, her hands gripping his thighs for balance, feeling the tug of his fingers in her hair as he guided her movements. His rough handling only heightened her silent loathing, but she knew this was a test she had to pass.
Vikhrov grunted, his breath becoming ragged as he exerted control over her. He lasted barely three minutes, finally releasing her with a grunt of satisfaction.
Vera rose, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. "Is that all?" she asked, her voice flat, betraying nothing.
Vikhrov leaned back, buttoning his pants with a lazy grin. "You passed the test, Vera. Welcome aboard." He waved her off with a dismissive flick of his hand. "Tell Valentina you start tomorrow."

Chapter Nine
October 16, 1991. Moscow.
Vera was on a bus heading to Belaya Tserkov, while Lieutenant-Colonel Sergunin sat in his office, reviewing a report from one of his subordinates.
"From your report, I don't understand—did you establish the location and timeline of the target's movements?" Sergunin asked without lifting his eyes from the paper.
"I did, sir," the KGB captain replied stiffly.
"Then explain how you managed to lose him."
"I placed a bug on the inside collar of his coat, but in Kiev, MacKay changed his clothes entirely. He left his coat behind in the train compartment."
Sergunin’s eyes narrowed. "And why didn’t you follow him?"
The captain hesitated. "He got off the train just before it left. The conductor shut the door behind him and refused to let me out. I showed her my ID, but she just said, ‘You’re done giving commands. We don’t have to listen to you anymore.’ By the time I tried to convince her, it was too late. I believe she may have been in on it."
Sergunin’s lips curled in disdain. "You expect me to believe that an American managed to turn a Soviet woman against the state in just a few moments? That the terror we instilled in them for seven decades disappeared in a heartbeat?"
The captain remained silent, shifting uncomfortably under the Lieutenant-Colonel’s piercing gaze. Sergunin tapped his pen against the desk rhythmically before dismissing him with a wave. "You’re free to go."
As Viktor turned to leave, Sergunin added, "Call Lvov. Instruct the local officers to recover the position transmitter from his coat. All of MacKay’s belongings should already be in the hands of the Ukrainian security forces."
Viktor nodded and exited quickly, grateful to escape the intense scrutiny. Returning to his own office, he retrieved a folder of current assignments from the safe but stared at it blankly. “This is a mess,” he thought bitterly. “A few hours of lost control with some slut in a train compartment, and now I’m in real trouble. If I had just lost MacKay, I’d get off with a reprimand. But now Sergunin is going to dig deeper, and if they uncover the details…”
His stomach twisted with anxiety. “And if they find out the girl I was with was a minor? I won’t just be fired; I’ll be jailed. Not for three or four years, but maybe eight. The prosecutor will link everything—say that because I was distracted, I let an American spy escape, and who knows what damage MacKay will do in Ukraine.”
He clenched his fists, pushing his plate of food away in disgust. His appetite had vanished.
“If they crack the conductor tomorrow, it’s over. She’ll spill everything in minutes.” The thought hung heavily over him. “I’ll have to find a way to meet the train before anyone else does.”
Later that night, Viktor strolled aimlessly down Gorky Street, lost in thought. The cold Moscow air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. His mind was spinning. He needed a way to clean up the mess before it spiraled further out of control.
He stopped near the Intourist Hotel, leaning against a lamppost and surveying his surroundings. A few meters away, three young women stood at the edge of the sidewalk, eyeing the passing cars. From time to time, a vehicle would pull over, and the women would unbutton their long coats, giving drivers a glimpse of what they were offering.
A sleek black Audi rolled up to the curb. The driver lowered the window on the passenger side and beckoned one of the women over. She leaned into the car, exchanging a few words, then returned to her spot, looking disappointed.
Viktor watched, detached. “Everything comes at a price,” he thought, his eyes flicking back to the women as another car slowed to a stop. “And some prices are steeper than others.”
As the night crept on, his mind turned to his plan for tomorrow. He couldn’t afford to let anyone else get to the conductor first. He needed to clean up this situation before it blew up in his face.
“I have until tomorrow morning to figure this out,” he reminded himself, pushing off the lamppost and continuing down the street. “One mistake is all it takes to ruin everything.”

A black Audi cruised up to the sidewalk and came to a stop. The engine idled, a soft rumble beneath the night’s hum. The tinted window on the passenger side slid down, revealing a shadowy figure behind the wheel. He beckoned the nearby prostitutes with a silent gesture. One of the women, tall and thin, sauntered up to the car, her heels clicking against the pavement. She leaned in, resting her hands on the open window. They exchanged a few murmured words—too low for anyone to hear—and she straightened up with a bored shrug, returning to her colleagues by the hotel steps.
Viktor had been watching from across the street, standing in the shadows. His pulse quickened. It was the perfect moment. The driver hadn’t turned his head to check the car behind him yet, too busy sizing up the women.
Viktor’s gaze darted between the man and the Audi. His breathing slowed as he readied himself for the move. Without a sound, he stepped off the curb, his boots hitting the pavement lightly, like a predator closing in on unsuspecting prey. He didn’t need to run—just a few quick, silent strides. Before the driver could turn, Viktor slipped behind the car, opened the driver’s door, and slid into the seat. The leather was cold against his back. His hands found the wheel. The key was still in the ignition, trembling under his touch, the engine growling softly, waiting for command.
He didn’t look back. There was no time. Viktor slammed the door, gripped the gearshift, and pressed the gas. The Audi roared as the tires screeched against the pavement, tearing away from the curb with a burst of speed.
The driver spun around, his face contorting in shock as he saw his car disappearing down the road. He jammed his hands into his pockets, searching for his cellphone. His fingers came up empty. “Shit!” he muttered under his breath. The phone was still in the glove compartment—back in the car now speeding away into the night.
Panic rising, he turned to the women. "Was that a friend of yours?" His voice wavered, half-pleading, half-demanding.
They didn’t answer. They simply glanced at him, eyes gleaming with amusement, and sauntered back to the hotel steps, cigarettes hanging loosely from their lips. One of them smirked, flicking ash onto the sidewalk.
"I’m calling the police," he sputtered, his voice cracking with frustration.
“Call them, you jackass,” the tall one shot back, her words sharp as a blade.
The man bristled, fists clenched, but before he could retort, two policemen strode out from the hotel lobby. Their polished boots clacked against the concrete steps as they descended, their eyes locking on the panicked man.
"What’s the problem, sir?" the Sergeant asked, his tone smooth but laced with indifference.
The man jabbed a finger toward the disappearing Audi. “That... that pimp stole my car! He’s in league with these prostitutes!”
The women chuckled softly, their laughter drifting through the air like smoke.
The Sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “Did they show you any documents?” he asked calmly, his voice barely above a whisper.
The man blinked, confused. “Who?”
“The pimp and the prostitutes,” the Sergeant clarified, his gaze unblinking.
“No, but it’s obvious who they are! Anyone can see!” The man’s desperation made him reckless.
“I don’t see it,” the Sergeant replied, his voice cold and measured. “And I don’t think my partner does either. Do you, Andrei?”
The other policeman shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Nope. Looks like a misunderstanding to me.”
Before the man could argue, the Sergeant’s face twisted into a cruel smile. Without warning, he drew his truncheon and, with a swift, practiced motion, jabbed it into the man’s solar plexus. The blow landed with a dull thud, knocking the wind out of him. The man gasped, his eyes bulging as he doubled over in pain, clutching his stomach. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, coughing and wheezing.
Leaning down, the Sergeant placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, his grip firm. “You’re going to leave now,” he whispered, his voice dripping with menace. “Or do we need to call a squad car for you?”
The man, still gasping for breath, shook his head weakly. “I’ll go,” he croaked.
“Good boy,” the Sergeant sneered, patting him on the back as he straightened up. The man staggered to his feet, his face pale, sweat beading on his brow. Without another word, he stumbled away, disappearing into the crowd.
The policemen exchanged a glance, then turned back to the hotel. As they passed the women, the Sergeant muttered, “You’re losing business. Wrap up your smoke break and get back to work.”

While the owner of the Audi argued fruitlessly with the corrupt policemen and their cronies outside the hotel, Viktor had long since left the chaos behind. The road stretched out before him like a ribbon of silence as the black Audi slipped past the last traffic policeman’s post on the Moscow Ring Road and headed toward Obninsk.
The train from Lviv would arrive in the small Moscow suburb at five in the morning—its final stop before reaching the capital. According to the schedule, it would only pause there for three minutes. Viktor had plenty of time. Two hundred kilometers of smooth, dark highway lay ahead of him, and six hours to make the drive.
His mind worked through the possibilities as he drove, his eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror out of old habit. The dull glow of the dashboard lights cast faint shadows across his face, accentuating the lines of tension around his mouth. "If I catch both the aunt and her niece in the same compartment, I can wrap this up quickly," he thought. His fingers drummed lightly on the steering wheel. "It'll be more difficult if the girl has company. That’ll complicate things." He popped a piece of chocolate from his pocket into his mouth, letting it melt on his tongue. "But there’s also the chance she got spooked and didn’t even board the train." He exhaled through his nose, his lips curling into a brief, dark smile. “Either way, I’ll deal with the conductor. By eight, I’ll be back at work. No loose ends.”
Viktor hummed softly, recalling an old Soviet song from his youth: "Hope, my earthly compass, and luck is a reward for courage." The words seemed to echo in his mind as the kilometers flew by, the Audi eating up the road under the starless sky.
By three in the morning, he parked the car at the entrance of a crumbling apartment building near the train station. The neighborhood was desolate, the streetlights flickering weakly, casting long, uneven shadows. Viktor got out, locking the car behind him. He walked through the cold night air toward the station, hands deep in his pockets, his breath forming small clouds in the chill.

The train from Lviv pulled into Obninsk precisely on schedule. The long line of cars screeched to a slow stop. Out of the eighteen cars, doors slid open on only three. Viktor moved swiftly, retrieving a three-faceted railway key from his pocket, his fingers brushing the cold metal like an old friend. Without hesitation, he approached the rear sleeping car and let himself in.
The train shuddered and began to move again.
Viktor stood for a moment in the narrow, dimly lit corridor, listening. The gentle rocking of the train blended with the rhythmic clattering of the tracks beneath. He made his way to the conductor’s compartment at the end of the car, pausing just outside the door. The silence inside told him what he needed to know.
“They’re asleep. Good,” he thought.
He carefully turned the handle and slipped inside, closing the door softly behind him. The small compartment was bathed in the faint, eerie blue glow of the nightlight. Maria lay sprawled on the lower bunk, her eyes covered with a towel. She was snoring lightly, her chest rising and falling with deep, slow breaths.
Viktor stepped closer, his movements precise and controlled. He reached out and, with deliberate gentleness, removed the towel from Maria’s face, then clamped his gloved hand tightly over her mouth.
Her eyes flew open, wide with terror. She jerked upright, but Viktor’s hand pressed her back down onto the bunk, his weight pinning her in place.
“Shh,” he whispered, leaning close, his breath hot against her ear. “Where’s the girl?”
He felt her trembling beneath his grip, her pulse quick and erratic under his palm. Slowly, he lifted his hand from her mouth.
“She... she stayed in Lviv,” Maria stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. Fear clung to her words.
Viktor frowned. Disappointing, but not a disaster. “Too bad. I wanted to see her.”
Maria swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Please... I didn’t—”
“Quiet,” he cut her off, his voice cold and commanding. “You don’t look too bad yourself, though you’re a bit... mature for my taste.”
Maria flinched, her face flushing with a mix of anger and humiliation. “I’m only thirty-seven,” she managed to say, her voice shaking.
“That’s what I said,” Viktor replied, his tone laced with mockery. “A bit too old.” He paused, glancing at his watch. “Get up and make me some coffee,” he ordered, sitting back on the bunk, crossing his legs as if he were a guest in someone’s home. "You’ve got about an hour and a half before we reach Moscow. Make it quick."
Maria’s heart pounded in her chest. She slowly stood, her legs unsteady beneath her. Without a word, she took a cup from the small shelf and sprinkled a packet of instant coffee into it. Her hands shook as she made her way down the narrow corridor to the train’s boiler, her mind racing. "How did he find me? God, if Olena comes back before we reach Moscow, he’ll destroy her."
The boiling water hissed into the cup, filling the compartment with the bitter smell of instant coffee. Maria returned to find Viktor lounging on her bunk, casually eating a cookie. His white gloves gleamed in the dim light, spotless.
“He’s wearing gloves,” she thought, her stomach turning. “He doesn’t even want to stain his hands.”
Viktor took the cup from her without a word, examining the liquid with disinterest. He took two more packets of coffee from the table and dumped them into the cup, stirring slowly.
“You should brew it stronger for special guests,” he said with a smirk.
“I... I didn’t know how you liked it,” Maria muttered, trying to keep her voice steady.
Viktor took a long sip, savoring the bitter taste before setting the cup down on the floor. He leaned back against the wall, his eyes fixed on her. “All right. Lift your skirt and take off your panties.”
Maria hesitated, but she knew there was no escape. Her fingers fumbled as she pulled down her warm pantyhose and tugged off her plain panties, letting them fall to her knees. Her dark blue skirt bunched up around her waist, exposing her thighs, cold and pale in the low light.
“Turn around,” Viktor instructed, his voice devoid of emotion. “Bend over.”
Maria obeyed, her face burning with shame as she braced herself against the small table in the compartment. Her mind raced, her thoughts a blur of desperation and fear. She prayed it would be quick, that it would be over soon.
Behind her, Viktor unbuckled his belt, the sound unnervingly casual, as if this were just another part of his routine. He stepped forward, his hand reaching out to grab a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back toward him with a rough jerk.
“You know, I don’t really have time for this,” he muttered, his voice low and cold. “But I think I’ll make an exception.”

Maria lay bent over the small table, her body pressed against the cold, hard surface. The white curtain with the blue inscription "Lviv" barely grazed her hair. She rested her cheek against the fabric, staring at Viktor with wide, terrified eyes, her breath shallow and irregular. The KGB officer sat on the bunk, his movements deliberate and mechanical, watching her with the cold detachment of a predator.
As Viktor rose to his feet, he picked up a pillow from the bunk and tossed it to her.
“Put it under your head. It’ll be softer,” he said, his voice flat, emotionless.
For a brief, absurd moment, Maria’s mind seized on the gesture. How thoughtful, she thought bitterly, her lips tightening into a grim line. Before sex, men’s hearts always soften when they see a woman bent over, exposed. She shifted the pillow beneath her head, trying to ignore the sick knot in her stomach. Rising on her toes, she parted her buttocks with her hands, bracing herself against the table.
Viktor stepped closer, his body looming over her. He pressed his hand firmly against her back, trailing his other hand over her hips with an eerie sense of ownership. Without a word, he grabbed a fistful of her hair, turning her face down into the pillow.
He’s shy, Maria thought sarcastically, even as her breath hitched. All these women, and he’s still shy. Just don’t press my face too hard, or I won’t be able to breathe.
But something about the air shifted, the atmosphere thickening with an invisible tension that made her stomach lurch.
Viktor’s grip on her hair tightened. The room felt too quiet. Then, with one swift motion, he pulled a knife from his jacket pocket. The click of the blade as it extended sent a wave of cold dread through Maria, freezing her thoughts mid-sentence.
What the hell was that?
She had no time to process, no chance to react. The blade flashed, reversed in his hand, and in the next instant, it sank deep beneath her left shoulder blade with brutal precision.
A violent shudder ripped through Maria’s body, her muscles convulsing in response to the shock and pain. Viktor pressed her head into the pillow, muffling any sound she might have made. The dark spot of blood bloomed across her grey shirt, seeping into the fabric like an ink stain, spreading in uneven tendrils. Her legs twitched in a frantic, helpless rhythm, as if trying to escape.
Her muffled scream never found its way out. All that escaped her throat was a grotesque gurgling sound, the result of her smothered face pressed into the pillow.
The woman's struggles grew weaker, her body losing the last vestiges of fight as death crept over her. Slowly, she slipped from the crumpled blanket, collapsing limply to the floor of the compartment. Viktor stood over her, expressionless, as he withdrew the blade. A dull, wet sound accompanied its release.
He knelt down, carefully lowering her body into the narrow space between the bunks. Her lifeless eyes stared up at him, wide and unseeing.
"You wrote us off too soon, bitch," Viktor muttered, his voice low and full of contempt as he stared into the dead woman’s vacant gaze. “We’re still in power. We’re still in command.”
He moved with cold efficiency, opening the window of the compartment. The wind from the speeding train whipped into the small space, tugging at the curtains. In the distance, the faint glow of Moscow's city lights began to emerge from the darkness. Viktor tossed the bloodied knife out into the night, watching as it disappeared into the void. Then, with mechanical precision, he threw out the glass and its holder that Maria had used earlier.
His gaze flicked back to Maria's corpse, the blood soaking into her clothes and pooling on the floor. He crouched down one last time, pulling a small wad of rolled-up dollars from her blouse pocket. The money felt weightless in his gloved hand.
Without another glance, Viktor slipped out of the compartment, closing the door quietly behind him. The rhythmic clatter of the train tracks beneath him was the only sound left in the silence.

Viktor stepped off the subway at Lubyanka Square, merging seamlessly with the tide of commuters, none aware of the shadows that haunted his thoughts. His pulse remained steady, his face betraying nothing.
Thirty minutes later, he sat in his office, the weight of his actions already swirling in the background, like a shadow waiting to overtake him.
It was eleven when his friend, the Senior Lieutenant, appeared at the door, his face taut with suppressed tension.
“Viktor, your conductor was murdered last night.”
Viktor looked up, feigning surprise. “Oh, go on.”
“I’m serious. Knifed in the back just before the train pulled into Kiev station. I found her on the floor of the conductor’s compartment, half-naked, face down.” The Senior Lieutenant’s voice faltered slightly. “The coroner said she wasn’t raped, though. It means she probably knew the killer. I’ve just come from the morgue.”
Viktor leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the desk. “Why do they think she knew the murderer?”
“No adrenaline in her blood. She wasn’t even frightened before she died. Makes it worse, somehow. Anyway, don’t go far. The chief wants to talk to you. Expect a call from him in an hour.”
“Why not sooner?”
“He’s with the niece right now. When he’s done questioning her, you’re up next.”
“Understood.” Viktor gave him a tight smile. “I’ll be here.”
As soon as the door clicked shut behind his friend, Viktor’s calm fa;ade shattered like glass. His hands moved with quiet urgency as he opened the safe. Inside were his essentials: a loaded Makarov 9mm pistol with two spare magazines, three forged passports, and enough cash to vanish if necessary. He took what he needed, his pulse quickening with every second.
He needed to disappear—now.

At 13:30, Lieutenant-Colonel Sergunin stood before the General, his voice steady but his heart pounding with the weight of his next words.
“Comrade General, I believe we have solid evidence to suggest that Captain Viktor murdered the conductor of the Lviv-Moscow train last night.”
The General’s eyes narrowed. “Why would he commit such an act?”
Sergunin laid out the details, explaining Viktor’s failed mission, the suspicion surrounding him, and the growing administrative investigation.
The General’s lips thinned. “And you sent the Senior Lieutenant to warn him?”
“The evidence against Viktor was circumstantial at best. I thought it wiser to confront him than let things fester. By fleeing, he’s as good as confessed. I’d like to issue a warrant for his arrest.”
The General’s voice was like ice. “Do it. You know this man well?”
“I’ve commanded him for six years.”
“And what do you think he’ll do now?”
“He’ll stay in Moscow. He has no foreign contacts. The criminal underworld would sooner kill him than hide him. We know all his connections, all his hideouts. We’ll have him within weeks.”
“Good,” the General replied indifferently. “But let me be clear: if you fail to find him within a month, you won’t see your forty-fifth birthday in service. For now, report him as being on vacation. Get to work.”

Chapter Ten
Belaya Tserkov
Vera stepped inside her apartment, instantly sensing the transformation. A new strip of carpet stretched towards the kitchen, soft beneath her feet. She kicked off her shoes, her eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings.
On the massive, luxurious bed—far grander than her own—lay Cameron, casually flipping through a glossy issue of Penthouse. He wore a tracksuit, and the golden frames of his glasses glinted under the muted light. The room had been transformed into something out of a high-end catalog: sleek magazine racks filled with Playboy and Penthouse, an elegant mahogany chest supporting a widescreen television, a stereo system, and a VCR. The cheap chandelier that once hung from the ceiling was gone, replaced by tall, modern torchieres in every corner, casting a soft, upward glow that felt almost theatrical.
Vera felt out of place, like a visitor in her own home, but she couldn’t deny the allure of her surroundings. Everything screamed luxury, and it was all hers—at least for now.
She approached the bed and ran her hand across the silky blanket. “Is all this for me?”
“Yes,” Cameron replied without looking up. “But that’s not the point. Did you get the job?”
Vera hesitated, her mind flashing back to the humiliations she’d endured. “Yes, but to get it, I had to—”
Cameron waved his hand dismissively, cutting her off. “Spare me the details. Think about this instead: soon you’ll have an apartment five times this size, with furniture ten times more expensive. You’ll be living in the States, and all of this,” he gestured at the room around them, “will be junk you’ll throw away.”
Vera’s heart skipped a beat. She was so close to that dream, but at what cost?
“We’re solving global problems here,” Cameron continued, his tone hardening. “What you’ve been through, what you’ll go through—it’s meaningless. You’re about to enter the world of high-level politics. You’re going to be of tremendous use to your present and future countries. Now, eat something, take a shower, and come back. We’ve got more work to do.”
Vera moved into the kitchen, her stomach churning. The changes in there were subtler—a new microwave, a coffee maker. The gas range and table remained untouched. She ate quickly, her mind racing, then showered and slipped into the robe Cameron had left for her. It was short, too short, and the soft fabric clung to her damp skin uncomfortably.
She crossed the room to retrieve clean underwear from the bureau, but Cameron’s voice stopped her cold.
“Where are you going?”
“I was going to get dressed,” Vera said, her voice betraying a hint of hesitation.
“Forget it,” Cameron snapped. “I’m your general. Your job is to think about me, not yourself. You need to focus on driving me crazy. You only have two weeks to perfect it.”
“I understand,” she muttered, though her stomach turned.
“Good. Then why are you planning to get dressed?”
Vera shrugged, at a loss for words. The room felt suffocating, the robe tighter than before.
Cameron leaned forward, his tone commanding. “Walk over to the magazine rack. Don’t sit—bend over, slowly, so I can see your breasts through the opening of the robe. Then turn your back to me and go to the VCR. Bend again, show me your legs. Do everything smoothly, slowly.”
Vera’s skin crawled, but she did as instructed, her movements robotic. As she inserted the cassette, she heard the lewd sounds of a German porn film fill the room. It made her nauseous, but she kept her expression blank.
“Foreplay isn’t just about touching, Vera,” Cameron lectured, his voice filled with cold calculation. “A general at forty-eight values the build-up more than the act. He’ll want to admire you, to know you’re his, but you need to draw it out. Massage his back, his neck, dance for him, entertain him. Keep him interested. When he can’t resist anymore, that’s when you make your move. And don’t forget—you need to keep him here, distracted, so he doesn’t rush home. He needs to be exhausted when he leaves you, so tired that thoughts of home won’t cross his mind.”
Vera knelt by the bed, feeling the weight of the robe on her shoulders. She untied the belt, letting the fabric fall to the floor. Cameron discarded his magazine, his gaze darkening as she crawled towards him on all fours, just as he’d instructed.
As Vera inched closer, Cameron’s thoughts drifted inward, shadowed by an uncomfortable duality. What sacrifices I make for Uncle Sam, he mused grimly, even as his body betrayed him, responding to the moment. His mind recoiled from what he was about to do, but his hands moved with mechanical urgency. He tore off his tracksuit with a hunger that felt both physical and ideological—a twisted devotion to duty. Seizing Vera by the waist, he pulled her beneath him with a forceful impatience, his actions driven by an unseen tension.
“A condom,” the girl whispered softly, almost like a last-minute thought.
“It’s too late,” Cameron grunted, his face contorting as if in pain.
It really is too late, Vera thought, her inner voice cold and calculating. What do I care, anyway? A cynical smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. It will be better if I get pregnant. The American will pay double to avoid a scandal. He’s married—he doesn’t need that kind of mess in his life.
Cameron woke at ten the next morning, the room thick with the warm scent of freshly brewed coffee. His body felt heavy, a strange mixture of satisfaction and revulsion weighing him down. He glanced over at Vera, sitting at the edge of the bed, lazily flipping through TV channels as if nothing significant had happened. The world continued on, indifferent.
Cameron tapped her back lightly with his toes, his gesture a silent command. Vera, understanding without words, turned and crawled under the blanket like a trained animal. The sensation of her tongue tracing the inside of his thigh sent a ripple of pleasure through him, but even as his body reacted, his thoughts churned with something darker. She’s good, he thought, almost too good.
It will be a shame to part with such a diligent student, a fleeting thought crossed his mind. But as soon as her mouth worked its way to him, he couldn’t think about anything anymore.

"Why aren’t you at work first thing in the morning?" he asked as she slid up next to him, her body pressed against his.
“I’m on the second shift. The regiment has night flights today, so I work from four in the afternoon until four in the morning,” she answered, her tone casual, as if discussing a mundane schedule rather than weaving herself deeper into a covert mission.
“Good,” Cameron murmured, though his mind was already elsewhere. “Try to get within eyeshot of the general. Behave boldly, but not impudently.”
“There’s a very narrow boundary between boldness and impudence,” Vera said, a playful edge to her voice. “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,” Cameron instructed, his tone cool, calculated.
“And on the second?” Vera asked with a teasing smile.
“On the second,” Cameron replied, eyes narrowing, “it’s obligatory.”
 
October 17, 1991. Uzin.
Night flights at Uzin Airbase kicked off promptly at twenty hundred hours. Pilots ate breakfast at seventeen hundred, then gathered for their preflight briefings, their faces a mix of routine and tension as they prepared for another grueling shift.
By midnight, the dining hall was chaos. Vera darted between tables, her tray loaded with dishes, maneuvering like she was running a marathon. Her legs ached, her arms burned, and each step felt heavier than the last. Exhaustion had wrapped its claws around her, but she couldn’t slow down. She glanced at the mountain of dirty dishes piling up, her mind recoiling in horror.
"Oh God... I'm never going to make it through this night. What have I gotten myself into?" The thought spiraled in her mind, heavy with regret. "If I have to feed them dinner too, I'll be dead before morning."
“Are you tired?” The voice of her boss, Valentina, broke through her thoughts.
“Like a dog,” Vera answered, breathless, slumping onto a chair between the rows of tables.
“It’s your first time,” Valentina said, her tone dismissive. “You’ll get a rest during dinner.”
“What?” Vera shot back, incredulous. “Fewer pilots?”
Valentina smirked, her lips twisting in a knowing grin. “No. But you’ll be going to the Air Traffic Control Tower to feed the night crew. Only ten officers there, so it’ll be quieter work.”
Vera furrowed her brow. “What’s the Control Tower?”
Valentina sighed, as if the question annoyed her. “The Command Dispatch Point,” she explained, using air quotes, “otherwise known as ‘The Tower.’ You’ll get used to the lingo. Just do what I say.”
By ten o'clock, Vera found herself crammed into the back seat of a military UAZ-469, the green hulk of a vehicle bouncing over uneven terrain. The soldiers sitting in the front snickered amongst themselves as the rough ride jostled her, but Vera paid them no mind. She clutched the handle beside her, trying to steady herself, her mind already focusing on the task ahead.
When the UAZ screeched to a stop in front of the Control Tower, Vera stumbled out. The soldiers, without even glancing back, carried the heavy army thermoses into the building, leaving her behind. With a sharp exhale, she adjusted her white cap, smoothed down her uniform, and caught a quick glimpse of her reflection in the window. Satisfied with her appearance, she straightened her posture and ascended the near-vertical ladder leading to the tower's glass-domed rooftop.
The Tower loomed above her, a multifaceted, ominous structure of brick and glass, casting long shadows across the airfield below. Inside the dome, the nerve center of the entire base, it was a different world. As Vera reached the top, she was swallowed by near darkness. Her eyes struggled to adjust, and for a moment, it felt like she’d stepped into an abyss.
"How the hell can they manage flights in the dark?" she thought, panic gnawing at her edges. Slowly, her vision adjusted, and shapes began to emerge from the gloom—four men and two women, quietly conversing, occasionally giving commands to the invisible aircraft above.
The glass dome offered a 360-degree view of the surrounding base. Stations were positioned to face all angles—each crew member immersed in their tasks, their faces lit by the faint glow of equipment.
To the left, the Communications Officer sat rigid, headphones on, eyes locked on his control panel as he relayed messages between the tower and the pilots in the sky. To his right sat the duty Navigator, responsible for guiding planes through poor weather and ensuring their precise approach. His face was creased with concentration, as if the weight of every aircraft lay in his hands. Next to him was the Senior Command Officer, typically a senior pilot overseeing the entire operation. But tonight, the divisional commander himself held that position—a silent testament to the importance of these night maneuvers.
At the center of the room were the plotting board operators—two women who barely acknowledged Vera’s presence. The tall brunette was all business, her uniform clinging tightly to her athletic frame, while the younger blonde casually puffed on a cigarette, the smoke curling lazily into the air, adding a thin layer of haze above their station. They shifted small metal toy planes around a giant plotting board, representing the real aircraft in the sky above—a delicate ballet of metal and mathematics.
The hum of vacuum tube equipment filled the air, a steady, droning sound that merged with the soft voices and the occasional scratch of metal on glass. Behind a thick black curtain at the far end of the room, a male voice droned monotonously, offering weather reports to the room.
Despite the muted chaos, no one paid Vera any attention. She stood awkwardly, thermos in hand, trying to decide what to do next. The scene was surreal, the dim light casting long, flickering shadows across the glass dome. The air felt thick, charged with tension, as if every command given, every movement made, had life-or-death consequences.
Vera was suddenly very aware of the gulf that lay between her and these people—people whose decisions shaped events in the sky, while her role was to serve them food. She wasn’t a part of this world; she was an outsider, just passing through. Yet, she was also playing a game—a dangerous game—one in which she needed to infiltrate and navigate this space with utmost care.
Her task tonight seemed simple: serve the officers. But Vera knew better. This wasn’t just about food. It was about proximity, about getting noticed by the right people, by the general. Cameron’s words echoed in her head: “Behave boldly, but not impudently.”
She was playing her part, but every moment in this glass-walled fortress reminded her of how much was at stake. She had to be careful, precise. The room hummed with power, and she needed to find her way into its core without anyone realizing what she was truly after.
Vera took a deep breath, adjusted her tray, and made her way toward the men in charge. The night was only just beginning, and already, the air felt charged with an invisible, pulsing energy.

This revised version heightens the tension by focusing on Vera’s internal thoughts and the atmosphere within the Control Tower. The description of the setting is more detailed and immersive, capturing the cold efficiency of military operations while contrasting it with Vera's underlying anxiety and her clandestine mission. The mood is thick with suspense, positioning Vera in a game far more dangerous than simply serving food.

The radio crackled to life as the incoming aircraft's call sign echoed through the Control Tower.
“Call sign Two Four Eight, you are eight kilometers from the runway threshold, aligned and on glide path for landing,” came the steady voice of the control officer.
“Four hundred,” the pilot’s response, calm and measured, crackled through the speaker, indicating altitude in meters.
Vera, standing quietly near the door, felt the weight of the room pressing in on her. Her heart thudded in her chest, but she masked it with an outward calm. She had learned to observe, to blend into the background, yet every move here felt like it mattered. Every breath was drawn under the radar of these officers’ scrutiny.
“Two Four Eight, you are now six kilometers out, in line and on the glide path for landing,” the voice continued, its monotony a sharp contrast to the tension in Vera’s mind.
“Three hundred.”
The room buzzed with soft chatter, radios humming with constant communication. Two young women in military uniform stood over a large flight map, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the red battle lamps. The lights dimly lit the room, preserving the night vision of those inside. They moved small aircraft markers across the glass surface with practiced precision, barely acknowledging Vera's presence. A haze of cigarette smoke drifted lazily above them, curling toward the ceiling.
The General’s voice, deep and resonant, broke her thoughts. “Two Four Eight, you are now four kilometers out, in line and on the glide path for landing.”
Vera’s gaze shifted toward him. His back was broad, his uniform crisp, and he exuded an air of authority that filled the room. There was no mistaking him. That must be the General, she thought, a ripple of nervous energy passing through her. Her body tensed, but she kept her expression neutral.
"At this distance, the flaps and landing gear are down. Request permission to land," came the voice of the pilot, Igor Popov.
“You are cleared to land,” the General said, his baritone rolling through the room with a weight that made it seem more a command than permission.
Vera's eyes flickered to the man sitting to the left of the General—a senior officer with sharp features, his focus locked on two radar screens in front of him. The navigator adjusted his binoculars, peering out into the darkness. He scanned the approaching aircraft’s headlights as they cut through the blackened sky, nearing the runway.
“Turn on the searchlights,” he ordered, setting down the binoculars.
A bright flood of light filled the landing zone, momentarily blinding Vera. The colored lamps on the airfield—green, blue, and red—were swallowed by the intense white beams, and for a moment, the world outside the glass dome seemed to dissolve into nothing but light and shadow. Then, the silhouette of a massive IL-78 air tanker emerged, its wings outstretched like the dark specter of a leviathan descending from the heavens. The roar of its engines filled the air as they throttled back, the deafening sound rattling the Tower’s glass panels. The ground shook beneath them as the beast touched down, its engines reversing to slow its advance along the runway.
As the searchlights flickered off, the airfield returned to shadow, only the soft glow of distant lights marking the plane’s slow taxiing.
Vera barely had time to collect herself before the General turned in his seat, his eyes piercing through the dim light. “I can feel someone’s gaze drilling into my spine,” he said, his voice smooth but carrying an edge. “Judging by the uniform, you’re our waitress, here to deliver supper. Am I correct?”
Vera straightened. “Yes, Comrade General. Will you have it here, or would you prefer to eat downstairs in the dining room?” Her voice was steady, but inside, the nerves crackled like static electricity.
The General turned back to the desk, scanning his planner. “Valery Nikolaevich,” he addressed the flight shift duty navigator, “if crew Two Four Nine finishes ahead of schedule, keep them circling. I want to observe their landing myself.”
“Understood, Comrade General. I won’t clear anyone to land until you return,” the Lieutenant-Colonel replied, his eyes never leaving the radar screen.
The General stood, his imposing frame dominating the room. “Feed me, wet-nurse,” he said, his tone laced with a mix of authority and amusement, as if he enjoyed testing her composure.
Vera hesitated, her eyes darting toward the metal stairway. It descended sharply, its cold iron banisters slick with the moisture of the night air. She swallowed, unsure of how to gracefully maneuver down without faltering.
Sensing her hesitation, the General smiled—a predator’s smile, though his eyes revealed nothing. He stepped toward the stairs, moving with the fluid confidence of a man accustomed to being followed. He descended swiftly, his boots clanking against the rungs.
Vera, however, took her time, gripping the rail tightly as she descended each step, her movements cautious, deliberate. She could feel his eyes on her, but she dared not look up. Each step brought a fresh wave of tension, tightening her chest.
And yet, it wasn’t her careful descent that held his attention.
The General’s gaze had locked onto something else entirely—the sight beneath her skirt. As Vera gingerly climbed down, his eyes followed the long, smooth lines of her legs, pausing at the intimate space between them.
She wasn’t wearing any panties.
His breath caught for a moment, his mind flickering with a thousand thoughts—none of them professional. He stopped at the base of the stairs, his eyes trailing up her body as she descended the last few rungs.

The General’s hands instinctively reached upward as Vera descended the steep stairway. He stood just beneath her, poised to catch her if she stumbled, though his motives felt far from innocent. If she had slipped, her small, round bottom would have surely landed in his waiting palms. But Vera moved with cautious precision, her every step deliberate. As she reached the last rung, Gerasimov seized her firmly by the waist, lifting her effortlessly and placing her on the floor. His hands lingered, warm and possessive, a bit higher than her hips.
Vera looked up at him, her expression calm, but her eyes dancing with calculated charm. Cameron had been right—this man was not some aging, lecherous goat. He was built like a soldier, strong and commanding, his presence filling the room. She smiled at him, feeling his grip tighten briefly before he released her.
"Let’s go have something to eat, Comrade General," she said, her tone playful yet respectful, carefully testing the waters.
The General grinned, still not moving his hands from her waist. "My name is Aleksandr Gerasimov," he said, his voice a low rumble, intimate, almost inviting her to break the formalities.
"Vera," she responded with a smile, as she gently removed his hands from her hips and stepped aside. She sat down with an ease that made it clear she was comfortable in this game of seduction.
The General couldn’t hide his admiration. "I haven’t seen such beauties in a long time. Probably since I took command of this division and moved from Mozdok to Ukraine."
As they entered the small dining area of the Tower, Vera’s eyes took in the simple setup. There were only three tables. Two captains sat at one, deep in discussion. The officers, one a communications officer and the other a meteorologist, were dissecting Dynamo Kiev’s recent victory over Helsinki in the European Cup. The soldiers who had accompanied Vera sat slumped at the other table, their heads resting on their folded arms, dead asleep from exhaustion.
At the sight of the General, the captains immediately stood up, their ingrained military discipline kicking in. Though protocol didn’t require them to stand during mealtimes, old habits were hard to break.
"Sit down," Gerasimov waved them off with a casual flick of his hand. He turned to the meteorologist, his voice all business. "Sergei, any signs the weather might turn?"
The meteorologist stood stiffly, despite the General’s easy demeanor. "No, Comrade General. The barometric pressure is stable, and the wind will die down after midnight. The temperature will drop a bit, but there’s no indication of any worsening conditions."
"Good," Gerasimov nodded, then added with a grin, "Sit down, sit down. There’s no truth on legs, especially when you’re in the dining room."
"Thank you, Comrade General," the meteorologist responded, though he and the communications officer had already finished their meals. They both stood to leave, the latter sneaking a curious glance at Vera. As they walked past the table of sleeping soldiers, the communications officer gave one a rough shove.
The startled soldier shot upright, quickly rousing his comrade, and the two of them hurried out of the room, leaving Vera and the General alone.
Vera moved with deliberate grace, placing a plate of appetizers and a bowl of borscht in front of the General before sitting down across from him. The dim light in the small dining room added an intimate air to the space, amplifying the tension that seemed to hum between them.
Gerasimov, spoon in hand, wasted no time. "Girl, do you always walk around without your undies, or is tonight special?" His tone was playful but direct, testing the boundaries she might set.
Vera met his gaze, unflinching. "Only when it gets dark, General," she replied, her voice low, almost teasing.
The General chuckled, savoring his borscht. "I see you’ve got quite the tongue on you."
"It’s not just my tongue," Vera shot back, a wicked smile pulling at her lips.
Gerasimov leaned back, clearly amused by her boldness. "I take it. Do you live with your parents?"
"No," she replied, finishing her glass of water. "I’m a big girl. I’ve got my own place in B.Ts."
"B.Ts?" He arched a brow, momentarily confused.
"Belaya Tserkov," she clarified, leaning forward slightly, her body language drawing his attention.
The General’s eyes narrowed with interest. "I have an apartment in Belaya Tserkov, too. Though it’s a service flat. My real place is in Kiev."
“When I’m flying or directing the flights of the IL-78s or TU-95s from Uzin, I live in Belaya Tserkov. But when it’s the TU-160s from Priluki, I drive there from my Kiev residence.”
“That means you’re almost never home?” Vera asked, feigning casual interest.
“Well, what is there to do at home? My daughters have grown up and live separately now. My wife spends days at a time shopping, trying to adjust to city life. She never quite settled into Kiev. So, there’s nothing for me at home. For a man, the main thing is work.”
"Oh yes, I remember," Vera said, a playful smile curling on her lips as she sang a line from an old Soviet song:
"Because, because we are pilots,
The sky - the sky - is our home.
First of all we’ll spoil the planes,
But what about the girls? And then we spoil the girls.";
Gerasimov broke into laughter, his deep voice resonating through the room. The song’s cheeky irreverence, combined with Vera’s lively personality, had clearly charmed him.
“You’ve got a quick mind," he said, still smiling. "And some spirit. Have you been working at the mess long?”
“Today’s my first day,” Vera replied, leaning back with a mock sigh of exhaustion.
“And they put you straight on flights duty?”
“The boss took pity on me. I thought I might keel over from exhaustion while serving the third squadron.”
“Well, starting tomorrow, you’re working in the General’s Hall. I’ll personally see to it.”
Vera’s eyes widened in surprise. “Who else will be eating there?”
“The entire command staff of the transport regiment—about fifteen men, give or take.”
“Thank you, Comrade General. I won’t forget my debt.” Her voice dipped suggestively, her eyes glinting with playful promise.
“I hope not,” Gerasimov replied slyly, his gaze lingering on her a moment longer than necessary.

After her shift, Vera weighed her options. She could take her chances hitching a ride home or spend the night at the base. It didn’t take long for her to decide that sleeping on chairs in the dining room, however uncomfortable, was far safer.
She wasn’t worried about the usual dangers—being raped by a truck driver or the owner of some private vehicle. "One more man doesn’t make a difference at this point," she thought grimly. What truly unnerved her was the unpredictability of fear. A panicked driver might strangle her or bash her head in after realizing what he’d done.
"It’s better to endure a couple of hours on hard chairs than end up in a ditch with a fractured skull," she muttered to herself, using her purse as a makeshift pillow.

When Vera finally returned home, she was greeted by an unexpected surprise. A tall, narrow bookcase now stood proudly by the window. On its five shelves were the collected works of great Russian authors: Pushkin, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Kuprin. Her fingers brushed the worn covers in awe.
“Where did you get these?” she asked, turning to Cameron, who was lounging on the bed with a familiar magazine in hand.
"In a used bookstore. Russian classics were on sale," he replied, flipping through the pages lazily. “Apparently, no one in Ukraine wants them anymore.”
“You’re right about that,” Vera laughed. “Pavlo Tychyna and Lesya Ukrainka are all the rage now.”
"No one needs the old Russian stuff anymore," Cameron said, his tone indifferent. "Except you."
Vera’s eyes widened. “You really want me to read all this?”
“Maybe not all of it,” he replied, glancing at her over his magazine. “But you should read some, at least. And memorize a few passages.”
“Memorize?” she echoed, her tone incredulous.
“Yes. I’ve bookmarked the poems you need to learn by heart,” he said, without a hint of humor. Then, after a pause, his gaze sharpened. “Have you seen the General?”
Vera nodded, her expression becoming more serious. “Yes. He likes me.”
Cameron smiled, pleased with the answer. “Good. That’s the first step. Now, let’s see how you handle the rest.”
He tossed the magazine aside and stood, crossing the room with deliberate strides. As he approached Vera, there was a glint of something darker in his eyes, a mix of control and calculation. “The next few weeks will be crucial, Vera. Remember that.”
Vera held his gaze, her earlier confidence slipping slightly. The stakes were becoming clearer by the day, and the weight of Cameron’s words pressed down on her. But she nodded, forcing a smile, knowing that she couldn’t afford to falter now.
She was in too deep.
And there was no turning back.

Chapter Eleven
October 19, 1991. Uzin.
The radio crackled to life as the crew of a Tu-134 passenger liner, bearing the livery of the USSR Air Force, requested permission to land at the Uzin airfield. The tower was dimly lit, the familiar hum of machinery blending with the low murmur of voices within the control room. The air inside was thick with the smell of cigarette smoke, mingling with the metallic scent of equipment long past its prime.
Major Korolyov, lounging in his chair, his fingers tracing absent circles on the bare skin of the young tracking woman in his lap, blinked in irritation. The unexpected request pierced through the languid atmosphere of the night shift, pulling him back into focus. He looked down at her, half amused, half annoyed.
"This flight isn’t on the schedule," he muttered, tearing his lips away from her neck as he glanced at the planning table. His brow furrowed in disbelief as he reached for the phone, his tone dripping with the casual insolence that came with the rank he abused so freely.
“Sergei,” he said into the receiver, his voice low and lazy, “some fucker is asking to land. He’s not on the schedule. Should I send him off or let him land?”
The woman in his lap, sensing the shift in his attention, tried to wriggle free. He held her in place with one arm, winking at her, his voice turning conspiratorial as he whispered in her ear.
“Don’t rush off just yet. Maybe we’ll boot this character to another airfield, and then… we’ll continue.”
A chuckle escaped her, a nervous sound masked with forced nonchalance. She knew the game, but the chill in the Major’s tone hinted at something darker beneath the surface.
The operations officer’s voice came back over the line, tinged with irritation. “What are you doing sitting at the top? Goofing off again? Ask the crew commander what the hell he’s doing here.”
Korolyov sighed, rolling his eyes before keying the microphone. His hand lingered too long on the woman’s waist, a silent reminder of his power over her.
“65951, what is the purpose of your arrival?” His tone was a mixture of forced politeness and thinly veiled irritation.
“We have a VIP on board,” came the reply, crisp and to the point.
Korolyov leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking ominously under his weight. “A very important person,” he repeated sarcastically, his lips curling into a sneer as he pushed the woman from his lap. She stood, smoothing her rumpled skirt, casting a glance at the planning table where the Tu-134’s flight path flickered on the screen.
The sarcasm barely masked the unease creeping into Korolyov’s mind. VIPs didn’t land unannounced, especially not here, not in Uzin. His hand hovered over the phone as he called the regimental commander.
“There’s a VIP inbound, sir,” Korolyov reported.
“Who exactly is it on board?” the Colonel’s voice came through the loudspeaker, sharp and impatient.
“I don’t know, comrade Colonel,” Korolyov replied, the smugness of moments ago now replaced by a sliver of uncertainty.
“What the hell are you doing there, anyway? Find out immediately!” barked the Colonel, his voice cracking like a whip.
The tension in the tower thickened. The tracking woman, who had moved to the stairway, paused, looking back at the Major. He motioned for her to stay.
"Who exactly is on board?" Korolyov asked again, his voice tight.
“Two stars,” came the pilot’s reply over the radio.
Korolyov’s stomach twisted. “A Lieutenant-General,” he muttered, his tone dropping to a hushed whisper. He waved the woman away, signaling that whatever playful encounter they'd been having was over.

Meanwhile, speeding along the dark, narrow road from Belaya Tserkov to Kagarlyk, General Aleksandr Gerasimov gripped the wheel of his black Volga with the kind of reckless control that only a man of his rank could wield. His thoughts raced even faster than the engine, tangled with frustration and suspicion.
The headlights of his Volga sliced through the night, illuminating the empty road ahead. The vibration of the vehicle amplified as the speedometer needle climbed, nearing the car’s limits. A grim scowl settled on Gerasimov’s face, the lines etched deeper by the thought that gnawed at him. Which General is coming from Moscow to Uzin? And, more importantly, why wasn’t I informed?
He clenched his jaw, swerving to avoid a pothole, his mind already turning over the potential answers. Is this a surprise inspection? A sudden check of military preparedness? Or something worse?
The lights of the police checkpoint on the Odessa highway flickered in his peripheral vision, and for a split second, he caught sight of a traffic policeman waving frantically for him to stop. Gerasimov snorted, his foot pressing harder on the gas.
“He won’t catch me,” he muttered under his breath. The blue and red lights of the patrol car flashed in his rearview mirror for a brief moment before they vanished into the distance.
The black Volga was now a ghost inside the Uzin airbase as the police vehicle screeched to a halt outside the gates. The officer on watch barely lifted his head as the police sergeant, breathless from the chase, stormed up to him.
“Who was that?” the sergeant demanded, his face flushed with frustration.
The guard smirked, barely bothering to look up. “Where?”
“The Volga,” the sergeant snapped. “It just went in through your gates!”
The guard yawned, his apathy palpable. “What Volga?”
The sergeant's nostrils flared, his fists clenched at his sides. “The one that was speeding at a hundred-forty kilometers per hour!”
The soldier on watch shrugged lazily. “Oh, that. You must have imagined it. No one’s come through these gates in the last hour. We're strict about that.” His smile widened, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement.
The sergeant’s fury boiled just beneath the surface, but there was nothing more to be done. The Volga, along with the elusive General, had vanished into the shadows of Uzin, leaving behind nothing but unanswered questions and the simmering resentment of the law.

“Attention!” Popov’s voice rang out again, the suddenness of it jarring. He ran towards Gerasimov with stiff military precision, his hand raised for a formal salute.
The silence after Senior Lieutenant Popov’s blaring command still echoed in the control room as General Gerasimov stepped in. The air felt thick with tension, and the weight of something unspoken hung over the men in the room like a storm cloud.
“At ease,” Gerasimov said curtly, not even bothering to glance at the man. His eyes were already sweeping the room, his tone biting with the sort of cold disapproval that made every officer in the vicinity tense. “Any strangers at headquarters?”
Popov swallowed, his uniform suddenly too tight. “The Chief of the Air Force Staff, Lieutenant-General Kuznetsov,” he replied, his voice quieter now, almost apologetic.
“Why did you shout ‘Attention’ when a senior commander is already in the building?” Gerasimov’s voice took on a sharper edge. His words were measured, deliberate, like each one was a strike from a hammer, and each strike rang with displeasure.
Popov paled visibly, the blood draining from his face. “Guilty, Comrade General,” he stammered.
Gerasimov’s expression barely shifted. “You’d better study the regulations for internal duty service, Popov,” he said sternly. “That book should be your second bedtime reading, after the flight manual of the IL-78. Understand?”
“Yes, sir!!!”
“And stop yelling,” Gerasimov added, his voice now a low growl. “You’re a pilot, not some infantry grunt like General Shovel.” His face wrinkled in disdain, the slight curl of his lip betraying just how little he thought of the comparison.
Popov’s eyes widened in horror, the insult hitting him like a slap. He saluted again, barely managing to stutter out another “Yes, sir!” before retreating back into the shadows of the room, blending into the silence as if hoping to disappear altogether.

In the divisional commander’s office, the tension was no less palpable. Lieutenant-General Kuznetsov sat at the commander’s desk, his presence imposing, as though the air itself had to make room for his authority. He was flanked by the commander of the refueling regiment and the headquarters commander, both men visibly on edge, their postures stiff, as if bracing themselves for something inevitable.
Gerasimov entered, his eyes immediately locking onto Kuznetsov. The handshake between the two men was firm but brief, more a formality than a greeting. There was no warmth in it.
“You arrived quickly,” Kuznetsov remarked, his tone smooth but with an undercurrent of scrutiny.
“I was at the wheel myself,” Gerasimov replied, his words clipped, betraying nothing but the efficiency he was known for.
Kuznetsov smirked slightly. “Ah, then I understand,” he said, his voice laced with a faint condescension. “You were flying at supersonic speed.”
The other officers, eager to please, broke into exaggerated laughs, though their laughter felt hollow, more out of obligation than humor. The small joke fell flat, but no one dared let the silence stretch for too long.
Kuznetsov’s smirk faded as quickly as it had appeared. He motioned for them to sit, his face now serious. “Sit down, comrades,” he said, his voice taking on the tone of someone who expected immediate compliance. “We’re going to have an earnest and top-secret conversation.”
As the officers settled into their seats, the mood in the room shifted. The small talk, the forced laughter—everything evaporated, leaving only the weight of what was coming.
Kuznetsov let the silence stretch, just long enough to ensure their full attention. Then he began, his voice slow and deliberate, each word laden with significance. “On the first of December this year, Ukraine will hold its first presidential elections. At the same time, there will be a referendum on the question of independence.”
The word independence hung in the air like a blade. Gerasimov’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his eyes narrowing as he waited for the real blow to fall.
“It’s not difficult to predict,” Kuznetsov continued, “that after the first of December, we will have a newly independent country on the political maps of the world.”
The officers exchanged glances, the weight of those words settling heavily on their shoulders. The room felt smaller, more suffocating. The future they had known, the certainties they had built their careers upon, were unraveling before them.
“Thanks to its geographic and economic position,” Kuznetsov went on, “Ukraine will not pretend to have a leading role in world politics. Therefore, this means she will have no need for strategic aircraft.”
The finality in Kuznetsov’s voice was chilling. The decision had been made. There would be no debate, no room for dissent.
“The air force headquarters,” Kuznetsov said, his tone now colder, more detached, “has 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 stationed at Pravdinsk, and the refueling regiment will be at Leninskaya Sloboda. Division headquarters will be housed in Gorky.”
The room was dead silent now. Each officer sat stiffly in his chair, processing the enormity of the move. This wasn’t just a logistical reshuffling—it was a complete uprooting. Their lives, their homes, their families—everything was about to be thrown into turmoil.
Kuznetsov, as though sensing the ripple of unease, pressed on, his voice unyielding. “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.”
He paused, letting that sink in.
“Preparation for rebasing is to be kept completely secret,” Kuznetsov emphasized, his tone almost harsh now. “The circle of people who will be brought into the development of operation ‘Autumn Holidays’ must be limited to an absolute minimum. After the command is given, you will raise the regiments on a battle footing and distribute to the commanders their sealed orders about relocation.”
Gerasimov’s fingers drummed once against the armrest of his chair. The term battle footing carried a deeper resonance now, one that had nothing to do with exercises. This was about control—control of the skies, of assets, of men.
“The first and second squadrons of the refueling regiment,” Kuznetsov continued, “will have to make a short stop in Priluki and take on board the technical staff of the one hundred eighty-fourth regiment. The third squadron will pick up the engineers and technicians of its regiment.”
The commander of Uzin stirred slightly, his voice low as he spoke. “We’ll never be able to fit all our personnel in.”
Kuznetsov didn’t even flinch. “You’ll have to take the most valuable specialists,” he replied coldly. “For those who can’t fit into the cargo holds, prepare travel documents for rail transport.”
Gerasimov’s jaw clenched. The future being laid out before them was grim. He saw no consideration for the human cost—just numbers, logistics, and orders.
“How is it planned to supply the fliers with housing in their new place of service?” Gerasimov asked, his voice tight.
“We will resolve it,” Kuznetsov said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Money for apartment buildings isn’t in this year’s budget. But the anti-aircraft defense regiment in Pravdinsk has some housing. I’m sure they’ll share.”
“That’s very little,” Gerasimov countered, his voice hardening. He glanced at the refueling regiment commander. “I have eighteen crews of TU-160s, plus officers. That’s around a hundred people, and the Uzin regiment has eighteen crews of seven, plus officers. That’s nearly one hundred fifty men. And their families. Thirty apartments won’t even scratch the surface.”
Kuznetsov’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice remained cold. “We’ve discussed this with the Air Force Commander. Officers near retirement can return to their apartments in Ukraine. The young can live in dormitories. As for the rest, they will have to endure until we can provide housing.”
Gerasimov’s stomach tightened. He saw the disconnect between the brass in Moscow and the reality of life on the ground. “My men won’t be able to focus on flying if their families are in turmoil.”
Kuznetsov’s tone sharpened. “The main thing is to save the equipment. Those who want to serve will endure the burden. You’re not going to spend your whole life eating bacon in Ukraine.”
The words hung in the air, harsh and final. Kuznetsov's eyes were cold, reflecting the ruthlessness of the decision. To him, the men under his command were pawns in a much larger game.
The weight of the conversation, the implications, sat like lead on the men in the room. For a brief moment, there was nothing but the sound of breathing and the faint ticking of a clock.
“In principle, the assignment is clear, Comrade General,” Gerasimov said, his voice flat but resigned. “We will execute it.”
Kuznetsov clapped his hands on his knees and stood up, summarizing the meeting as if it were a simple logistical discussion. “As long as your assignment is clear and you have no questions, I will fly back to Moscow after supper.”

Chapter Twelve
The same day
In the General’s Hall of the pilot’s cafeteria, Vera served two generals. Each time she left to fetch new dishes, the chief of provisions, standing nervously by the door, would ask whether the high-ranking Moscow guest had liked the latest offering.
After supper, Lieutenant-General Kuznetsov, along with the regimental commander, made his way to the airfield, leaving the divisional commander, General Gerasimov, with a lingering glance at Vera.
“Up until when are you working today?” Gerasimov asked, his tone casual, but his eyes giving away his curiosity.
“Until six, Comrade General,” Vera replied, keeping her voice light.
“Wait for me at the gates after work. I’m heading to Belaya Tserkov tonight, and I’ll give you a lift.”
“Thank you, Comrade General. That’ll save me about an hour and a half.”
As soon as Gerasimov left, Vera quickly made her way to the phone and called her apartment.
“Hello,” came a neutral voice on the other end.
“Viacheslav, I’ll be bringing company when I arrive.”
“Perfect. I’ll be waiting at the Ros’ hotel,” Cameron answered before hanging up.
At ten minutes to six, Vera stood waiting by the control point gates. Five minutes later, the sleek black Volga rounded the corner. General Gerasimov sat behind the wheel, his greenish-brown jumpsuit blending into the muted evening light. His cap, with its gold-embroidered badge, rested on the dashboard. He pulled up and gestured for Vera to sit in the back, the tinted windows shielding her from the curious gazes of base workers lingering by the bus stop fifty meters away.
As they pulled away from the base, Gerasimov finally spoke.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said, eyes focused on the road ahead.
“There’s not much to tell,” Vera replied. “I worked as a waitress after school. Saved enough for an apartment and some furniture, then left the hotel and started at the pilot’s mess.”
“Am I right in thinking you’re hoping to find a husband among the pilots? Someone young and handsome?” Gerasimov asked, his tone lighter now.
Vera smiled. “A husband or a close friend—however it turns out. Young or old, handsome or plain, it doesn’t matter much. A flower in a vase has to be beautiful, but with a man, it’s different. I value intellect. A man should be interesting to talk to. That’s what counts.”
Gerasimov glanced at her in the rearview mirror, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s good to know that not all young people are shallow.”
As they approached a roadside restaurant, the neon lights flickering in the twilight, Gerasimov slowed the car.
“Are you hungry, Aleksandr Ivanovich?” Vera asked, noticing his intent to stop.
“I am. Will you join me for supper?”
“With pleasure, but not there,” she replied, shaking her head. “I worked in places like that for years. I know how they prepare the food.”
“But my service apartment’s fridge is empty,” Gerasimov protested, half-smiling.
Vera smiled back. “Let’s go to my place. I’ve got food and cognac—or wine, if you prefer.”
The General hesitated for a brief moment, weighing propriety against his growing interest. “Is it convenient for you?”
“There’s nothing better than having you as a guest.”
Gerasimov chuckled, a warmth spreading in his chest. “Well then, I won’t argue with that,” he said, accelerating smoothly, his mood visibly lifted.
Behind them, the driver of a trailing Lada braked suddenly, swerved around them, and laid into his horn, flipping his hand in a rude gesture as he passed.
On another day, Gerasimov might have chased the bastard down, teaching him a lesson with a few well-placed words—or fists—but not tonight. Tonight, the anticipation of an evening with Vera far outweighed the urge for petty retribution.

Over the past days, General Gerasimov had often revisited his brief encounter with Vera at the command dispatch point, and his thoughts about her had taken a more personal turn. The idea of something more than just a formal acquaintance intrigued him, and tonight, the opportunity seemed within reach. The thrill of anticipation was something he didn’t want to spoil by pursuing a petty chase after a rusty Lada. The lure of a pleasant evening overshadowed any passing irritation, and the minor annoyances of the day seemed to fade into the background.
As they passed the looming electric appliance factory on the outskirts of Belaya Tserkov, Gerasimov’s gaze drifted to the passing buildings, his mind turning back to the girl beside him. He finally broke the silence.
"So, where to now?" he asked, his voice calm, betraying none of the thoughts racing beneath his composed exterior.
Vera gave him her address, her tone casual but calculated.
“It’s just one street over from my apartment,” the General replied, a note of surprise in his voice.
“Well, there are only three new subdivisions in the city,” Vera said, glancing at him with a faint smile. “The largest is Tarashchensky. The odds of being neighbors are higher than you think, Comrade Division Commander.”
Gerasimov raised an eyebrow at her, impressed by her quick wit. He wasn’t used to women casually throwing statistics into conversation, and it intrigued him. He pulled the car over at a small market and stepped out, spotting an elderly woman selling bouquets of flowers by a makeshift stand. He bought a bundle of deep red roses, the rich crimson stark against the fading light of dusk, and got back behind the wheel, handing the bouquet to Vera.
"Since you won’t have a handsome man as your guest tonight, at least you can have beautiful flowers in a vase," he said with a teasing smile, glancing at her through the rearview mirror.
Vera took the roses, her smile broadening just slightly. "You underestimate yourself, Aleksandr Ivanovich."
They drove in silence for a few more minutes until Gerasimov stopped his Volga in front of a modest nine-story co-op. He removed his cap and tossed it onto the backseat. "No need to attract too much attention," he muttered, more to himself than to her, but Vera heard it all the same. The hint of discretion wasn’t lost on her—she understood his need to keep things private, and it only deepened her sense of control over the situation.
As they entered Vera’s apartment, Gerasimov took in his surroundings with mild surprise. The place was small but well-decorated—minimalistic but with a deliberate touch. The furniture was modern, the electronics expensive, and a well-curated collection of books lined the shelves. He wandered into the kitchen while Vera busied herself with preparing supper.
“You’ve got good taste,” he remarked, scanning the room. “Everything here is well chosen—furniture, books, even the electronics. Very nice.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Vera called from the kitchen. “Go ahead and open the wine and cognac. The appetizers will be ready soon.”
Gerasimov opened the small glass door of a cabinet, eyeing the bottles inside before settling on a five-star Armenian cognac, “Ararat,” with a nod of approval.
"Red or white?" he asked over his shoulder.
“Let’s stick with the theme,” Vera said, glancing at the roses on the counter. "You brought red roses, so I’ll drink red wine. But if they’d been asters, I would have preferred white."
The General chuckled as he grabbed the bottles and glasses, making his way to the living room. Vera followed closely behind, rolling a tray of appetizers to the low coffee table. Gerasimov stopped in the center of the room, looking around for a place to sit.
"No table, no chairs?" he asked, a slight frown crossing his face.
Vera quickly cleared the coffee table, moving some magazines and videocassettes to the side. She pushed a soft armchair towards it and gestured for him to sit. “Here. You sit there, and I’ll take the bed. It’ll be more comfortable, and we won’t feel cramped.”
They began to drink, slowly at first, but the toasts flowed naturally: to their acquaintance, to friendship, to comrades who had flown off and never returned. By the time they toasted to their own health, the bottles were nearing empty, and the room had taken on a warm, intimate glow.
“More?” Vera asked, her eyes watching him closely.
Gerasimov swayed slightly as he rose from the deep armchair. “No, I think I’ve had enough,” he murmured, his voice slightly slurred. He stood, steadying himself against the back of the chair.
"Where are you off to, Aleksandr Ivanovich?" Vera’s voice was soft, teasing, but there was an edge to it. "The night is still young."
Gerasimov rubbed his temples, as if trying to shake off the effects of the alcohol. “I should probably head home,” he said, though the words lacked conviction.
Vera stood and moved toward him with the graceful ease of someone who knew she had already won. “I can’t let you drive in this condition,” she said, her voice firm but still light. “You’ll wreck your car—or worse.”
Vera slid the coffee table aside with a graceful ease, her eyes flicking toward Gerasimov. She could sense the effects of the cognac settling into his system. His usually sharp demeanor had softened into a comfortable, dazed compliance.
“You’d better lie down on the bed,” she suggested gently, her voice steady and soothing. “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. If not, you can stay here. No rush.”
The suggestion hung in the air like a gentle command. Gerasimov’s head was spinning from the cognac, and the cozy atmosphere of the apartment tugged at his willpower. The soft lighting, the plush furniture—everything felt warm, inviting. He could hardly resist. Without another word, he let himself be pulled toward the bed, sinking into the coverlet without bothering to remove his jumpsuit. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the evening’s indulgence settle over him. He definitely did not feel like leaving.
While he drifted in and out of consciousness, Vera moved with quiet purpose. She slipped into the bathroom, took a quick shower, and emerged wearing a plush robe—one of the luxuries Cameron had bought for her. The fabric was soft against her skin, adding an air of intimacy that would lower any defenses still lingering in the General’s mind.
She returned to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers lightly brushing against the back of Gerasimov’s neck. The touch was calculated—deliberate. Her fingers, trained through practice, knew exactly how to find the tension in his muscles and dissolve it. Slowly, she worked her way through the knots in his neck and shoulders, feeling the General’s body respond to her touch.
She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. “Aleksandr Ivanovich,” she whispered, “take off your jacket. I’ll give you a proper massage.”
Gerasimov, eyes still closed, obeyed without hesitation. He removed his jacket and shirt, the cool air hitting his skin as he lay on his stomach. Vera straddled his back, the weight of her body pressing lightly into him. The General felt a sudden rush of sensation—his thoughts scattering as he remembered the brief glimpse of her naked body at the Tower.
But before he could turn over, Vera pressed her hands firmly into his back, holding him in place. She was in control now, and she remembered Cameron’s advice: if she let him have her too quickly, he might sober up and leave. She needed him to stay. “Don’t hurry, Aleksandr Ivanovich,” she murmured, her voice a soft command.
The General’s body relaxed under her touch. Vera slipped off her robe, letting the fabric fall silently to the floor. She leaned forward, her hardened nipples brushing lightly over his skin, sending a shudder through his body. She could feel the tension building in him—his desire clawing its way to the surface.
The massage lasted longer than either of them expected. Time seemed to stretch out, the moments becoming heavier with each lingering touch. Gerasimov’s mind swirled with conflicting thoughts—desire, guilt, a strange sense of youth returning to him. “I haven’t had a hard-on like this in years,” he thought, half-amused, half-embarrassed. “If I don’t control myself, I’ll end up like some teenage boy, losing it too quickly.”
He forced himself to breathe deeply, trying to regain some composure. But it was no use. The desire was overwhelming. “That’s it,” he finally admitted to himself, “I can’t hold it any longer.”
In a swift motion, he turned over, pulling Vera onto his lap. His hands roamed her body as he struggled to remove his pants, his movements rushed and clumsy. Vera, with a practiced ease, settled herself on top of him, her soft hands pressing into his chest as she began to move.
The tension that had built over the evening reached its climax. Gerasimov’s body arched, his mind overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the moment. As he came, his hands gripped her hips tightly, pulling her closer as if trying to hold on to the last remnants of control.
Vera, ever the actress, moaned softly as she leaned forward, resting her head on his chest. Her arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, her breathing heavy but controlled. She stayed like that for a while, letting him recover in silence.
After a few moments, Gerasimov finally spoke, his voice quiet, almost sheepish. “Sorry that it ended so quickly.”
Vera kissed him gently, her lips brushing against his. “Oh, go on,” she whispered, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “It was wonderful.”
Gerasimov, feeling both relieved and slightly embarrassed, ran his hand through her hair. “Vera, do me a favor,” he said softly. “When we’re alone, call me Sasha. Okay?”
Vera smiled, the name rolling off her tongue effortlessly. “Sasha,” she repeated, the sound of it almost sweet. “I like that.”

As the night stretched into early morning, Gerasimov’s sleep was interrupted by vivid dreams. In one, he was on his knees behind a blonde woman, pulling her hips toward him with an almost animalistic force. Her head shook from side to side, her body pliant in his hands. “What is wrong with me?” he thought in the dream, his mind swirling with confusion and desire. “Am I losing my mind? Am I becoming a boy again, trapped in fantasies?”

Suddenly, he awoke with a start. His hand instinctively reached beneath the blanket—everything was dry. He blinked, the remnants of the dream still clinging to his consciousness. As his vision cleared, he saw Vera’s face inches from his, her eyes gleaming with mischief. Her lips curved into a wicked smile.
“You little devil,” he muttered, half-amused, half-exasperated.
“It was time for you to wake up anyway,” Vera said, her voice teasing. “It’s already half-past six. I figured this was a better way to wake you up than letting an alarm go off.”
Gerasimov couldn’t help but chuckle, despite himself. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted.
Vera slid out of bed, her robe swaying around her as she moved toward the kitchen. “You stay in bed for now,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll make you some coffee and fix us breakfast.”
As he watched her disappear into the other room, Gerasimov leaned back into the pillows, his mind still swirling from the night’s events. “What am I getting myself into?” he wondered, though a part of him already knew the answer.
As Vera slipped out of bed, the General’s eyes followed her, admiring the flawless curves of her naked body. She moved with practiced grace, every step deliberate, calculated. The glow of the dim morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft haze over the room, amplifying the intimacy.
In the kitchen, Vera poured a strong mug of coffee, her fingers moving deftly as she reached for the small vial Cameron had given her. She tapped out a single tablet of the American drug—a little white pill that carried so much potential for control—and dropped it into the steaming liquid. The pill dissolved instantly, leaving no trace of its presence.
Her thoughts briefly flickered back to a week ago, the first time she’d seen Cameron with the vial in his hand. “What are those for?” she had asked, her voice edged with concern. Was he sick? Was there something wrong?
Cameron had laughed, brushing off her worries. “I’m perfectly healthy,” he’d reassured her. “This is for… stamina. It’s developed by CIA labs for agents in the field. An aphrodisiac, to enhance endurance. It’ll do wonders for your General.” He had smirked. “Just don’t mix it with alcohol. It could cause muscle pain, dizziness, maybe even diarrhea—especially for men pushing fifty. We need him alive and well, remember.”
The memory made Vera smile darkly. “Let’s see if the American science works on Russian men,” she muttered to herself, cutting sandwiches in the kitchen.
She hadn’t dared give the pill to Gerasimov the night before—he’d already downed an entire bottle of Armenian cognac on his own. But now, the timing was perfect. He was sober, already exhausted from their earlier encounters. It was the ideal moment for the "experiment."
Carrying the tray back to the bedroom, she found the General lounging on the bed, flipping through channels with the television remote. The screen showed a tall, slender woman in a crisp business suit standing in front of a world map, delivering the news in English.
Vera set the coffee down at the foot of the bed, catching a glimpse of the screen as the newscaster removed her glasses with a slow, deliberate gesture. “We will begin today’s news with a survey of political events in the countries of Eastern Europe,” she said, her tone professional—at least for the moment.
As the newscaster spoke, she started unbuttoning her jacket, revealing more with each word. “Bel-la Rus-sia,” she drawled, pointing at the map as she removed her jacket and hung it neatly on a chair. “U-kraine,” she continued, sliding out of her skirt and folding it on top of the jacket.
Gerasimov’s eyes widened in surprise. “What kind of news is this?” he asked, half-laughing, half-astonished.
“Naked News Studio,” Vera answered with a grin, sitting on the edge of the bed.
The woman on the screen, now down to her underwear, kept listing off former Soviet republics as she slowly undressed further. “Georg-ia,” she said, tossing her blouse aside. “A-zer-bai-jan,” she continued, slipping off her bra. “Oh, Armenia,” she purred, turning to the camera as she stood completely naked before the map.
“What did I forget?” she mused, tapping her fingers against her lips as if deep in thought, before her eyes fell to her panties. “Oh, I remember!” she exclaimed, slipping them off and tossing them aside with a playful smile. “Moldova,” she pronounced, stretching up to her full height.
The newscaster, now completely nude, stood beside the map, her demeanor disturbingly casual. She glanced at the camera and announced with an odd mixture of sensuality and detachment:
“Unfortunately, the very sexy man, the former president of the USSR, Mikhail Gorbachev, has lost his job. And now, briefly, let’s talk sports.” Her voice slipped into a nonchalant tone as she continued, “The Minnesota Twins took the first game of the World Series, beating the Atlanta Braves 5-2. Poor Atlanta. Maybe next time.”
With an exaggerated pout, she recounted the highlights. “The extraordinary Jack Morris was the winning pitcher, while Charlie Leibrandt—competitive, but,” she sighed, her lips curving into a mock frown, “somebody has to lose.”
Without haste, she began to redress, buttoning her blouse with an air of melancholy. As she fastened the last button on her jacket, her eyes flickered with a trace of sadness. “We’ll speak of the weather next time,” she said softly, as if the forecast carried a burden too heavy to share.

The General blinked, incredulous, before turning off the television. “Where did you get that?” he asked, still processing what he had just witnessed.
Vera leaned in, brushing her lips against his ear. “A woman I know in Kiev brought it. Did you enjoy it?”
“Yes, the news was… interesting,” Gerasimov replied, shaking his head in disbelief.
Vera kissed him softly, her hand sliding down his chest, fingers tracing a path over his skin. “You’re so smart, Sasha. You even understand English.” She smiled, her voice dripping with praise, knowing exactly how to stoke his ego.
The General felt the familiar stirrings of desire rising within him again, faster this time—almost unnaturally fast. His pulse quickened, his body responding with an urgency that surprised him. “What’s happening to me?” he thought, his heart racing as if he were a young man again. “I want her… again. But this can’t be normal—three times in twelve hours?”
He knelt before Vera, pulling her hips toward him with a sudden, overwhelming need. The drug was working—its effects unmistakable. Every touch, every sensation was amplified. His breath came in heavy gasps as he grasped her body, his mind clouded with a mix of lust and confusion.
Vera encouraged him, her voice soft and coaxing. “Good… more. Just like that, Sasha. You’re so strong. You’re driving me wild.”
“And you’re driving me mad,” Gerasimov thought, losing himself in the moment, his rational mind slipping away entirely.

Afterwards, they lay together in silence, Vera resting on the General’s chest. He ran his hands over her back, his body still trembling from the intensity of their coupling. “I’m sorry it ended so quickly,” he muttered, his voice low, almost embarrassed.
Vera kissed him again, her lips soft against his. “Don’t apologize,” she whispered, her voice warm and reassuring. “Everything was perfect.”

Chapter Thirteen
October 24, 1991. Uzin.
In the dimly lit secret library of the regimental headquarters, the atmosphere was suffocating. The heavy iron door was bolted from the inside, sealing the room in oppressive secrecy. Thick, dark brown shutters smothered the windows, blocking out even the faintest sliver of daylight. A steady CLICK, CLICK, CLICK echoed from the aged Swissa-Piccola typewriter, its metallic clacks bouncing off the concrete walls, amplifying the tension in the room.
Lyudmila Petrova sat rigidly at the typewriter, her fingers dancing over the keys with mechanical precision. The secret orders to the crew commanders of the IL-78 refueling aircraft were taking shape, each word dictated in a dry, emotionless tone by Lieutenant-Colonel Dolgov, who loomed over her like a shadow. His voice was cold, calculated, but beneath it was an unspoken threat. Every sentence carried weight, and every pause felt like a momentary reprieve from the crushing pressure of what they were preparing.
"Leave blanks for the last names of the commanders and the takeoff times," Dolgov ordered. His eyes scanned the paper over her shoulder, close enough that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. "I'll fill them in personally. Later." His voice lingered on the last word, dripping with control.
Without looking up, Lyudmila removed the printed orders from the typewriter and handed them to Dolgov, her movements tense and restrained. As she passed him the papers, she felt his hand suddenly, forcefully, slide down the front of her dress. She stiffened, her body recoiling from the unwelcome touch, but she knew resistance was futile.
Dolgov’s fingers clamped around her breast, squeezing with a deliberate cruelty, his thumb digging painfully into her nipple. He leaned down, his breath hot against her ear. “If I find out you’ve said even a word about this order, I’ll court-marshal you,” he hissed.
Lyudmila bit her lip to stifle the pain, her chest tightening with a mixture of fear and disgust. She whispered through clenched teeth, “It hurts. Let me go.”
Dolgov withdrew his hand but immediately began fumbling with the buttons of his trousers, his intentions unmistakable. Lyudmila, panic rising in her chest, glanced up at him with pleading eyes.
"Anatoliy Sergeevich, please,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I'm with Senior Lieutenant Popov now. We’re together. Igor proposed... I don’t want this anymore. Please, stop.”
Her voice was laced with desperation, but it fell on deaf ears.
"So you don’t want to?" Dolgov mocked, his voice dripping with sadistic satisfaction. "But I do." He grabbed the back of her head, yanking her closer, his fingers tangling painfully in her hair.
Suddenly, the tense silence was shattered by the voice of the duty officer, Igor Popov, echoing through the intercom system. “Attention! The General has arrived.”
Lyudmila’s body froze, her heart pounding. Her eyes flicked upward, hoping against hope that the announcement would offer some reprieve.
Dolgov’s grip on her head loosened, but his expression hardened. He leaned back, his fingers still tangled in her hair, and in a low, menacing voice, said, “Don’t get distracted. Keep going. The General might call for me soon enough, but until then—speed it up.”
His words were cruel, his threat clear. He wasn’t done with her, not yet.

Meanwhile, in the bright corridors of the regimental headquarters, the tension of secrecy was momentarily interrupted by the sharp, brisk footsteps of General Gerasimov. His presence was a force in itself, commanding attention without needing to utter a word.
As he entered the building, he was greeted by Senior Lieutenant Igor Popov, the duty officer on watch. The young man snapped to attention, visibly startled by the General’s sudden appearance.
“Popov, on duty again?” Gerasimov asked, a note of surprise in his voice.
“Yes, Sir,” Popov responded, standing rigidly. “The second time this week.”
“Are you just coming on or about to be relieved?” the General asked, his sharp eyes narrowing as he surveyed the room.
“I’m going to be relieved soon, Comrade General,” Popov replied. “Just waiting for the regimental commander to change the watch.”
Gerasimov nodded, then his tone shifted, becoming more direct. “When the Colonel arrives, tell him to see me in my office immediately. And let the headquarters commander know I’ve summoned him as well.”
Popov hesitated for a moment. “The headquarters commander is in the secret library, Comrade General. Shall I pass the order to him now?”
Gerasimov shook his head, his voice calm but firm. “No. Let him finish whatever business he’s attending to. I don’t need him unless the regimental commander is here.”
The General’s words hung in the air, thick with unspoken meaning. He turned away, leaving Popov to stare after him, unsure whether to feel relief or dread. The air in the headquarters felt heavier than before, charged with a tension that hadn’t been there moments ago.

Back in the suffocating confines of the secret library, Lyudmila sat trembling, trying to focus on the typewriter in front of her. The constant CLICK, CLICK, CLICK of the machine was now a nightmarish metronome, counting down the seconds to the inevitable.
Dolgov loomed behind her, his presence oppressive, his eyes cold. Every second stretched painfully, the walls closing in on her as she typed the secret orders. The dim, artificial light from the overhead bulb flickered slightly, casting erratic shadows over the room.
The intercom crackled to life again, a faint reminder of the world outside the ironclad door. But in this room, sealed off from the outside, Lyudmila felt trapped, suffocated by the weight of her duty, her fear, and the man standing behind her. The typed words blurred on the page as her mind raced with panic, but she dared not falter.
Dolgov's voice cut through the silence again, low and dangerous. "You know what’s at stake here, Petrova. Don’t make me repeat myself."
Lyudmila swallowed hard, her hands shaking as she removed another completed sheet from the typewriter. Her eyes darted to the bolted door. She prayed silently for an escape, for the General to summon Dolgov before things escalated further. But in her gut, she knew the call wouldn’t come in time.

Gerasimov entered his office with a sense of finality. He glanced around the room, taking in the familiar surroundings as if trying to burn the details into his memory. His black leather attach; case stood waiting in the corner, almost mocking in its simplicity. Pulling it onto the desk, he opened it to reveal the basic essentials inside: a towel, a pair of socks, a razor, toothpaste, and a brush.
He paused, staring into the nearly empty case, a cynical smile curling his lips. “What else does a pilot going on alert need? Why even bother packing? If a real alarm goes off, none of us are coming back. We’d fly out to the maximum range—full armament, dry tanks—one-way missions. And when we return?” He shook his head. “There’d be no ‘home’ left to return to. No runways, no houses. Nothing but scorched earth.”
The dark thought lingered as he began methodically packing his personal belongings. From the wall, he removed the certificate awarded to him by Dmitry Yazov, the USSR Minister of Defense, handling it with a strange mix of pride and detachment. Next, he collected the two framed photographs of his daughters, their smiling faces catching him off guard for a brief moment. He stood still, staring at their innocent eyes before tucking the frames into the case.
He rifled through the filing cabinet, pulling out old working notebooks. Two of them—“Marxist-Leninist Preparation” and “Political Training Work in the Air Division”—were tossed carelessly into the wastebasket. The ideology they represented felt distant, like a relic of another life.
With the case now packed, Gerasimov sank into his chair, feeling a profound sense of loss. Uzin had been more than just a base—it had been home, a place where he had felt both the weight and the pride of command. Leaving it behind now, even for a more prestigious post in Russia, felt like abandoning a piece of himself.
His thoughts drifted to Vera. “What do I do about her? Should I put her with the technicians on an IL-78 and take her to Russia? But what if she doesn’t want to go?” He sighed deeply, unsure of the answer.
Before he could dwell further on the matter, the door opened, and the regimental commander and the headquarters commander entered, interrupting his thoughts.
“We wish you health, Comrade Major General,” they greeted him, standing stiffly.
Gerasimov waved them to their seats, his mood darkened by the interruption. “Sit down,” he said flatly. “Have you told your wives the secret news?”
The regimental commander gave a half-hearted smile. “In general outline, yes.”
Gerasimov raised an eyebrow. “And their reactions?”
The Colonel shifted uncomfortably. “Mine said, ‘Well, you’ll serve a year, then you’ll retire and come home.’”
The headquarters commander smirked slightly. “And mine told me not to bother coming back at all.”
Gerasimov allowed himself a brief chuckle before his face hardened again. “Good. Then the picture is clear.” He stood up, signaling the end of the conversation. “I’m going to Priluki today to prepare division headquarters and the bomber regiment for relocation. You two handle things here. Make sure everything’s ready, but don’t rush.”
The regimental commander hesitated before speaking again. “Comrade General, there’s another matter that requires your attention—something in our regiment that needs to be addressed quickly.”
Gerasimov noticed the hesitation in his voice. “What is it?” he asked, sitting back down, his eyes narrowing slightly.
The two commanders exchanged nervous glances before the regimental commander spoke. “It’s about Major Korolyov’s crew.”
Gerasimov’s patience was wearing thin. “Alright, give me the short version,” he said, glancing at his wind-up wristwatch, a subtle reminder that his time was valuable.
The wing commander cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “A couple of weeks ago, during day flights, you may recall we had to close the airfield due to an unexpected thunderstorm. All aircraft aloft were redirected to alternate airbases.”
The headquarters commander quickly added, “Including Korolyov’s crew, Comrade General. They landed in Borispol and parked their IL-78 on the military side of the airport.”
“Get to the point,” Gerasimov said, his voice flat and growing impatient.
The regimental commander shifted uneasily in his seat. “After landing, Korolyov’s crew had supper in the pilots’ mess. Then they started drinking. For several hours. They later claimed it was just one bottle of pure alcohol, but it’s clear they drank more.”
Gerasimov’s grimace deepened, his expression tightening as if he had just bitten into something sour. “Drinking on duty,” he muttered, disgusted. “Go on.”
The headquarters commander swallowed before continuing. “Later that night, the co-pilot, Senior Lieutenant Popov, woke up to use the toilet. He was apparently too drunk and too tired to realize he had entered the closet instead of the bathroom... and, well, he urinated in Major Korolyov’s flight boots.”
Gerasimov’s face froze in a mask of disbelief. “He pissed in Korolyov’s boots?” he asked, his voice laced with disbelief.
The regimental commander nodded, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “Yes, Comrade General. In the morning, Korolyov found his boots... soaked.”
“And?” Gerasimov asked, though he already knew where this was heading.
“Korolyov submitted a formal memorandum requesting that Popov be removed from his crew, citing ‘psychological incompatibility,’” the regimental commander said, visibly wincing as he spoke the words.
For a moment, there was complete silence in the room. Gerasimov’s face turned red, his nostrils flaring in anger. Then, with a sharp, cutting tone, he said, “Don’t fuck with me, Colonel. I’m not changing crew composition because of some drunken piss in a pair of boots.”
The regimental commander opened his mouth to protest, but Gerasimov cut him off. “Here’s what you’ll do. Reprimand Popov for insubordination and drunken behavior. And advise Korolyov to piss in Popov’s boots the next chance he gets. Then they’ll be even. Understood?”
The tension in the room was palpable as both commanders nodded quickly, grateful that the General’s anger had found a simple resolution, however absurd.
“Dismissed,” Gerasimov growled, waving them out. As they left, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples, muttering under his breath, “Damn fools.”
In the silence that followed, the absurdity of military life weighed heavily on him once again.

As soon as the officers left Gerasimov’s office, Aleksandr Ivanovich loosened his tie and let out a breath, momentarily relieved from the tension of the absurd conversation about flight boots. He reached for the phone and dialed the head of the pilot’s mess.
“Valentina, good morning.”
Valentina’s voice on the other end was as chirpy as ever, a tone that suggested she knew how to stay on the right side of superiors.
“Good morning, Aleksandr Ivanovich. How did you sleep?”
Gerasimov smirked, his mind drifting briefly to the evening with Vera, but he kept his voice professional. “It’s a good question, and I slept very well, thank you. Here’s the thing, Valentina. Vera won’t be at work for a couple of days. Don’t panic or raise any alarms.” He let the pause linger for effect. “Also, I’ve spoken to the head of financial services. I’ve ordered him to give you a bonus for an excellent job in staff selection.”
Valentina’s gratitude came through immediately. “Many thanks, Aleksandr Ivanovich. You’re too kind. Will you be coming by to eat today?”
The General chuckled. “No, Valentina. I have someone to wine and dine me today.” He hung up, amused by her transparent eagerness.
As soon as he ended the call, he dialed Vera’s number.

Vera lay beneath Cameron, her body still, her mind elsewhere. Her long, slender legs were draped around MacKay’s waist, though her focus had drifted far from the act they were engaged in. She felt the vibration of the ringing phone more than she heard it.
Cameron, sensing the distraction, pressed up on his hands, hovering above her. “Pick up the phone,” he said, his voice low but tinged with impatience. “Someone clearly needs you more than I do.”
Vera reached for the phone, her voice flat as she answered. “Hello?”
Gerasimov’s warm baritone immediately filled the line. “It’s a good thing you’re at home, Verochka. I’ve freed up some time. I’ll be at your place in an hour.”
Vera glanced up at Cameron. “I’m glad. I’ll wait for you.” Her voice lacked enthusiasm, but the General didn’t seem to notice.
Cameron’s expression darkened as he resumed moving, but Vera lay passive beneath him, her mind already transitioning to the impending visit.
“What is it with you?” Cameron’s voice grew sharp, his irritation evident. “Have you fallen asleep? Move. Twirl your hips. This is our last meeting on Ukrainian soil.”
Vera’s voice was cold, distant. “He’ll be here in an hour.”
MacKay grunted, forcing the finality of their coupling with an air of mechanical detachment. “Excellent.” The word hung in the air like a dismissal.

After finishing, Cameron lay beside Vera, staring up at the ceiling, already mentally moving on. He gave her final instructions, his voice steady and calculating. “I’m leaving for Moscow today. From this point on, everything depends on you.”
He got up and dressed swiftly, his movements precise and practiced. “I’m leaving you five hundred dollars for expenses.” He tossed the money onto the bedside table with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. “I’ll call as soon as the General decides to leave his division in Ukraine. I’ll give you the train number and the date of your departure from Kiev.”
Vera sat up in the bed, her legs crossed beneath her in a Turkish fashion, the sheets pulled loosely around her. “How am I going to fly over the ocean without documents?” Her voice had a trace of genuine concern now.
Cameron looked at her with the kind of calm superiority that came from years of espionage. “You won’t need documents. I’ll send you via diplomatic post—no customs, no immigration checks. When you arrive in the U.S., someone will meet you with new clothes, a new passport, and a new name. I’ll arrive a few days after you, and we’ll set you up in a comfortable new life. Just remember, the main thing is to hold on to the General. Keep him and his division here in Ukraine.”
Vera nodded absently, her mind working through the logistics. Cameron’s words were practical, but beneath them was the unspoken reality—this was the end of their chapter together.
“Now, go take a shower,” Cameron ordered, his voice softening slightly, almost affectionate. “Change the bedding and be ready for a warm meeting.”
With that, he left, as clinical as ever, shutting the door softly behind him.

Twenty minutes later, Gerasimov arrived. Vera greeted him at the door, her face now a mask of pleasantness, concealing the recent encounter. She kissed him on the cheek, her practiced ease betraying nothing. The General handed her his leather pilot’s jacket, and she hung it carefully on the hanger.
“You must be hungry,” Vera said with a warm smile. “Come, let me fix you some breakfast.”
In the kitchen, Vera moved with quiet efficiency, serving tea and preparing the table. Gerasimov sat at the table, absentmindedly tracing the patterns on the delicate porcelain teacup.
“Verochka,” he said, his tone affectionate. “Can you keep a secret?”
Vera paused, her back to him as she prepared the food. She turned slowly, her face a study in curiosity. “I’ve never had a secret to keep, so I wouldn’t know,” she replied softly, her eyes meeting his, trying to read what lay behind his words.
Gerasimov sighed, a little unsure. “I’m serious.”
“What sort of secret? Military or personal?” Vera asked playfully, though her instincts told her this was something important.
“You’re such a girl.” He paused, then decided to dive in. “I’ll tell you straight. I have to go to Gorky.”




Vera's face froze for a second. She turned towards the stove, her fingers tightening on the kettle, her voice steady but forced. “You’re being promoted? I congratulate you.” But as she blinked, tears welled up in her eyes.
The General saw them, and his heart tightened. “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.”
Vera placed the kettle down, her hands trembling slightly. She turned, trying to force a smile but failing. “That’s too bad. I no sooner think I’ve found the man of my dreams, and then he has to go off somewhere. Would you like more tea?” Her voice wavered, betraying her attempt at indifference.
Gerasimov studied her, his admiration deepening. ‘What a dear little girl. She’s hiding her tears, trying not to upset me. She’s bright, beautiful, and a soul of depth. It’s such an unlikely combination.’ He leaned forward, taking her hand gently. “Come with me, please. I’ll arrange everything. I’ll have a civilian position created at headquarters. You’ll be my secretary, always by my side. No more running around with trays.”
Vera blinked, her smile strained as she swallowed back her emotions. “Me? In Gorky? Not for anything. The name alone repels me. If it were called Sladky or Soleniy—something sweet or salty—I’d consider it. But Gorky? I won’t go to a place named after bitterness. And I don’t advise you to go there either. Life will be bitter.”
Gerasimov’s expression softened, but he remained serious. “Gorky has nothing to do with taste, Vera. The city was named in honor of Aleksei Maximovich Peshkov, the writer who chose Gorky as a pen name.”
Vera nodded, letting out a small sigh. “I know. Maxim Gorky. We studied his works in school.” She paused, her face grimacing slightly as if wrestling with an internal thought. Then, as if summoned by inspiration, she began to recite in a soft, melodic voice:
“Above the sea’s grey flatland,;The wind is gathering the clouds,;And between the sea and clouds,;A Blackjack soars, proud and unstoppable.”
She turned her gaze to the General, whose eyes were now fully on her, intrigued by the unexpected shift.
“Its wings black as night,;With missiles poised like storm’s lightning,;It dashes through the skies,;Unyielding, a shadow against the dying light.;With each sweep, it tears through clouds,;Slicing foam from the waves with a roaring grace.;Yankee foes below tremble,;As Blackjack strikes with vengeance,;Sending warships to the abyss,;Their destruction a cold testament to our might.”
Her voice grew stronger, more intense, embodying the imagery of Gorky’s original poem but reshaped to fit the relentless power of the Tu-160. Gerasimov was captivated.
“The proud Blackjack cries,;Its engines roar a song of war,;The sky is its battlefield,;Its wings carrying not just missiles,;But the burden of a nation's will.;And when it returns, victorious,;It lands in its home, where a blonde awaits—;The commander’s reward,;As fierce and beautiful as the storm it left behind.”
Vera’s voice trailed off, and the room was silent for a moment. Gerasimov blinked, his lips parting in amazement. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more—the clever reworking of Gorky’s “Song of the Stormy Petrel” or the subtle depth with which Vera had performed it.
A smile spread across his face, and he pulled her close, his hand resting warmly on her waist. “You are my dear blue-eyed blonde,” he said softly, his voice husky with emotion. He leaned forward, brushing his nose against her soft skin, kissing her stomach gently. “When did you manage to compose that poem?”
Vera chuckled, running her fingers through his hair. “Oh, it came to me in the moment, inspired by you.”
"Don’t be in such a hurry to say farewell." Gerasimov’s voice was softer now, though the undertone of command was still present. “It would be better for you to explain how you know about the Sixth Fleet.”
Vera blinked, her mind racing, but she kept her face calm. “A couple of days ago, I was present at 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.” She offered a small smile, tilting her head just slightly as if it were all innocent curiosity.
The General’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You have a wonderful memory, Vera. So many talents in one person.”
There was a pause—he was thinking, weighing something.
And then the shift came, sharp and unexpected.
“What if I were to ask you to marry me?” His words cut through the air, sudden and heavy. “Would you come with me to Gorky? On legal grounds, as a General’s wife?”
For a moment, Vera felt her heart stop. She looked at him in astonishment, her mind spinning. This was a proposal—an escape from her current life into the protection and status of a General’s wife. If she hadn’t been playing a different game, one that involved espionage and a manipulative American lover, this moment would have been the pinnacle of her life. A Soviet General was offering her marriage. Not just affection, not just an affair, but something real, something binding.
But MacKay loomed in the back of her mind like a shadow—always watching, always pulling strings. She had her ticket to a new life in the United States, and that was worth far more than the fleeting comforts Gerasimov could offer. The General, for all his genuine affection, was not her future. Cameron wouldn’t let her go to Russia so easily, not when she had been placed so carefully in this situation.
"I... I don’t know what to say," Vera whispered, and her voice cracked slightly—not from emotion, but from the weight of deceit. She had to play this carefully, weave her words just right. “Sasha, I’m enormously grateful to you for your hypothetical proposal.” She let out a soft sigh, lowering her gaze before slowly meeting his eyes again. “But I, in contrast to other women, am not striving to become a General’s wife.”
Gerasimov’s brow furrowed slightly, his lips pressed together in confusion.
Vera continued, her voice more steady now. “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. To throw her onto the refuse heap like a worn-out coat would be unjust.”
Her words hit their mark. Gerasimov’s expression softened, the hint of guilt creeping into his eyes.
“It’s for people from the arts to marry theatre students,” she added, her tone now tinged with a touch of cynicism. “To girls young enough to be their grandchildren. They have no shame, no conscience. But you, Sasha, are a Soviet General with capital letters.” She leaned in, placing her hand gently on his chest. “And I’m ready to be your lover for as long as you want me. But that’s where it should stay. To my way of thinking, it’s both more honorable and more pleasant. Let’s not turn the holidays of our meetings into the everyday boredom of married life.”
Gerasimov stared at her, torn between what he wanted and what he knew was right. The temptation was real, the warmth of her presence intoxicating, but Vera’s words rang true in a deeper sense. His wife—faithful, weathered by years of standing by his side—couldn’t simply be cast aside for the fire of a younger lover. He knew that. He hated it, but he knew it.
“You’re smarter than I give you credit for,” he finally said, his voice low, almost a growl. “Too smart, perhaps.”
Vera smiled faintly, relieved to see the conversation steering away from dangerous waters. She had successfully deflected the proposal without shattering the fragile relationship between them. She wasn’t ready to gamble everything yet—MacKay’s plan was still in motion.
“I want us to enjoy our time together, Sasha.” Vera’s voice softened as she placed her hand on his cheek, stroking it gently. “No complications. No broken hearts. Just you and me, for as long as fate allows.”
Gerasimov took her hand and kissed it, lingering just long enough for her to feel the weight of his affection. But she felt no guilt. This was the role she had chosen, and she had played it well. She had given him enough to stay close, but not enough to hold her.
In his eyes, she saw gratitude, admiration—but also acceptance. He wouldn’t push the matter further. Not today.

Vera’s heart fluttered, the delicate web of influence she was spinning becoming tighter. She could see the shift in him, the deepening connection—one that bound him to her in ways far more powerful than words. She had the General’s heart, or at least enough of it to keep him right where she needed him.
Gerasimov kissed her softly, and for a moment, there was no talk of Gorky, no orders, no relocation—just the quiet understanding between two people caught in the tide of an uncertain future.
“Maybe there’s no need to go to Gorky at all,” Vera whispered, her lips brushing against his ear. “Maybe you’re needed here, Sasha. Maybe the future is right where we are.”
Gerasimov’s face softened, and for the first time, the General seemed to consider the possibility that Vera wasn’t just a passing moment in his life. She was becoming a part of him—entwined with his thoughts, his choices, and perhaps even his fate.
"But I don’t want to lose you. Do you understand? I... I think I love you."
Gerasimov’s voice wavered as the admission slipped out, surprising even himself. He pulled Vera into his lap, his arms wrapping around her with a tenderness that stood in stark contrast to his usual commanding presence. “You’re something else, Verochka. You make everything feel like it has more meaning.”
But Vera’s response was chillingly detached, her coldness cutting through his vulnerable moment like a blade.
“Find a way out of yourself,” she said, her voice smooth but distant. “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 never abandon my parents or my apartment in Belaya Tserkov. And anyhow, you'd lose your apartment in Kiev if you accept the transfer. Have you thought about that? Kiev is not Gorky. The Ukrainian capital is a hundred times more pleasurable than any dirty, industrial city in the middle of Russia.”
She paused, allowing her words to sink in. The idea of uprooting everything to follow orders, abandoning the comforts of Kiev, should make him think twice. She leaned in, her voice turning sly as she quoted 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’s brow furrowed, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. He looked at her with unconcealed adoration, drawn to her wit and sharpness, despite her calculated coldness.
“I love Pushkin,” he said, his voice soft, reflective. “I’ve read almost all of him, but I don’t know this poem.”
“It’s called The Hussar. I recommend it to you,” Vera replied, her eyes glinting with amusement as she shifted her tone to something more playful.
Gerasimov chuckled. “I promise you, I’ll find it and read it through.”
“Do it at once. I have eight volumes in my bookcase.”
He hesitated, his mood lightened by her playful challenge. “No, not right now. Let’s go to my place for a moment. I’ll change clothes, and then we can head to Kiev, maybe visit a nice restaurant. Something decent.”
The idea of escaping into the pleasures of the city, away from the heavy decisions that awaited him, felt like a balm. He wanted to forget, even if just for a little while.
Vera’s lips curved into a calculated smile, her voice taking on a new tone as she leaned closer. “Sasha, can I give you a little present?”
Gerasimov’s eyebrows raised, curiosity piqued. “An intimate one? You intrigue me.”
Vera let out a soft laugh. “I can give you an intimate present anytime. But today, I want to give you something... material.”
She stood and took his hand, leading him towards the bedroom with a quiet authority. “Let’s go into the room.”
Gerasimov followed, eyes never leaving her as she walked to the cabinet. She slid open the small rolling door with practiced ease and pulled out a padded hanger, revealing an expensive, tailored suit. The fabric gleamed under the soft light, smooth and perfect. Beneath the jacket hung a crisp shirt, folded with care.
“This is for you,” Vera said, her voice gentle but firm, the calculated undertone never leaving. “You won’t have to go home. I bought everything—from socks to handkerchiefs. Go and wash the airfield dust off yourself, then change.”
Gerasimov was momentarily speechless, stunned by her foresight, her attentiveness. He ran his fingers over the fine fabric, admiring the quality.
“Will you be joining me?” he asked, the question laced with both hope and hesitation.
Vera’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Of course. After all, I did promise you an intimate present.”

In the small, dimly lit restaurant near the Metro station “Yaroslavov’s Wall,” the General savored what he considered a first-rate meal. The smells of grilled meats and fresh herbs filled the air, a comforting contrast to the heavy decisions weighing on his mind. Vera, on the other hand, discreetly refrained from her usual critiques. She had ordered a glass of expensive wine and a simple vegetable salad—two items she trusted the chef wouldn’t spoil.
As they ate, Vera observed Gerasimov carefully. His usual calm exterior seemed worn down by the weight of his thoughts. Finally, she leaned forward, her eyes intent.
“Sasha,” she said softly, breaking the silence between them, “what did you decide about Gorky?”
Gerasimov set his fork down, his fingers lingering on the edge of the table, as if searching for stability. He glanced at her and exhaled slowly, the internal struggle evident in the slight tightening of his jaw.
“Before my morning conversation with you, I was sure I had to obey the order,” he began, his voice low, almost contemplative. “But now… now I’ve begun to question it. What can I expect in Russia? A service apartment at best—and isolation. No family, no you, no real friends.” His voice trailed off as his gaze shifted to the half-empty glass of cognac in front of him. The words seemed heavier than the silence that followed.
After a long pause, he continued, his tone more resolute: “I’m planning to speak with one of my former subordinates. He’s stationed at the Kiev military district headquarters. I’ll hear what he has to say. Theoretically, I could refuse the order from Moscow, but I’d need some sort of cover here in Ukraine in case things get complicated. I don’t want to lose you, Vera. But I don’t want to end up in a KGB cell either.”
Vera leaned back slightly, swirling her wine glass, a calculated calm in her voice. “Sasha, I don’t believe Ukraine would turn over a General like you to military counterintelligence. In fact, if you stay, you could position yourself well. You might even become the Ukrainian Air Force Commander—and from there, the Minister of Defence wouldn’t be far off.”
She let the weight of her words settle before continuing, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “In Russia, yes, Shaposhnikov is a pilot. But here, in Ukraine, you’d be something far more. You’d be in the first rank of Ukrainian generals. Isn’t that a more fitting future than fading into the crowd of Russian divisional commanders?”
Gerasimov studied her, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his face. He knew she was right, but the risks were real, and he needed assurance.
“Do you know how many generals there are in the Soviet Army?” he asked, testing her.
“A little less than four thousand,” Vera answered without hesitation.
“Two thousand will remain with Russia, but the other fourteen republics with their smaller armies? That doesn’t leave much room.”
Vera smiled, sensing her words were sinking in. “Exactly. And if you stay here, you’ll stand out. You won’t just be another name lost in the bureaucracy of Moscow. Here, you could be something more—something powerful.”
She leaned in closer, her voice taking on a sharper edge, her strategy unfolding with each sentence. “But you need to play this right. Keep the press close—especially television and radio. Establish contact with the head of the Chernigov television station. Keep a reporter and a camera operator near Priluki airbase. If Moscow starts pressuring you, invite journalists into your headquarters. When the cameras are rolling, no one will dare arrest you, let alone raise their voice.”
Gerasimov’s eyes glinted with newfound understanding. “You ought not to be working in a mess hall, Veronica; you should be my first deputy. You’ve got a sharp head on your shoulders.” His hand slid beneath the table, resting on Vera’s leg. “Let’s go to your place.”
Vera smiled, her response smooth but pointed. “Let’s. But only if I pay for the restaurant.”
The General, momentarily surprised, let out a soft laugh, appreciating her audacity. “Deal.”

Chapter Fourteen
October 25th, 1991. Uzin.
After serving his 24-hour watch, Popov stumbled into his small apartment, every muscle aching from exhaustion. He barely had the energy to kick off his boots before collapsing onto the bed. His mind felt as heavy as his body, and within moments, he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Five hours later, Igor stirred, groggy and disoriented. He rolled from his stomach onto his side and blinked at the dimly lit room. Svetlana was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back to him, headphones covering her ears, her eyes locked on the flickering television.
“How can you watch that serial and listen to rock at the same time?” Igor asked, his voice thick from sleep.
Without turning, Svetlana’s voice came out sharp and laced with something more than teenage defiance. “And how can you sleep with my mom when I’m twenty years younger than her?”
Igor's body tensed, her words slicing through the fog of his drowsiness. “You shameless hussy,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’re not even fifteen yet.”
Svetlana shrugged, still facing away from him, unfazed by his tone. “Yeah, so what? I grew up physically long ago, and I want to have sex every day. You think it’s easy for me, listening to you moaning with my mom at night? The couch squeaks all night long.”
She turned slightly, her gaze now fixed on him. Her expression was bold, her eyes unflinching. For a fleeting moment, the air between them felt thick with unspoken tension. It unnerved him, but he couldn't deny it—she was all too aware of her own effect, and it made her dangerous.
For a brief, reckless second, Igor felt the temptation gnaw at him, like a shadow creeping into his thoughts. Svetlana was too accessible, too willing. But then, reality crashed in—the thought of Lyudmila finding out made his blood run cold. One misstep, and he’d be thrown in prison without a second thought. There would be no coming back from that.
Clearing his throat, Igor forced himself to sound casual, trying to defuse the situation. “Wait another couple of years, Svetlana. If you don’t change your mind by then, you can have me every day if you like. But until you’re sixteen, I’m not touching you.”
Svetlana scoffed, offended. “Well, you’re a fool then,” she snapped, pushing herself off the floor. Without another glance, she stomped off into the kitchen, leaving a heavy silence in her wake.
Igor sat up, rubbing his temples as the tension between his thoughts and reality lingered. He hated how easily she got under his skin, turning simple.

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 her, she said to Igor:
“Today, I typed top-secret orders for every crew in the regiment.”
“What of it? That’s your job,” Igor replied indifferently, not tearing himself away from the television.
“The point is,” Lyudmila continued, “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 the usual drill,” Popov responded just as indifferently.
Lyudmila stepped in front of the television, her broad hips blocking both the soccer match and part of the window.
“What’s with you? ‘What of it, what of it?’ You should think for once in your life. The orders don’t contain a departure date. That means the commanders are waiting for some kind of event.”
“What event?”
“We’re about to have a referendum on independence and presidential elections. That’s what they’re waiting for. If we separate from Russia, our regiment, by law, will belong to Ukraine. But the Russians want to relocate you to the airbase near Gorky. That’s why the orders are top-secret. Do you understand now?”
“Sure, sure, I get it. But what does it have to do with me? I’ve served in Uzin, and I’ll serve just as well in Leninskaya Sloboda.”
Lyudmila’s tone sharpened. “What about me?”
“What about you?”
“What am 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 only got it because I’m a single mother. You and I aren’t registered, are we? Tomorrow, you might run off with the first sticky whore you meet, and my daughter and I will be stuck in Gorky in an officer’s barracks alone, waiting another ten years for a new apartment. No, I don’t need that.”
“Okay, then stay here.”
“You don’t need me anymore,” Lyudmila started to sob. “You don’t love me anymore,” she cried, her sobs growing louder.
“I love you, I love you, just stop whining,” Popov said, exasperated.
“If you love me, then you won’t abandon me,” Lyudmila replied, immediately ceasing her tears.
“And what am I supposed to do? I can’t refuse to obey an order.”
“You want to know what to do? I’ll tell you what to do. You have to fight.”
“Fight who?”
“The Russians.”
“How can I fight the Russians when I’m Russian myself, and you are too, by the way?”
“I don’t mean Russians as in nationality, but as in location. You’ll have to organize a petition among your fellow servicemen, showing that it’s undesirable to transfer to the Russian side. After that, give the petition to trustworthy hands, and make sure it reaches the highest level. Once Moscow’s plans are known in Kiev, the Ukrainian government will take care of us, and no one will be sent anywhere—not us, and not the Priluki regiment.”
Popov sighed in resignation. “Fine, write a petition. I’ll talk to the men tomorrow.”
Lyudmila sat at her daughter’s desk and quickly wrote a letter addressed to the president of Ukraine. She knew exactly who would be elected in December, but to remain politically correct, she didn’t name anyone.
“Dear Mr. President,
We are the military personnel of the refueling regiment. We consider it our duty to inform you that we have received an order transferring us to the military airbase at Leninskaya Sloboda in the Gorky region, Russian Federation.
We consider this order illegal, as our regiment is located on the territory of Ukraine and must belong to the Independent State of Ukraine.
We request that you take all necessary measures to prevent the transfer of our regiment to Russia.
Respectfully, the military personnel of the IL-78 refueling regiment.”
“That’s short and angry,” Igor commented after reading Lyudmila’s letter.
“If you don’t like it, write your own,” Lyudmila retorted. “Print off three copies tomorrow and give them to me at headquarters during work. I’ll gather signatures for it.”
“Why do you need three copies?” Igor asked.
“There are over a hundred crew members in the regiment alone. Where do you expect them to sign—on a single sheet?”
Igor finally cracked a smile. “Well, at least you’ve got that part figured out, silly me.”

Having collected over eighty signatures by walking from one crew to another throughout the day, Igor returned home. Popov now faced a new dilemma. He needed to think carefully about how to get the letter with the petition into the hands of the future president.
"Should I send it by post? Can I even trust the post office? A letter addressed to the future president would likely be flagged and redirected to the regional office of the KGB. I can already imagine how the security agencies would react—they’d probably bury it, just to be safe. But if the letter reaches their Central Office at Lubyanka, the heads of the Secret Service might order our immediate arrest for disclosing a military secret. No, trusting the post office is out of the question. I could take the letter to Kiev myself, but who would I give it to? I can’t exactly ask a policeman where to find the future president," he thought with growing anxiety. "It’s a dead end. I’ll wait for Lyudmila; maybe she’ll come up with a better idea."
Meanwhile, Lyudmila had been contemplating this very problem throughout the day while Igor went from one IL-78 crew to another, explaining the looming threat over their futures. Petrova mulled over various options, weighing the risks, thinking, and rethinking. When Igor met her in the reception area later that evening and asked her about it, she confidently shared her plan.
“Listen, we both know who our first president is going to be," she said with certainty. "That political hack has no real competition. But even so, he has campaign headquarters in every region and every town. What we need to do is find the local representative of his campaign. These offices are run by people deeply loyal to him. Trust me, they’d be more than happy to deliver a letter that could help their candidate."

That evening, Igor found himself sitting in the modest office of the chairman of the regional committee for social services, who also happened to be the local campaign representative. The man, a staunch supporter of the soon-to-be president, was reading the letter with great attention.
“So, what’s the issue here?” the chairman asked, setting the letter down.
“The issue," Igor began, "is that around two hundred and fifty officers and enlisted men are about to receive orders to relocate to Russia. Their families will be left behind because there’s no housing available for them over there—not now, and not for the foreseeable future. With these long separations and such terrible living conditions, it’s highly likely that many of these families will fall apart.”
The chairman’s eyes expressed a blank indifference. It was clear that the prospect of military families breaking apart and the housing shortages didn’t stir any concern within him. Igor felt the heat rising in his chest, his mind scrambling for an argument that might pierce the cold detachment of this bureaucrat. Lyudmila’s suggestion to appeal to the social worker’s sense of duty seemed to be falling flat.
"Besides the risk of losing experienced personnel, Ukraine could lose valuable aircraft," Popov added, trying to shift the focus.
The chairman's ears finally perked up, his gaze sharpening slightly. "How much are these planes worth?" he asked, the first hint of interest flashing across his face.
"I can’t give you an exact figure, but we’re talking about hundreds of millions of dollars. They’re practically brand new," Igor replied, sensing an opportunity.
"And could these refueling aircraft be repurposed for our economy?" the chairman inquired, his tone suggesting that now he was listening.
"Absolutely. You’d just need to remove the fuel tanks from the cargo hold, and you could convert them into transport planes for civilian goods."
The chairman leaned back in his chair, considering. "How much cargo could they carry?"
"About fifty tonnes over several thousand kilometers," Igor answered, leaning forward, trying to maintain the momentum.
The chairman nodded, the wheels visibly turning in his head. "You've convinced me."
Without wasting a moment, he picked up the phone and dialed Kiev, asking to be connected with the chief of staff for the presidential candidate. After reading the letter aloud and relaying the details of his conversation with Igor, he handed the receiver to Popov.
The chief of staff’s voice crackled through the phone. "How accurate is this information? Are you sure this isn’t just rumor?"
Igor took a breath. "Two days ago, the Chief of Staff of the USSR Air Force visited our base. The next day, my wife—who works in administration—typed up a top-secret order for the relocation of our air wing."
There was a brief pause. Then the chief of staff replied, "Here’s what I want you to do. Pass the letter to the chairman. He’ll send it to us by fax. And write down my direct number. If your wing gets an order to take off before December, call me immediately."
"And if the order comes after December?" Igor asked, sensing the stakes.
"After December, we won’t let you go anywhere," the chief of staff said, his voice carrying a reassuring finality.
When Igor hung up, he sat back in his chair, thinking about how close they were to a tipping point.
"It’s strange," he thought, "how civil servants seem to stop thinking about people and only start weighing things by economic value. In the army, you see it between the regimental commander and the divisional commander. But in civilian life, it seems that threshold lies at the regional level. A chairman of a collective farm still cares about the individual farmer. But at the regional level, they only see numbers and logistics, even if their job is to care for the people."

The next morning, shortly after the regimental assembly, Igor found himself standing in the divisional commander’s office. General Gerasimov sat behind his desk, his expression unreadable.
"I heard a rumor," Gerasimov began, "that you were collecting signatures for a petition yesterday."
Igor stood straight, not flinching. "Yes, comrade General, I did."
"And did you send the letter?"
"I did," Igor confirmed.
"Through trustworthy channels?"
"Yes, through a trusted representative of our future president," Igor said, his voice steady despite the tension in the room.
The general sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Well, all we can do now is pray. If we stay here, you'll be a hero. But if they pull us out," Gerasimov paused, his eyes narrowing slightly, "you and Petrova might find yourselves in a KGB prison.”

Except for some of the more enjoyable diversions, General Gerasimov hated hospitals. He spent the entire next week in the regional military hospital thirty kilometers west of 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 narrow and cramped, with nine stories above ground and two below.
‘Not a great design for a hospital where so many people need to move quickly,’ the general thought.
Once every three years, every military pilot over thirty-five years old was 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 they were 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 ‘perfect health.’ But the hospital at Khar’kov was extraordinarily decrepit and corrupt, even by Russian standards. Officers and students of the local pilot’s college were packed into twelve-bed wards.
The hospital, built before World War II, had not been renovated in the last thirty years. Wallpaper blistered and peeled throughout the grey-green colored hallways and rooms. Square linoleum tiles on the floor were stuck down with acrylic glue, so their corners either pointed upward or were ripped off by the 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, opted for this hospital.
In the Odessa hospital, you could also pass your medical inspection unless you were dead, but the Odessa doctors preferred cash over 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 relatively decent environment, he chose Irpen. Here, the doctors did not take bribes, but the living conditions were almost luxurious.

Gerasimov did not need to buy cognac for the doctors or save money. The handsome general truly believed that he was completely healthy. At forty-eight, he might have had a little extra weight, with a bald spot on his head and bags under his eyes. All he needed to do was keep his subordinates in check and fly well himself.
But Gerasimov was more like General Shovel, 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.
Three years ago, when he had undergone his medical examination here, the nurses competed over who would get the night shift. Each of them wanted to sit at the nurses’ station at least one night during Gerasimov’s week-long 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, flights, and his adventures in the air and on the ground. He would break off his story at the most exciting spot and suggest finishing it in the luxury ward.
“Stories are best told and heard with a bit of cognac,” Gerasimov would say to the girls, but he would never return to the topic of conversation.
After the first small sip of Ararat, the General would usually ask the nurses to undress. These propositions were tantamount to orders, but they were always met with eager compliance. Among the staff, it was considered an honor to be noticed by Gerasimov.
The fact that the General was married didn’t concern anyone. Each of the nurses clung to their own version of a Cinderella fantasy, trying their best to make an unforgettable impression in bed.
“Maybe in a week, he’ll remember me and take me away with him in his official Volga,” they thought.
This time, however, things unfolded differently.

Chapter Fifteen
October 30, 1991. Military Hospital, Irpen, Ukraine.
On Monday night, the General had slept like a new recruit. But on Tuesday night, something unexpected happened—his daughter came to visit, bringing a bag of groceries.
She wasn’t his actual daughter, of course. It was Vera, the beautiful, slender blonde, immaculately dressed in the latest fashion, standing at the doors of the department waiting for her "Papa."
“My daughter? Here to see me?” Gerasimov said in astonishment when the nurse informed him about his visitor.
He quickly put on the familiar brown hospital robe and walked down the long corridor.
“Vera!” he exclaimed with delight upon seeing the waitress. “Come here, my dear!”
Vera, carrying a heavy bag, followed him into the General’s ward.
“I haven’t seen you for three whole days, and I’m dying of boredom,” Gerasimov said, pulling her into a long kiss.
Even in her black leather high-heeled boots, Vera was still shorter than the General, which only made him feel more possessive.
“How did you manage to get here?” he asked.
“I took a taxi. The driver’s waiting for me at the hospital gates,” Vera replied.
“Let him wait. I can’t keep you here, but I can’t let you go either,” the General said with a sly smile.
“I’m in no rush,” she responded, unzipping her bag and laying out its contents: Finnish sausage, Dutch cheese, two bottles of cognac, three cans of black caviar, and several bars of chocolate.
“Vera,” the General sighed, “they feed me well enough here.”
“I work in your pilot’s mess. I know how well you’re actually fed,” she teased. “I brought you a backup supply. Who knows, maybe some important guest will drop by, and now you’ll have something to treat him with.”
“You’re my most important guest,” Gerasimov said, slipping Vera’s leather jacket off her shoulders.
“I’m here for your pleasure, but between those pleasures, you’re still busy with work, aren’t you?”
“It’s true,” he chuckled. “But my interest in work is waning.”
“Sasha, remember,” Vera continued, pulling her snug angora sweater over her head, “on Friday, in the restaurant, you mentioned wanting to meet with your former colleague.”
“I remember,” Gerasimov said, eyes fixed on her.
“Well,” Vera said as she unfastened the side buttons of her skirt, “instead of visiting him at district headquarters where you’ll have no privacy, why not invite him here?”
She turned her back to him. “Undo the snaps on my bra, will you?”
As Gerasimov complied, she added, “Pour him some cognac, talk about the old days, discuss today’s problems.”
Saying that, Vera slipped out of her underwear and lay down on the rough hospital blanket.
“I’m all yours,” she purred. “But remember, the most important thing is your meeting tomorrow. Here, in a more relaxed setting, your friend will be more open. You’ll get all the inside news from headquarters—from the horse’s mouth.”
Gerasimov stood in his robe in the middle of the ward, listening intently to Vera. She lay on the bed with her hands behind her head, her firm, young breasts like two perfect hills rising with the slow rhythm of her breath.
“Your place is definitely in my headquarters," Gerasimov said, almost in a daze. "I’ll give you a desk right next to mine and make you my personal advisor.”

November 1st, 1991. Irpen.
That Wednesday morning, the chief of the hospital's laboratory section dropped a report on the head of the hospital’s desk. It was the result of General Gerasimov’s blood tests. The Major-General overseeing the hospital read the conclusion and immediately grew pale. He took a moment before addressing the lab chief.
“Could there be a mistake?” he asked, his voice tight with concern.
“No, sir. We took the blood twice—on Monday and Tuesday. The results are consistent.”
“Who knows about this?” the General asked, his voice dropping.
“Just the lab technician, you, and me.”
“Make sure the technician understands this is top-secret information. Not a word to anyone, including General Gerasimov.”
“Understood. What should I write in the final medical report?” the Major asked hesitantly.
“Write ‘healthy.’”
“But, sir, that’s not—”
“It’s not our place to decide what’s true. I’ll report this...” the Major-General placed a hand firmly on the page with the damning results, “...to the very top. They will decide how to handle it and what words to use when talking to him.”

That evening, Gerasimov received a guest. The deputy chief of the Kiev military aviation district headquarters had accepted the General’s casual invitation to share “five drops” of cognac. For about an hour, the conversation floated comfortably between reminiscing about past service at the Mozdok airbase and memories of “that wench...” from various deployments.
“Why are we still stuck talking about the past?” Gerasimov said, refilling their glasses generously. “We’re not dead yet! Tell me something new about headquarters.”
“There’s a lot of movement,” his guest said, leaning back in his chair. “Our HQ will soon transform into the Ministry of Defence for the new country.”
“It looks like there's potential for some career growth,” Gerasimov noted, eyeing him with interest.
“Exactly. To give you more good news, the position of Minister of Defence has already been offered to the commander of the Eighth Air Force, Lieutenant-General Trofimov.”
“That is good news,” Gerasimov said, raising his glass. “No sin in drinking to that.”
By the time they finished another bottle, it was near midnight. The Colonel left the hospital, slightly unsteady on his feet, and Gerasimov immediately dialed the number of Lieutenant-General Trofimov.

“Good evening, Nikolai, this is Gerasimov.”
“Evening, Aleksandr. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” Trofimov's tone was casual, but laced with curiosity.
“Nikolai, forgive me for calling this late, but I need your support.”
“Where are you now?”
“In the hospital,” Gerasimov admitted.
“Is that so? How can I help? Can’t handle the nurses on your own?” Trofimov chuckled, the joke landing flatly.
Gerasimov swallowed his pride and pressed on. “I’ve received orders to prepare my division for relocation to the Gorky region.”
“I’m aware. I’ve already seen the letter from your pilots.”
“Letter? What letter?” Gerasimov’s heart sank.
“I see you’re not entirely up to speed with the situation in your own division, Aleksandr Ivanovich,” Trofimov said, his tone turning sharper.
“I’ve been in the hospital here in Irpen for the last three days, undergoing a medical examination,” Gerasimov explained, his voice a bit rushed now.
“Alright, alright, no need to justify yourself,” Trofimov interrupted. “The fact is, your pilots sent a petition to the future president of Ukraine. They don’t want to be transferred to Russia. They’re asking for protection, do you understand?”
“That’s the very reason I’m calling,” Gerasimov said firmly, the weight of the conversation beginning to settle in.
Lieutenant-General Trofimov remained silent, clearly waiting for Gerasimov to continue. The pause was long, almost uncomfortable.
“Nikolai, I don’t need to explain the position I find myself in. I need your support. Here’s my proposal: I’ll protect my pilots and take responsibility for them. If it becomes necessary, you can cover me.”
Trofimov exhaled. “So, I take it you also don’t wish to return to Mother Russia?”
“No, I don’t,” Gerasimov replied, his voice steady but resolute.
Trofimov let out a soft chuckle. “That’s a load off my shoulders. I had planned to meet with you after the October holidays to discuss your future—and the future of your division—within the context of the Armed Forces of Independent Ukraine. But consider this our discussion. Come December, after my official appointment as Minister of Defence, I’ll offer you several good positions to choose from. I won’t spoil the surprise by telling you which ones just yet.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “In the meantime, focus on passing your medical exams and don’t worry about Moscow. They won’t touch you.”
“Thank you, comrade Lieutenant-General,” Gerasimov said, a quiet relief seeping into his voice.
“Nothing to thank me for. After all, we’re pilots—we don’t abandon each other, especially in troubled times. Goodnight, Aleksandr.”

November 2nd, 1991. Irpen.
On Thursday evening, Vera visited Gerasimov again. The General, still riding the high from his conversation with Trofimov, was in an unusually good mood. He shared the details of his meetings and conversations, including his future prospects in the new Ukrainian Defence Ministry.
They shared a bottle of wine, spent an hour in bed, and all the while, Vera, in her thoughts, was bidding him farewell. She knew this would be the last time they were together. When he took her to the hospital gates to catch a taxi, he promised to visit Belaya Tserkov right after the October holidays.
“Vera, I’ll have to spend next week in Priluki. There’s a lot of urgent business to take care of, but as soon as I get through it, I’ll come back to you.”
“Be careful on the roads, Sasha. I’ll be waiting for you,” Vera replied, her voice soft but distant, knowing she would never see him again.

November 3rd, 1991. Priluki.
After receiving the medical certification, "Healthy, ready for flight in supersonic aircraft without limitations,” Gerasimov left Irpen and drove straight to Priluki on Sunday evening.
The division headquarters was abuzz with activity, despite the weekend and the late hour. Officers and enlisted men hurried through the corridors, clutching papers and gathering documents into cardboard boxes. Quiet conversations took place behind closed doors, mostly about the upcoming relocation to Pravdinsk.
The "top secret" order had long been an open secret. It was no longer confined to military personnel—it had spread to their families, the local market vendors, the workers at the plastic and tobacco factories, and even the regulars at the Disco Club “Europa.” The entire town of Priluki was troubled by the news, not so much because of the pilots leaving, but because the departure of the 184th bomber regiment meant a major economic blow. The military unit was a significant source of income for the local economy and provided jobs for many civilians.
Gerasimov strode down the corridor of the headquarters building with a small, knowing smile on his face. Unlike everyone else, he was carrying a secret of his own. He had made his decision: the division would not take off—no matter what pressure or threats came from above.
‘I shouldn’t have bothered packing up in Uzin,’ Gerasimov thought to himself. ‘It’s here in Priluki I should be packing. I’m not going to fly out. No one is.” He smiled grimly. “If Russia wants the bombers, they can buy them from Ukraine. If not, let them rot on the ground. My future is here, in the Ministry of Defence. And if Kiev doesn’t offer me a suitable position, I’ll do just fine staying with the refueling regiment in Uzin. Vera’s there, and we’ve got enough IL-78s to keep us busy for years. We’ll just convert them into cargo planes and haul goods in Africa or somewhere else—there will always be work.’
Entering his office, Gerasimov immediately picked up the phone and dialed the number for the chairman of the Chernigov executive committee.
“Eugene, it’s Gerasimov.”
“Good day, General,” came the reply.
“Listen, Eugene, some serious political events are about to unfold here. Could you arrange for a team of television journalists and some newspaper reporters to visit? Make sure they’re the boldest ones you have.”
The chairman hesitated before responding. “What sort of events are we talking about? Care to share more details?”
“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 bother. I’ll quarter your guys in the military hospital. They’ll dine in the pilot’s mess, and my financial services will provide their per diem. It’ll all be on me.”
“And the cognac?”
“Well, yes, of course. There will be cognac for you.”
After the conversation, the General summoned his assistants.
“Comrade officers, here's what’s happening. I’ve decided not to allow the division to be reassigned to Russia.”
“Thank God,” said the chief of headquarters. “At least I can retire in peace.”
Colonel Voronin, Gerasimov’s deputy, looked grim.
“General,” Voronin said. “What about the order? What about our oath? We could be court-martialed for this.”
“I swore an oath to a state that no longer exists.”
“And the order?”
“It’s illegal. Since August 24th, we’ve been serving on the territory of Independent Ukraine. Our Ministry of Defense is forming as we speak. I’m not revealing any secret when I say that we’ll have our own army, air force, and navy within a month. We’ll also have our own oath.”
“In Ukrainian?” asked Voronin.
“Why not? And you can’t scare me with a court-martial. I haven’t betrayed my Soviet Motherland. It was betrayed by those in the leadership who settled matters at Belovezhskaia Pushcha. Let them be afraid of a court-martial. My decision is final. Announce it to all staff. Anyone who disagrees and wishes to serve in Russia is free to leave for Moscow. I’ll sign their petition.”
Gerasimov turned to the chief of headquarters. “Nikolai Petrovich, instruct the Orderly Room to process travel documents to Moscow and issue leave tickets for any officer or enlisted man who wishes to serve in Russia.”
“What about the aircraft?” Voronin asked, his voice strained. “The strategic bombers will rot here on Ukrainian soil. They have nowhere to go. These aircraft are the pinnacle of aviation technology. What about the airfields? They’ll be overrun with weeds. The runways, two and a half meters thick with concrete, could land the ‘Buran’ space shuttle.”
Gerasimov listened calmly to Voronin’s outburst, leaning back thoughtfully. When Voronin finished, the room fell into a tense silence. The other officers shifted uncomfortably, awaiting the General’s response.
"Voronin," Gerasimov said slowly, "I understand how you feel. The aircraft, the airfields—they’re more than machines and concrete to us. They represent decades of work, pride, and expertise. But times have changed." His gaze sharpened. "You’re talking about technology, but I’m talking about people. These men, their families, their futures. I will not lead them into uncertainty, following orders from a government that no longer controls us. These bombers, as great as they are, will not serve a new master in Russia. Ukraine needs them now.”
Voronin’s face remained hard. “But, General, the TU-160s aren’t designed for short flights or regional missions. They’re built for long-range, for Russia’s defense doctrine. Ukraine won’t have the capability or resources to maintain them. They’ll rot here, and we’ll lose more than just planes—we’ll lose our aviation legacy.”
“I know,” Gerasimov said softly. “Believe me, I’ve thought about that every night since I made this decision. But this isn’t about the planes. This is about independence, about our future. Ukraine needs its own air force, and those bombers will be part of it. If Russia wants them back, they’ll have to pay for them, or we’ll sell them to someone else if needed. But they’re no longer Russia’s to control.”
The chief of headquarters, Colonel Petrovich, spoke up. “What if Moscow tries to force the issue? They may not take this lying down.”
Gerasimov smiled grimly. “That’s why I’ve called for the journalists. If Moscow pushes too hard, we’ll have the world’s eyes on us. They won’t dare try anything with cameras rolling.”
There was a murmur of agreement among the officers, though Voronin still looked unconvinced.
“So, we’re just going to let the planes sit? Let this incredible technology rot?” Voronin asked.
Gerasimov stood, his presence commanding the room. “Voronin, I know what you’re feeling. These planes are our legacy. But we’re at the start of something new. If we hold onto the past too tightly, we’ll miss our chance to build something better. Our duty is no longer to the Soviet Union. It’s to Ukraine now.”
Voronin clenched his jaw but nodded, slowly accepting the weight of the General’s words. “I’ll inform the men,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Gerasimov placed a hand on Voronin’s shoulder. “We’ll find a way to honor that legacy. But for now, our priority is the men under our command and the future we’re building. The aircraft will find their purpose here—or elsewhere—but we must think beyond what we know.”
The General turned to the rest of the officers.
“Gentlemen, listen carefully. According to the international association of airports, in the next twenty years, cargo traffic between Europe and Asia and between the Baltic and Black Seas will increase by sixty percent. This will create demand for new transport hubs. For example, we’ll need two or three airfields between Warsaw and Moscow. Ukraine is poised to become the largest travel focal point in Eastern Europe, according to foreign experts—particularly the English. Poland is second, and they earn about four billion dollars a year from this. The Soviet Union earns nothing. Ukraine can secure at least half of that sum by using these airfields for heavy transport aircraft. As for the bombers, if Russia really needs them, they’ll find a political solution. One hundred of these aircraft are planned, and if eighteen remain in Ukraine, Russia will survive. I know you’d like to fly them.”
“Yes,” the Colonel responded firmly.
“I won’t consider it betrayal if you call the Russian Air Force commander now and inform him of my decision. You might even earn some points for doing so.”
Gerasimov pushed the black telephone with a direct line to Moscow to the edge of the table. The forty-year-old Colonel didn’t need to be told twice.
Turning to the remaining officers, Gerasimov said, “Make the necessary preparations. This division stays here. Anyone who disagrees—you know what to do.”
As the officers left the room, Gerasimov stood alone, looking out at the airfield. The towering bombers stood silent and still, reminders of a Soviet era that was quickly fading into history.

On Saturday morning, a group of journalists from the regional capital of Chernigov arrived at the garrison. The General greeted them in the vestibule of divisional headquarters and personally escorted them to his office. The journalists sat in front of the Commander’s desk, pulling out their tape recorders and notebooks, ready for what they expected to be sensational news.
“You can put your pens and recorders away,” Gerasimov said. “Today, you’re not going to write anything down. I’ll briefly explain the purpose of your visit. The main events will unfold here in the next two days.”
He proceeded to give a brief overview of the order from Moscow.
“Okay, so where’s the sensation?” asked the reporter from The Evening Chernigov.
“Everyone already knows that Moscow wants to take all the valuable assets for itself. That’s old news and doesn’t even deserve a mention on the last page of a newspaper.”
“The real news,” Gerasimov said, “is that I’ve refused to relocate my division to Russia. By tomorrow, or the day after, high-ranking Generals from Moscow will be here, and they’ll try to change my mind by any means necessary.”
“This smells like a scandal already. If things go as you say, this trip won’t be in vain,” said another reporter, raising an eyebrow.
The journalists exchanged intrigued glances. Open defiance of an order at such a high level had never occurred within the Soviet armed forces. A bespectacled brunette, the correspondent for The Chernigov Pravda, whispered to her colleague from The Evening Chernigov:
“We’re going to be shot along with this mad General.”
“If we’re in the same coffin, I’m okay with it,” the newspaperman replied quietly with a grin.
“Will we be allowed to take pictures of your meeting?” asked the cameraman from the regional television station.
“I’m the one who gives permission or forbids it,” Gerasimov responded. “And if I’ve invited you here, it means you can photograph everything. You can shoot me from every angle, and you can capture the fists pounding on the table and the feet stomping on the floor in fury. But to ensure you don’t miss any historic moments starting Monday morning, you’ll need to be on full alert at the hotel.”
“That sounds very military, General. What do you mean?” asked the pretty brunette with a playful smile. “Do we have to stay dressed the whole time, or can we undress occasionally?”
Gerasimov chuckled at the comment, though his tone remained serious.
“By ‘utmost readiness,’ I mean thirty-minute readiness,” he clarified. “If you can dress in thirty seconds, feel free to undress just as quickly. And if you struggle with that, give me a call—I’ll come help,” he added with a slight grin.
The reporters laughed at the General’s remark.
"It would be better if you came to help me undress," the young woman slyly retorted.
“He already promised me that,” the reporter from The Evening Chernigov quipped, drawing more laughter from the room.
Gerasimov’s face turned serious again. “This situation could escalate quickly, and I don’t want anyone to miss it when Moscow tries to flex its muscles here.”
The mood in the room shifted as the weight of his words settled in. The journalists exchanged uneasy glances, realizing they were on the verge of something far bigger than a simple story. Openly defying Moscow was unheard of, and the potential consequences began to sink in.
Although the USSR had not yet officially dissolved, it was already unraveling, and Ukraine's future as an independent state was just beginning to take shape. The division of military assets between Ukraine and Russia was a critical issue, and Gerasimov’s refusal to relocate his bombers to Russia was a bold and risky move.
The reporter from The Evening Chernigov cleared his throat. “General, do you really think you can stand up to Moscow? What do you expect will happen when they arrive? High-ranking officials don’t take kindly to being defied.”
Gerasimov nodded, his expression hardening. “Exactly. Ukraine must assert its independence not just politically, but militarily. If we allow Moscow to take everything back, what kind of independence is that? The world is changing, and so are my men. My loyalty is to the soldiers under my command and to this country’s future, not to orders from Moscow that no longer reflect reality.”
The correspondent from Chernigov Pravda spoke up next. “But General, with all due respect, do you think Ukraine is prepared to maintain strategic bombers of this scale? They require immense resources—money, infrastructure, skilled personnel. Isn’t there a risk they’ll become a burden rather than an asset?”
Gerasimov leaned forward, his eyes sharp. “You’re right. These planes are expensive, and Ukraine has a long road ahead. But we have to start somewhere. These bombers aren’t just machines; they symbolize our capability and strategic importance. If we manage them well, they’ll become vital assets in Europe’s growing transport network. As for resources—if Russia wants them badly enough, they’ll have to negotiate with us.”
He paused to let his words sink in. “We’re at a crossroads. If we let them take what they want, we’ll always be at their mercy. But if we hold our ground, Ukraine has a chance to establish itself—not just in defense, but in the global economy.”
The brunette nodded thoughtfully, realizing the gravity of his decision. “So, it’s about more than just keeping the planes. It’s about standing up for Ukraine’s future as a sovereign nation.”
“Exactly,” Gerasimov replied. “Tomorrow, when the Moscow Generals arrive, we’ll see just how far they’re willing to push to keep us under their control.”
A heavy silence followed. The journalists, who had come for a story, now realized they were witnessing history in the making.
“So,” the cameraman broke the silence with a grin, “just to confirm, we can film everything, including the Moscow Generals throwing a fit?”
Gerasimov chuckled. “Absolutely. I promise you, it’ll be worth every frame.”
“What should we do until Monday?” asked the cameraman.
“You can explore the city,” Gerasimov said. “Visit the Spaso-Prilutsky Monastery, see the Church of Saint Nicholas the Miracle Worker, and in the evening, drop by the Eighth of March Footgear Faculty Club for some dancing. The city may be small, with only seventy thousand people, but there are still places to enjoy yourself.” His tone suggested he knew the city well and had more than a passing interest in its offerings.

Chapter Sixteen
November 6th, 1991. Moscow.
On Monday morning, the Minister of Defense summoned the Commander of the Russian Air Force, who grimly reported Gerasimov’s actions.
"Comrade Marshal of Aviation," said Tolkachev gravely, "we're facing a serious issue. General Gerasimov’s unexpected defiance is jeopardizing all our plans for the development of strategic forces."
Shaposhnikov, sensing the gravity of the situation, immediately understood the stakes. Losing half the TU-160 supersonic bombers could cost him his position. After listening to the report, the Marshal cast a glance at the model of the TU-160 on his bookshelf before addressing the Commander.
"Fly to Priluki immediately. Find out why Gerasimov made this decision and try to convince him to comply. I believe he’s angling for a better post than Gorky. Promise him any higher position in Moscow. Tell him I’ve signed an order promoting him to Commander of Aviation for the Military District."
"Which district?" Tolkachev asked.
"Any one he wants. He can choose—from Moscow to the Far East. Hell, offer him a diplomatic post. We’ve got dozens of vacant military attach; positions around the world. Just give him whatever he wants. But he must move his division to Gorky. Once that’s done, I’ll deal with him personally. I won’t forgive this mess. Understood?"
Tolkachev nodded. "Understood, Sir."
"I trust you’ll succeed," Shaposhnikov added with a menacing edge to his voice.

At Priluki Airfield
Upon arrival at Priluki airfield, Tolkachev met with the division’s command staff, led by General Gerasimov. As he looked through the window of his AN-24, he could barely believe his eyes. The very men who had loyally followed orders for years were now openly defying him. He couldn’t help but recall the last time such insubordination had taken place—1917, when the Imperial Army refused to follow orders, leading to the collapse of the Russian Empire and plunging millions into the horrors of the Civil War.
‘I hope this revolution doesn’t spill blood,’ Tolkachev thought bitterly. ‘Though some of these officers deserve a bullet to the head.’
The crew commander stepped out of the cockpit and reported that the propellers had stopped and the plane was secured.
"Wait for me in the aircraft," Tolkachev told the pilot. "This conversation won’t take longer than an hour—it’ll be mostly one-sided, in my favor."
Without acknowledging the officers waiting to greet him, the three-star General strode briskly past them and climbed into Gerasimov’s Volga. The airmen, surprised by his disregard, lowered their salutes halfheartedly as they watched him pass.
The drive to division headquarters was silent. Upon arriving, the Commander ordered the command staff to gather in the divisional Commander’s office.
"I’ve already gathered everyone in the main auditorium," Gerasimov replied calmly. "It would be too cramped in my office."
"Fine," Tolkachev answered, irritation flashing across his face. "Lead the way."
To his surprise, the auditorium was packed. Alongside the senior officers, Tolkachev noticed eight civilians present.
"Who are these people?" he demanded, his voice sharp.
"The press," Gerasimov answered curtly.
"The press?" Tolkachev’s voice rose with disbelief. "What the hell are journalists doing here? This meeting concerns top-secret matters of international significance! Why did you invite the media?"
"And television crews," Gerasimov added, unfazed by the Commander's growing anger.
November 6th, 1991. Moscow.
"I see. You’re trying to turn this into a spectacle," Tolkachev growled. "I came here to discuss the execution of a secret order, and you brought in the press for a state-level issue. That’s a crime."
"The order hasn’t been secret for some time now," Gerasimov shot back. "Eighty percent of the refueling regiment’s flight crew signed a petition to the President of Ukraine, asking him to stop the division’s relocation."
"President?" the Air Force Commander retorted angrily. "There’s no such thing as a President of Ukraine."
"Not yet," Gerasimov responded calmly, "but there will be in twenty-two days."
"Fine. Let’s set the refuelers aside for now," the Colonel-General said, sitting down and turning to face the officers. "I’m here to understand why you canceled the preparation of the Tu-160 regiment for transfer to Pravdinsk. Why, comrade Major-General, did you disobey a direct order from the Colonel-General—my order? Do you no longer value your position? Are you tired of your freedom?"
"Comrade Commander, your order lost its legal force the moment it was signed, and you know it," Gerasimov replied. "The Belovezhskoe Agreement, signed by the leaders of the three fraternal republics, states that all valuable assets within the territories of the newly-formed states will belong to those states. This aviation division holds significant value, and therefore, it will remain in Ukraine."
"You might want to rethink your position, General," the Colonel-General said with a cold smile. "You’ve got a bright future ahead of you as Commander of Military District Aviation in Russia. The Minister of Defense has already signed the order appointing you to this role. He’s also signed an order giving your family a three-bedroom apartment in Moscow."
"I already have a three-bedroom apartment in Kiev," Gerasimov said firmly. "And I’m quite content as the Commander of this division."
From the back of the room, the cameraman whispered to his colleague, "He said that with real conviction. Strongly."
"Shh, I’m recording," replied the journalist from The Kiev News, gesturing to his portable recorder.
The Colonel-General rose from his chair, his face darkening. "So, Gerasimov, is this your final decision?"
"Yes," Gerasimov replied evenly.
"That’s unfortunate," the Colonel-General responded, his voice hard. "I’ll be sure to relay your decision to the KGB’s military branch. I’m sure they’ll be eager to discuss it with you."
"Don’t try to intimidate me, comrade Colonel-General," Gerasimov said coldly. "I no longer fear the Russian KGB. I serve Ukraine now."
Tolkachev’s expression twisted in anger. "Gerasimov," he snarled, "you are no longer my comrade. From now on, you are simply citizen Gerasimov to me and my colleagues."
Without another word, the Air Force Commander stormed out of the auditorium and headed back to the airfield in Gerasimov’s Volga.

Back in Moscow
Later that evening, Colonel-General Tolkachev made a call to the Ministry of Defense.
"Viktor Sergeevich, I’m sorry to ruin your evening, but Gerasimov has flatly refused to relocate the division."
"Traitor," the Marshal responded curtly before hanging up.
At 9:00 p.m., televisions across Russia played the familiar sound of a military march. The screen showed the Earth slowly rotating away from Moscow, and a missile with a red star was launched into space. The Earth turned again, and the missile struck the United States. Bold letters spelling "T I M E" emerged from the depths of the screen. Veteran news anchors Nina Bodrova and Igor Kirillov appeared, reporting on positive developments from across Russia, with a focus on troubling international news.
The program cut to their Kiev correspondent, Sergei Sheremet, who informed viewers that Ukraine was preparing to celebrate the anniversary of the October Revolution. He concluded with:
"Tomorrow, during the military parade on the main street of Kiev, the Armed Forces and military equipment of a sovereign country will march in well-ordered columns. The young state is rapidly developing its military, with strategic aviation playing a key role."
After his report, the broadcast transitioned to a clip recorded by Chernigov television journalists in Priluki. The footage of Gerasimov’s exchange with the Russian Air Force Commander aired uncut, without any additional commentary.

Somewhere in Moscow
Cameron didn’t bother watching the rest of the TIME news broadcast. Sports updates and tomorrow’s weather held no interest for him. He turned off the television, left the embassy building, and headed toward the Arbat. The snow, which had fallen earlier in the day, was already turning to slush beneath his boots, splashing up with each step. He heard the familiar sound of footsteps behind him but paid no attention to the Russian counterintelligence officer tailing him. The American spy didn’t bother to look back or glance into the shop windows. Today, his tail didn’t concern him.
Cameron stopped at the nearest post office, waited a few minutes in line for the international payphones, and dialed a number in Belaya Tserkov.
"Vera, it’s me. Tomorrow, number two.”
"Got it."
As agreed, nothing more was said—only the day of departure and the train number. After the call, Cameron returned to the embassy, still followed by his tail.

Chapter Seventeen
November 10th, 1991. Moscow.
The much-anticipated international tennis match was about to begin at the Olympic Sports Palace. All forty thousand tickets had been sold out long ago. Two rising stars of tennis were meeting in the Kremlin Cup final: Jakob Hlasek, a Swiss player, and Andrei Cherkasov, a young Russian phenom from Ufa. Rumor had it that the President of the Russian Federation, an avid fan of tennis—along with vodka and women—was expected to attend in person.
The parking lot at the Olympic Sports Palace was packed with foreign cars. Cameron turned on his signal and aimed his Mercedes directly at a traffic sergeant. The diplomatic plates on his car had the desired effect. The sergeant spoke briefly into his radio, then waved his striped baton to let Cameron through.
As soon as Cameron’s Mercedes cleared the entrance, the sergeant’s gloved hand stopped the next car, a Lada.
"No spaces left. Turn around," the sergeant instructed the driver.
;"Find one," the driver said coolly, flashing his KGB officer’s ID.
;While the sergeant continued speaking into his walkie-talkie, a passenger emerged from the Lada and quickly headed toward the VIP parking area—the same spot where Cameron had left his car. Just a few dozen meters away, the surveillance officer spotted MacKay.

The American was standing in line at the entrance to the Sports Palace. The counterintelligence agent pushed his way through the crowd, elbowing past fans who weren’t moving fast enough, until he positioned himself directly behind Cameron.
;Step by step, they moved toward the entrance, with the line of spectators slowly disappearing into the vast belly of the country’s largest indoor stadium.
;At the moment Cameron handed his ticket to the attendant, the KGB officer, with a barely perceptible movement, planted a bug on his overcoat. His low-pulled sports cap concealed a microphone that relayed sound directly into the agent’s earpiece.

"We have a signal," the KGB officer heard in his earpiece.
;"Your ticket," the attendant stopped the officer from moving forward.;
"One moment," the officer muttered as he fumbled through his pockets.;
"Couldn’t you have it ready?" grumbled an impatient tennis fan behind him.;
"Found it!" the officer said with a note of triumph, presenting his KGB ID.;
While the ticket taker scrutinized the ID—marked with "Unobstructed Entry Everywhere"—Cameron managed to blend into the crowd and slip away.;
"I’ve lost visual contact," the KGB agent reported.;
"The subject isn’t moving. He’s thirty meters in front of you. Standing. Twenty meters... ten. He’s right in front of you.”

Crowds of fans streamed past the young man, whose trained eyes scanned their faces. From the direction of the court, the sharp popping of rackets hitting tennis balls echoed through the air.
The contenders for the Kremlin Cup were warming up, exchanging powerful shots.
;"He’s not here," the officer muttered quietly.;
"Look around. Our man must be nearby. The transmitter shows he’s only two meters away.";
"It’s just a trash bin, and the coat is on top of it. But the man’s gone. He slipped away again.";
"Take the transmitter off the coat and return to the car," the operator instructed.

Cameron had discarded his coat in the trash and slipped around the Oval stadium, exiting through the service door toward the Velo track. He hurried down a marble staircase to the parking area, where he found a green Moscovite-412 sedan with Moscow license plates, and drove toward the Kiev train station.;
At the station, MacKay parked the car and walked toward the railway platforms. A middle-aged man stood at the junction of two underground passages, a hamburger in hand, grease dripping onto his dark blue nylon jacket. As soon as the American passed him, the man tossed the half-eaten burger onto the steps. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he made his way to the green Moscovite-412.
Cameron reached the third platform just as Express Train No. 2, “Prague-Moscow,” was arriving at the Kiev station. He didn’t know which car Vera would be in, but he was confident that she would be waiting, standing still as he had instructed her. So far, she had followed all of his directions flawlessly.

After receiving Cameron’s phone call on the evening of November 9th, Vera had been slightly anxious. She was so close to achieving what she had long been striving for.
Just one more night in this country," she thought, and tomorrow, a new life begins. Well, maybe not tomorrow—maybe the day after. But a life where I’ll have everything I want, not just what others decide to give me. A life where I’ll sleep with whomever I want, not those I’m forced to or those who pay the most. A life with my own car, my own apartment—maybe even a house. No more louts, no more lines, no more drunks or beggars. A real life, one I’ll have earned.

She fell asleep with a dreamy smile on her lips. The entire journey to Moscow, she sat quietly by the window, lost in her thoughts. She didn’t respond to her fellow passengers’ questions or their suggestions to toast and drink vodka for Labor Day. As the train neared Moscow and dawn broke, worry began to creep back in. Cameron had instructed her to travel without money or documents.;
What if he doesn’t meet me at the station? She wondered anxiously.

But her worries vanished the moment the train pulled into the station. Through the window of the carriage, she saw Cameron standing at the platform, waving excitedly. His joyful expression reassured her instantly.;
Before the conductor even had a chance to open the door, Vera jumped down from the train and ran toward MacKay. The Colonel embraced her, kissed her on the lips like a lover reunited after a long separation, then gently pushed her back and asked:;
"You’ve come without any belongings?";
"And without my papers, just like you told me," Vera said.;
"Excellent. Let’s get out of here."

A dark grey Ford Transit van was waiting for Cameron and Vera in the private parking lot in front of the vast train station. In the fading twilight, the van appeared almost black. Its rear windows were covered with advertising posters for an auto parts store. MacKay slid into the driver’s seat, while Vera paused at the front passenger door.;
"Sit in the back," Cameron instructed.

As the Ford made its way to the Ring Road, Vera began telling Cameron about her last meetings with the General in the hospital. MacKay wasn’t really paying attention; his mind was elsewhere.

As they passed a traffic checkpoint, Cameron glanced at Vera in the rearview mirror, winked, and said:
r
"Take off your dress, Vera."
It was warm inside the vehicle. Without hesitation, Vera removed her outer clothing, then hesitated, unsure of what was next.
Catching her uncertain look in the mirror, Cameron repeated firmly, "Take it all off."
Vera had grown accustomed to obeying him without much persuasion. She stripped completely and waited curiously to see what would happen.
Cameron turned off the main road onto a side street, then onto an even narrower path, finally stopping in a remote, unpopulated area. Vera wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered:
"Come to the backseat."
MacKay kissed her arm softly, just below the elbow, and said, "We’ll have plenty of time for that on the other side of the ocean. Right now, there's an aircraft waiting for you. Go behind the backseat. There are bags there—diplomatic mail. Crawl into an empty one. I’m sending you overseas as cargo."
A bit surprised at the idea of traveling to America as actual mail, Vera shrugged but complied. She looked behind the seat and saw several canvas bags lying on the floor of the van. Finding an empty one, she climbed inside. The bag was new, and its rough fabric scratched her skin. Seeing her discomfort, Cameron reassured her.
"Just be patient. It won’t be for long. I’ll take you straight to the plane. I’ll put you on the conveyor belt, and you’ll wake up in the baggage compartment of a Boeing. Once the plane is in the air, a crew member will get you out. They’ll give you clothes, food, and let you sleep as much as you want. By tomorrow, you’ll be in the States."
Vera listened quietly as Cameron spoke, pulling the bag up to her neck. He took the fabric from her hands and tied the ends in a tight double knot above her head.
"Stay calm, and everything will be fine," he said.
With that, he returned to the driver’s seat and drove down the desolate road.;
While suburban Muscovites celebrated the proletariat’s victory with vodka and cabbage rolls, Cameron’s Ford Transit approached a small bridge with low sides. Beneath it, a narrow stream carried its murky waters toward the Moscow River. The bridge stood over a section where dredging had deepened the river, bringing the banks closer and making construction easier.

Cameron stopped the van, opened the rear door, and got out.;
"Are we there?" Vera asked from inside the bag.;
"Quiet," he said, his voice cold. "You’re supposed to be mail, remember? Customs officers are nearby."

With little effort, MacKay lifted the sack containing Vera’s slender frame and carried it to the edge of the bridge. He paused for a moment, looking cautiously in both directions, then hurled the sack into the river.

Vera didn’t have time to scream before the icy water hit her body like a shockwave. Instinctively, she opened her mouth, inhaling the freezing, murky water into her lungs. Death came swiftly.

The sack sank to the bottom, and the current dragged her lifeless body, turning it over and over against the rocks. A few splashes broke the surface before the water calmed again.

Cameron stood there, watching the ripples fade. Once the water was still, he returned to the van and closed the rear doors.
The car’s headlights illuminated Cameron just as he opened the driver’s door, about to get behind the wheel. The vehicle was unexpectedly close.
;Why didn’t I notice that? He wondered. It must’ve driven up with the headlights off. So, it can’t be KGB—they wouldn’t have let me toss the sack into the river. But who is it? How many are in the car? If there’s only one, I can handle it, but if there are two… these damn headlights are blinding me.

Shielding his eyes with his hand, Cameron stood waiting.
Stay calm, Cameron. Don’t panic. Let them show themselves, and then we’ll figure out the next move.
A man stepped out of the car, his face hidden in the glare. Then he spoke.
"Good evening, Colonel MacKay. I see you’re busy eliminating witnesses, aren’t you?"
Cameron immediately recognized the voice—it was his recent companion from the train.
"No, just admiring the beauties of nighttime Moscow. It’s late autumn, and the air is so fresh," MacKay replied smoothly, in Russian.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the man mocked. "And I suppose that sack you accidentally dropped into the river was full of embassy letters to relatives in the States. Why didn’t I guess that sooner?" The fugitive KGB Captain’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Something like that," MacKay said, buying time. His mind raced. "Is he alone, or does he have backup? I can’t see his hands."
Cameron’s sharp eyes finally spotted the black pistol.
"Get in the car," Viktor ordered, motioning with the gun. "And don’t make any sudden moves, or I’ll shoot without hesitation."
"Don’t shoot," Cameron said, climbing into the car. "KGB protocol doesn’t allow for that."
"I’m not part of the system anymore. Now, I run my own business."
"That’s interesting," Cameron thought. "He’s acting on his own—he must need something from me. Maybe this meeting isn’t a total loss after all."
Viktor got into the backseat, slipping the Makarov pistol into his pocket.
"Where are we going?" Cameron asked, pulling onto the highway.
"To your embassy."
"You’re not planning to defect, are you?"
"I am, and it’s not by accident."
"Let me guess—you lost track of me in Kiev, and they booted you from the service?"
"Shut up. That’s none of your concern. Just get me into the embassy grounds, and I’ll talk to the CIA."
Cameron glanced in the rearview mirror. "Tell me, Viktor, how did you track me down?"
"I saw how my former colleagues were following you, so I followed them from the embassy. When you lined up at the Olympics, I got into a parallel line. While that idiot played the role of a ticketless fan, I moved behind you. I remembered your trick with the coat from Kiev—you didn’t shake me off this time. I could’ve interfered long before now, but I wanted to see what you’d do with the woman. Why’d you deal with her like that?"
Viktor laughed, his voice thick with irony. "Go ahead, share your story. I won’t tell anyone."
Cameron, barely listening to the taunts, calculated his next move.
Sure, I could gain some points by bringing him in. They’d make a note in my file about successfully flipping a KGB agent. But they’d also write up the unsanctioned disposal of a Russian woman—and who knows which would weigh heavier. No, this isn’t worth the risk. I need to clean up this mess.
"Lie down on the floor," Cameron ordered.
"Why?" Viktor’s guard went up.
"Where do you think the surveillance teams are waiting for me?"
"At the Olympic Stadium, where you left the embassy car."
"Exactly. But their backup teams are staked out near my embassy, watching both sides of the Garden Ring Road. While the marines figure out why I’m showing up in a van with Moscow plates, your people will drag you out of the backseat. So lie down, and don’t argue."
Viktor hesitated, then took his pistol into his hand and lay down on the van’s floor. Lying on the dirty carpeting, he kept a close eye on Cameron’s movements.
MacKay drove calmly, showing no outward signs of concern. From where Viktor lay, he could only see Cameron’s right hand, right shoulder, and part of his head. He didn’t notice Cameron slipping his left hand into his coat pocket, retrieving a small, silenced semi-automatic pistol.
As the van neared the Moscow Big Ring Road, Cameron slowed at a traffic light. Viktor, still cautious, bent his arm and aimed his pistol at Cameron’s head. But the American appeared unfazed, smoothly pressing the clutch and easing the van into the flow of traffic. Viktor relaxed slightly and lowered his weapon.
That was all Cameron needed.
In one fluid motion, Cameron slid his left hand into the inner pocket of his coat without breaking his stride and fired twice. rBoth bullets struck Viktor in the chest. He let out a pained grunt, bent over, and lost consciousness.
Cameron turned the Ford Transit around at the next intersection, heading back out of the city. Initially, he considered dumping Viktor’s body where he had drowned Vera, but a glance at the glowing green numbers of the clock made him reconsider.
"I’ll be drowning Russians till dawn at this rate. They’re not worth it," Cameron muttered, pulling off the road into the thick woods.
He scanned the highway one last time, making sure no one had followed. Satisfied, he cut the engine. In silence, he dragged Victor’s limp body from the car and dumped it into the ditch without hesitation.
"I hope this time, no one was watching," Cameron muttered before returning to the van.

November 12th, 1991. Belaya Tserkov, Ukraine.
General Gerasimov placed his attach; case in the backseat of his "Volga" sedan and sped off from Priluki toward Belaya Tserkov. At the police checkpoints in Zolotonosha and Vatutino, he was stopped by traffic cops. As a seasoned pilot accustomed to flying supersonic jets, he loved to speed, and today, he was pushing the Volga to nearly twice the legal limit. He missed Vera and was eager to see her. His general’s ID came in handy, allowing him to bypass the usual consequences of breaking traffic rules. The sergeants’ authority was overruled, and Aleksandr Ivanovich raced ahead.
The frantic drive ended at Vera’s apartment building. Gerasimov didn’t wait for the elevator to descend but sprinted up the stairs, skipping steps until he reached the seventh floor. He pressed the doorbell and held it down impatiently. The sound echoed through the hallway so persistently that a neighbor across the landing opened her door, glaring at him.
"Why are you ringing like that? She’s not home. Can’t you see that?"
"When did you last see her?" Gerasimov asked, turning to her urgently.
"Before the holidays. I was throwing out the garbage, and she was closing her door."
"Maybe she’s working a shift in Uzin," Gerasimov muttered to himself as he rushed back down the stairs, not bothering to thank the neighbor.
An hour later, he was sitting in the office of the chief of provisions at the airbase.
"So you’re telling me she hasn’t shown up to work since I left the garrison three weeks ago?" Gerasimov asked, his voice tense.
"Yes, sir," the chief replied. "At first, Valentina cut her some slack. I was frustrated, of course—she hadn’t even been here a month and was already taking advantage of her leave. But her boss mentioned your verbal orders, so we didn’t push it. At the end of October, I called her at home, asked if she was planning on taking leave officially. She said she was sick and didn’t know when she’d be back. A few days later, no one answered her phone."
"Fine. Bring me something to eat."
The chief left to arrange food, and Gerasimov immediately called the military counterintelligence officer of the Air Refueling Regiment. The KGB Captain arrived within ten minutes. By then, the General was halfway through a hastily made five-egg omelet.
"Bon app;tit," the Captain said as he entered.
"Thank you, Sergei. Sit down and eat with me," Gerasimov said, nodding toward the table. "Fix him something too," he instructed the chief, "and make sure we’re not disturbed."
The waitress quickly brought the Captain’s meal and closed the door firmly behind her.
"A month ago, a new waitress started working at the mess hall," Gerasimov began, bringing the counterintelligence officer up to speed. "I gave her a few rides from the garrison to her place in Belaya Tserkov. At the end of October, she came to see me in the district hospital."
Hearing this, the Captain stopped eating and looked at Gerasimov with renewed interest.
"Go on, eat," Gerasimov urged. "The important part is coming now."
"What specifically?" the Captain asked.
"She’s disappeared. And it’s strange. When she visited me at the hospital, she said she was working every day, but in reality, she hasn’t shown up for work at all. Worse still, her neighbors haven’t seen her for the past two days. I don’t like it. I want you to quietly investigate—talk to her neighbors, check with the local police. Maybe she was killed. She had money, you know. For example, she hired a cab from Belaya Tserkov to Irpin. She also had some expensive things at home."
"Oh, so you’ve been to her place?" the Captain asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, I’ve visited her a few times," Gerasimov admitted. "I want you to report directly to me on whatever you find."
"I’ll do what I can, Aleksandr Ivanovich, but if I uncover any evidence of enemy involvement, I’ll have to report it to my superiors."
Gerasimov waved a hand dismissively. "Come on, do you really think she was working for the enemy? During the two weeks I was with her, she never asked me about anything important, and she certainly didn’t pry. The only ‘secret’ she learned was the size of my dick, and believe me, that’s not classified information—quite a few women besides my wife are aware of that."

November 19th, 1991. The KGB Headquarters, Lubyanka, Moscow.
At ten o'clock in the morning, the Deputy Head of the KGB Seventh Directorate entered the office of the Surveillance Department Director.
"Comrade General, our fugitive has been found," he reported, placing a set of photographs on the General’s desk. The photos depicted the murdered Captain. "We received these from the district prosecutor a couple of hours ago. Popenko’s body was discovered last night, ten kilometers outside the Moscow Ring Road, in a roadside ditch."
"Do we know the details of the murder?" the General asked, studying the dozen snapshots.
"Two bullets to the chest, from a small-caliber pistol. The pathologist’s report indicates that the shots were fired at close range, though no traces of powder were found on his clothes. It suggests the killer knew him but was cautious. The criminal investigator’s note mentions that a pistol was found in Popenko’s inner jacket pocket. We’re currently verifying the serial number. It appears he took his service Makarov pistol with him from the office. Most likely, Viktor was killed inside a vehicle—the body was found far from any populated area."
"What can we gather from this?"
"Not much. The prosecutor has opened a criminal case, and the district police are handling the search for the murderer. It’ll likely go cold. The Captain was almost certainly killed by a professional—there are no traces."
"I'm issuing you a reprimand," the General said sharply, "for the fact that your subordinate didn’t surrender his handgun before taking leave. And consider yourself lucky—it could’ve been much worse."
"I accept the reprimand," the Lieutenant-Colonel replied.

November 21st, The Police Station, Khimki, Moscow Region.
A morning conference was underway at the Red October District Criminal Investigation office, attended by the district prosecutor and the chief of police.
"Two murders in one night. What do you make of it?" the prosecutor asked the gathered officers. "No clues, no solid theories—you’re not just inefficient, you’re looking downright incompetent."
"We have a working hypothesis regarding the woman’s body found in the river," the head of the criminal investigation department responded.
"Alright, let’s hear it, if it’s not too much of a secret," the prosecutor said with a sarcastic edge.
"We believe the young woman was thrown into the river by a truck driver. We’re currently checking all moving companies in the area."
"And why do you think it was a truck driver?" asked the chief of police.
"She was found naked, stuffed in a sack. It looks like someone was taking revenge—possibly a prostitute."
"Did the woman have any signs of venereal disease?" the prosecutor asked, raising a speculative eyebrow.
"Yes, the worst one," the investigator confirmed.
"If that theory holds, then we’ll likely find the driver soon enough. Has the woman been identified yet?" asked the prosecutor.
"Not yet, unfortunately. There’s no match in the missing persons database."
"And the second body?" the prosecutor pressed.
"The second body is KGB Captain Viktor Popenko. Two of his colleagues have already confirmed the identification."
"Are they planning to take the case themselves?" asked the prosecutor.
"It’s unclear at this point. They haven’t said anything about taking it over," the investigator replied.
"Which department did the murdered officer serve in?" asked the police chief.
"The Seventh Directorate. In simpler terms, counterespionage."
"It’s possible they’ll conduct their own investigation and leave us out of it," the head of criminal investigation speculated.
"That’s likely," the prosecutor agreed.

Chapter Eighteen
November 12th, 1991;Washington, DC

Colonel MacKay returned to Washington just as a flu epidemic was sweeping the nation. No state was spared—not even Alaska or Hawaii. Southern Canada and Northern Mexico were also hit hard. It was the typical North American strain, causing bouts of vomiting and diarrhea. Most people simply called it the stomach flu. Over five hundred lives had been lost in the first two weeks. The poor, trying to avoid expensive doctor visits, often paid the ultimate price. Those with insurance packed hospitals and waited for hours in crowded clinics.

A few days after resuming work, MacKay himself fell ill. At first, he chalked it up to acclimatization and a spike in his fever. But when his wife was laid low by the same symptoms, he admitted it had to be the flu. Yet, while most of his colleagues recovered within two weeks, MacKay remained bedridden. A week later, Major-General Ash gave him a call.

"You should probably see a doctor, Cameron," the General suggested, after hearing MacKay’s list of symptoms.

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," MacKay agreed reluctantly.

The following day, a report from the military doctor appeared on Ash’s desk. It was sealed with red stripes and stamped "PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL."

"Does he know?" Ash asked his assistant, who stood stiffly in his blue suit.

"No, sir."

"Don’t tell him."

A short while later, the Deputy Director of the CIA sat across from Ash, his expression grim.

“The priority is making sure no information leaks,” the Deputy said, tapping the report.

"How can we keep this quiet? In a few months, he’ll be unrecognizable. It’ll be a massive embarrassment for the department—we’ll be the butt of every joke from sailors to marines," Ash retorted.

The Deputy exhaled, resigned. "We’ll turn him into a martyr. The story will be that he died at the hands of the Russians—revenge for their lost bombers."
"Are you authorizing me to handle this as I see fit?" Ash asked, tone sharp.
"Yes. Do whatever it takes to protect the department and the CIA. Outsource it, if necessary, but ensure it’s discreet."

As Ash left the Deputy’s office, he shook his head. "What a fucking disaster," he muttered under his breath.

Ten days in Walter Reed Army Medical Center left Cameron feeling renewed, though the medicine was just a temporary fix. He sat in the passenger seat of his wife’s car, his head leaning against the window as she drove. Christmas decorations flickered on the houses they passed, but her voice was the only sound he focused on. She was talking about Thanksgiving without him, how great the neighbor’s turkey had been, how their kids seemed to be growing up too fast, and how all the neighbors had already put up Christmas decorations.

“There’s still time before Christmas,” Cameron said quietly.

“Barely. Everyone’s already put out their Santa Clauses and reindeer. We’re falling behind.”

Cameron didn’t have the energy to argue. Despite his fatigue, it felt like his birthday. By secret order, he’d been awarded the Air Force Distinguished Service Medal, and both the Secretary of Defense and the CIA Director had pushed through his promotion to Brigadier-General. Major-General Ash had delivered the news during a hospital visit, along with word that the medal would be awarded in a private ceremony early in the new year. His promotion would be official before Christmas.

As they pulled into the driveway, Cameron frowned at the sight of his Buick parked outside, in front of the garage.

“Why isn’t my car in the garage?” he asked, irritation creeping into his voice.

“I noticed a small puddle of oil under the engine,” his wife replied calmly.

“Figured it was better for it to drip on the asphalt than the garage floor. You should take it to the shop and get it fixed. It was hard enough cleaning the spot in the garage.”

“Alright. I’ll take it in tomorrow,” he grumbled. “But good luck getting the oil out of the asphalt.”

The next morning, after a long, restful sleep in his own bed, Cameron had breakfast and prepared to take the Buick in for service. He kissed his wife at the door, then walked over to his car, sinking into the familiar comfort of its soft leather seats. His time in Russia had been miserable when it came to vehicles, stuck driving ancient, clunky models like Ladas, Volgas, and the prehistoric "Moscovites."

"Only America knows how to build a real car," he muttered with satisfaction, as he inserted the key and turned the ignition.

Julia MacKay had just seen her husband off and returned to the kitchen, ready to load the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. She stood in front of the window, plates in hand, when a powerful explosion ripped through the air. Cameron's Buick erupted into a fireball. The shockwave slammed Julia backward, crashing her into the refrigerator. She lost consciousness on impact.

Shards of glass from the shattered window had slashed through her neck and chest, severing her carotid artery. Blood gushed down her shoulder, soaking into her terrycloth robe. In seconds, her kitchen was a scene of horror.
Outside, hundreds of pieces of Cameron’s once-prized car were scattered across the driveway, burning in a twisted heap. Sirens blared as fire trucks arrived at the MacKay residence. Ambulances pulled up just behind them. After dousing the flames, firefighters carefully extracted what was left of Cameron’s charred remains from the wreckage, then moved toward the house.
Inside, they found Julia, slumped against the refrigerator, bleeding out from numerous wounds. She was unconscious, with no hope of survival. Julia MacKay died before she ever regained consciousness, her life draining away as the emergency response teams arrived.

A cold, gray sky hung low over Arlington National Cemetery. The funeral of Brigadier-General Cameron Frederick MacKay took place beneath an overcast blanket, adding to the solemnity of the occasion. After the interment service, the Chaplain stepped back as the NCO in charge of the detail approached the flag-draped casket. A gleaming, polished oak and brass case, it now held the remains of the fallen officer. The Air Force Master-Sergeant presented arms with his M14 rifle, signaling the start of an eleven-gun salute. The sharp volleys rang out, making the gathered mourners flinch with each blast.

The rifle-volley complete, the melancholy strains of Taps echoed across the cemetery, played by a lone bugler. The assembled crowd watched in reverent silence as the flag team leader commenced the precise folding of the American flag, twelve creases in total. When it was complete, the flag—now in a neat triangle—was handed to Major-General Robert Ash, along with Cameron’s Air Force Distinguished Service Medal.

Ash, solemn and steady, approached Cameron’s elderly mother. Her tear-filled eyes met his as he began the traditional words of condolence.

"The glory of our blood and state are shadows, not material things, there is no armor against fate. Death lays his icy hands even on kings. 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, Cameron’s colleagues, still unaware of the truth behind his death, whispered their vows of revenge against the Russians. Another promise of payback, rooted in grief.

At CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, just beyond the main entrance, stands a stark white Vermont-marble Memorial Wall. It serves as a silent tribute to fallen CIA officers. The inscription, etched in gold block letters, reads:
IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS;OF THE CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY;WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE SERVICE OF THEIR COUNTRY

Below the dedication, rows of engraved stars line the wall, each star marking the life of an agent lost in the line of duty. In 1991, there were 59 stars, though only 29 were associated with known names. The others remained classified, their stories locked behind national security. Soon, a new star would be added to this solemn ledger—a nameless entry from the Special Activities Division.

Flanking the memorial are two pristine silk flags, their gold-fringed edges gleaming under the soft lights. On the left, the American flag stands tall, topped by a shining silver eagle. To the right, the CIA’s standard bears its seal, with an arrowhead at its peak. Beneath the stars, set in a steel frame and protected by thick glass, sits the Book of Honor. Bound in black Moroccan goatskin, the book lists the names of those who have died in CIA service, arranged by year of death. But not all names are revealed—some stars remain nameless, even in death.
The Director of the CIA and the Chief of Special Activities Division stood in silence before the wall, reflecting on the latest loss. Another star would soon join the others—another life taken in the shadows, and another name the world would never know.


Chapter Nineteen
Uzin, Late November 1991.

Igor Popov hadn’t flown a single time throughout November, and he wasn’t alone. The entire refueling regiment was grounded, their aircraft firmly rooted to the concrete tarmac. An order, forbidding even practice flights over Ukrainian territory, had come down from Colonel-General Trofimov, the commander of the Eighth Air Force.
The pilots didn’t know what to make of it. They discussed the order in hushed conversations, exchanging confused looks and resigned shrugs. None of them believed it was entirely legal, but no one dared challenge it. The regiment’s leadership was too fearful to authorize training flights on their own, even though everyone knew something was off.
With flying off the table, Popov found himself doing more regimental duties than ever. One day he was standing watch, the next he was patrolling the streets, and sometimes he was the officer of the day for the regiment. The monotony was exhausting, but Igor endured it, counting down the days to December. He had good reason to be patient—he expected a promotion soon, partly due to his role in drafting that letter to Ukraine’s future president. Everyone in the regiment knew it was Popov and Petrova’s efforts that had ensured their division wouldn’t be transferred to Russia.
"I’ll be promoted to Major soon," Igor mused to himself as he lay on the couch in Petrova’s apartment after his shift. "Twenty-eight years old and already a senior officer. Not bad."
He allowed himself a moment of pride, comparing his career trajectory to that of the legendary cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin. "I’m not worse than him," Igor thought. "But it’s a shame I’ll never be an astronaut. Ukraine doesn’t have space launch facilities, let alone a space program. Still, Ukrainian aviation holds a promising future for me."
He wasn’t tired. The last 24 hours as the "Officer in Charge" at the garrison guardroom had been uneventful. The soldiers and NCOs detained for minor infractions hadn’t caused him or his guards any trouble.
Lying on the couch, Igor’s thoughts drifted. His future seemed more certain than ever. Soon, he’d be wearing the rank of Major. But as the silence of the apartment pressed in, he couldn’t shake the unease creeping at the edges of his mind.

Lyudmila's daughter returned from school.
"Are you asleep?" she asked, peeking into the room.
"No," Igor replied.
"Did you manage to sleep while on watch?"
"Yes, I did."
Svetlana changed out of her school clothes in the hallway and stepped into the room. Her housecoat hung loosely, the belt untied, with only three of the five buttons fastened. She held the long velour hems together with her hands, a playful smile spreading across her face.
"May I lie down under the blanket with you? It’s freezing outside. I couldn’t stop shivering on my way home from school," Svetlana said, her voice trembling slightly.
"Come on in," Igor replied, his tone casual, though his heart quickened.
He shifted on the sofa, pressing himself against the cold wall to make room for her. The narrow couch creaked under his weight as he adjusted the blanket.
Svetlana didn’t hesitate. With the eagerness of a playful kitten, she slid under the blanket beside him, her body curling instinctively toward his warmth. Her cold skin brushed against his as she nestled closer. Igor slipped his arm beneath her head, creating a makeshift pillow, and she pressed her cheek against his chest. He could feel the steady rise and fall of her breath, yet her body trembled with the cold—or perhaps something else entirely.
The tremors in her body seemed to ripple through the thin fabric separating them. Igor could feel the delicate shivers radiating from her, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, her excitement began to spread to him. His body tensed, not just from the chill, but from the closeness—the intimacy of the moment. They lay still, the warmth of their shared space doing little to calm the growing tension between them.
"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 it was her daughter who 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.

Lyudmila grabbed Igor by the hair at the back of his head, yanking him toward her. Popov straightened up over Svetlana but was met with a sharp punch to his ear. The blow sent him tumbling off the couch and onto the floor. He tried to get back on his feet, but Lyudmila kicked him square in the face, knocking him onto the rug. She pounced on him, aiming a vicious strike at his groin, but Igor twisted onto his stomach, pulling his legs beneath him to shield himself. He managed to fend her off, causing Lyudmila to fall hard on the floor, landing painfully on her large posterior.

The neighbors downstairs began pounding on the ceiling. Ignoring them, Lyudmila sat on the floor, her anger spent. She sobbed, no longer willing to fight.
"I'll never forgive you for this!" Svetlana’s voice broke into a scream, sharp and furious.
Her hand shot out, trembling as she pointed fiercely toward the door.
"Pack your fucking shit and get the hell out of my apartment!" she yelled, her face flushed with anger, eyes blazing with betrayal.
While her mother’s angry voice filled the room, directed squarely at Igor, Svetlana quietly bent down and scooped up her robe from the floor. Without a word, and unnoticed amidst the shouting, she slipped away and disappeared into the kitchen, the soft click of the door barely audible beneath her mother’s furious tirade.
"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? Fine. Then we’ll leave." Lyudmila’s voice was sharp and resolute. "Svetlana, pack your things. We’re leaving, and the police will take care of him."
Five minutes later, Igor stood alone in the apartment, the echo of their footsteps fading as mother and daughter disappeared into the stairwell. The heavy door clicked shut, leaving him in sudden, oppressive silence.

One floor below, Lyudmila and Svetlana stopped, their breath misting in the cold stairwell. They exchanged a look, tension hanging thick between them.
"Little bitch," Lyudmila hissed, her fury boiling over as she slapped Svetlana hard across the face, the sound reverberating in the narrow space.
Svetlana didn’t flinch. Instead, she laughed—a low, malicious sound. Her eyes gleamed with defiance.
"It was great," she said, her voice dripping with satisfaction.
Lyudmila, shaking with anger, stared at her daughter. "What do we do now?" she asked, her voice sharp but unsure.
Svetlana shrugged, still smirking. "I don’t know, but we’re not going to the police. I don’t need that kind of shame."
Lyudmila narrowed her eyes. "What are you saying? Are we just going to forgive him?"
"Who cares?" Svetlana replied nonchalantly. "I think we can use him, play him in shifts. You sleep with him at night, and I’ll swing my hips under him during the day."
Lyudmila’s face twisted in disgust. "That’s not going to happen," she snapped. "I’ll forgive him, and you, only if you swear to me this won’t happen again."
Svetlana’s expression turned serious, but her eyes still gleamed with mischief. "Cross my heart and hope to die," she said, raising her hand solemnly. "I’ll never do it again."
Lyudmila scoffed. "Sure you won’t. But he will." She sighed deeply, her anger fading into weary resignation. "You’ll be the death of me, girl. Never mind, let’s go to Natasha Lazareva’s for a couple of hours. Let him stew, waiting for the police."
Upstairs in Lyudmila’s  Apartment
Igor stood in the empty apartment, his mind racing. The anger and shouting had drained away, leaving only the deafening quiet. He imagined the police arriving, imagined himself in handcuffs, his future crumbling in front of him.
"What now?" he muttered to himself. "I was on track to becoming a Major, and now they're going to measure me for prison clothes instead."
A dark cloud loomed over his thoughts as regret gnawed at him. He walked toward the bathroom, his feet heavy, his mind spiraling deeper into despair. Leaning against the sink, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. But the man looking back at him seemed foreign, distant. The familiar features blurred as his vision clouded with a thick fog of self-pity.
Through the mist, another face emerged—the proud, smiling visage of the first man in space: Yuriy Gagarin. Igor had often seen Gagarin’s face in his dreams, the image of youthful achievement, the embodiment of everything he had once aspired to be.
Igor lowered his eyes to the floor, his steps heavy as he made his way to the bathroom. The apartment felt suffocatingly quiet, as if the air itself had thickened around him. Once inside, he leaned heavily against the sink, gripping its edges as if it could anchor him to something real. Slowly, he raised his head and stared into the mirror.
Through the mist of his blurred vision, another face emerged, floating eerily behind his own reflection. It was a face he knew well—Yuriy Gagarin, the first man in space, the bright, youthful Major whose smile had graced countless photographs. Igor had often seen that smile in his dreams, a reminder of everything he once aspired to be—strong, courageous, celebrated.
But tonight, Gagarin’s smile seemed distant, almost mocking.
“What have you done to yourself, Igor?" The voice was low, unfamiliar, and eerily calm. "You used to walk among successful men, always shoulder-to-shoulder with greatness. And you, Popov, without a doubt, were everything a man could wish to be. I’d have followed you behind enemy lines on a reconnaissance mission, no question. And now... what? Now, leave all of them. Come to me.”
The words echoed in Igor’s mind, wrapping themselves around his thoughts like a thick fog. He blinked, his throat dry as he whispered, barely audibly, "What do you mean—come to you?"
But the face in the mirror began to dissolve, slipping away into the haze, leaving only his own hollow reflection staring back at him. The room seemed to grow colder, and suddenly, something warm trickled down his legs. He glanced down in confusion, his mind still catching up to the present. Had he really... He had. He had pissed himself.
A grimace twisted his lips in disgust, not just at his soaked pants but at the pathetic sight of himself. He quickly stripped off the wet fabric, casting it aside like a useless skin. Naked, vulnerable, but filled with a new, sickening resolve, he muttered under his breath, "Well, never mind, bitch. I’ll fix you."
Igor moved with eerie calm. He closed the bathroom door and locked it, sealing himself inside. The air felt heavier now, like the walls were pressing inward. He reached for the mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink, opening it slowly, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. Inside, among the mundane clutter of toiletries, he found what he was looking for—a safety razor his wife used to shave her legs. With practiced hands, he unscrewed the handle, releasing the small, gleaming double-edged blade. He scratched away the dried foam and hair from its surface with his fingernail, holding it up to the dim glow of the 40-watt bulb overhead.
The light caught the edge of the blade, reflecting a cold, sterile glint. Igor’s lips curled into a bitter smile as he inspected it. It was sharp enough. More than sharp enough.
He climbed into the enamel bathtub, the cold iron pressing against his bare skin. His body shivered instinctively at the touch, shrinking away from the freezing surface beneath him. He considered, for a moment, filling the tub with warm water—anything to soften the bite of the cold. He twisted the faucet marked with the red dot, but all it gave him was a hollow hiss. The hot water had been turned off during the summer, and the building still hadn’t restored it.
Igor chuckled darkly to himself, the sound empty in the quiet bathroom. Of course. He had known this, but somehow, in his desperation, he had forgotten. No matter. He didn’t need warmth. Not for this.
"Alright, then," he whispered to the empty room, his voice filled with a strange sense of calm finality. "I’ll get to you. I’ll get to you, my dear Yuriy Gagarin. And I’ll get to you so fast, I won’t have time to feel the cold."
With that, Igor raised the blade to his wrist, drawing it across his skin just above the vein. The first cut was quick, precise. A thin spurt of blood followed, pulsing in rhythm with his heart. For a moment, he watched the red stream with detached curiosity, as if expecting something more dramatic, something more... final. But the sight left him strangely dissatisfied.
Frustrated, he slashed the blade across his other wrist, deeper this time, and let the razor clatter to the floor, its sharp edge glinting against the brown tile. Slowly, he lay back in the tub, feeling his body grow heavier as his blood trickled away.
The bathroom was silent but for the faint drip of blood hitting the cold floor. Igor closed his eyes, his mind drifting to the image of Gagarin’s smiling face, now just a distant memory in the fog of his fading consciousness.

Lyudmila sat in the dimly lit kitchen of her neighbor’s apartment, the sharp scent of cigarette smoke curling around her like a thick fog. She drew in a deep breath, savoring the warmth as it filled her lungs, a brief distraction from the gnawing tension building inside her. She hadn’t even noticed the cigarette ash slipping from the tip and falling onto her leg until the burn made her wince. The thin grey line of tobacco curled and burned through her nylon stocking, leaving a small blackened hole.
“Fuck your mother,” she muttered under her breath, flicking the ash away with a frustrated gesture. "Just bought these yesterday, and now this. I’ll have to change, or else Popov’s going to make a scene—like always—telling me I’m putting him to shame by walking around in holes."
Her neighbor, Natasha, leaned against the windowsill, exhaling a stream of smoke into the already hazy kitchen. She chuckled softly, her voice tinged with amusement. “You’re really afraid of that man? You, of all people, Lyudmila, could knock him flat with one good blow.”
Lyudmila gave a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “You don’t know him when he’s angry or when he’s had too much to drink. He’ll give you what you’re looking for, alright. When I first moved him in two years ago, he beat me so hard I thought I wouldn’t wake up. Ranted and raved, stormed back to his dorm, but after a week without, he came crawling back, asking for forgiveness. Of course, I forgave him. I always do,” she added, her voice laced with weariness, as though the habit of forgiving had drained her spirit over time.
Natasha gave her a sideways glance, but said nothing more. There was no point in arguing with someone who had already decided to live with their demons.
Lyudmila stubbed out her cigarette, slid her feet into her worn slippers, and sighed as she stood. "Another argument tonight. But, I’ll forgive him soon enough. I always do."
With that, she left Natasha’s kitchen and headed back to her apartment, her thoughts muddled with resignation and frustration.

The building's long, dark corridors felt colder than usual, and an uneasy silence seemed to follow her every step. As she entered her apartment, she noticed Igor’s clothes still hanging on the hall’s coat hanger.
“So, he hasn’t gone anywhere…” she mumbled to herself. A knot formed in her stomach. The apartment felt wrong—too quiet, too still. She slipped into her bedroom, quickly changed her damaged stockings, and then made her way to the kitchen. But Igor wasn’t there.
A flicker of annoyance shot through her as she marched toward the bathroom. She knocked sharply on the door, her patience already fraying.
“What are you doing in there? Reading the newspaper on the toilet again?” she called, her voice laced with irritation.
No answer.
She frowned, her annoyance giving way to something colder, something that clawed at the back of her mind. She jiggled the handle, finding the door locked from the inside.
"Why aren’t you saying anything? Have you fallen asleep?" she called louder, her voice rising in pitch, her frustration quickly turning to unease.
Still no answer.
Lyudmila’s pulse quickened as unease began to settle in. She stomped back to the kitchen, grabbed a stool, and placed it beneath the small, awkward window between the kitchen and bathroom. It was her only way of seeing inside without forcing the door open. Climbing onto the stool, she strained to peer through the tiny, poorly positioned opening.
She couldn't help but curse the design of these Soviet bachelor apartments. Whoever thought it was a good idea to combine the toilet and the bathtub in the same cramped room deserved to be sentenced to spend their life living in one of these miserable apartments. But, oddly enough, the person who decided to install the small window between the kitchen and the bathroom—right beneath the ceiling—wasn't completely hopeless. At least it let in some sunlight and provided a safety measure for gas explosions. They deserve to live in a one-bedroom, she thought bitterly as she peered through the window.
What she saw chilled her to the bone.
Popov’s right hand dangled limply over the edge of the bathtub, pale and lifeless. Blood, thick and dark, dripped slowly from his fingers, pooling on the cold tile floor below. It was a sight so grotesque, so utterly unreal, that for a brief moment Lyudmila couldn’t move. The image struck her like a bolt of lightning, her mind flashing back to the painting The Death of Marat she had once seen in an art history book.
But this wasn’t art. This was real. And Igor—Igor was dying.
Something snapped inside her. A primal, uncontrollable rage surged up, boiling over like magma, turning her into a force of nature. Lyudmila, her breath ragged and her vision narrowing with panic, leapt off the stool and rammed her shoulder into the bathroom door with all her weight.
The lock shattered instantly, the weak wood splintering under the force of her hundred-kilogram frame. The door swung inward, crashing into the medicine cabinet, the mirror cracking into a spiderweb of shattered glass.
For a fleeting second, the broken shards reflected the ghostly face of Yuriy Gagarin, smiling faintly in the fractured mirror, before the image vanished forever, leaving only chaos behind.
Lyudmila didn’t pause. Her body was driven by pure adrenaline. She rushed to the bathtub, her heart pounding as she saw Igor’s limp body slumped in the shallow, bloodied water. His face was pale, his breathing faint. The blood continued to seep from the gashes on his wrists, thickening the air with the metallic scent of iron.
“No. No, you don’t get to leave me like this!” she screamed, her voice cracking. Her hands, usually steady from years of typing, shook as she grabbed him by the chest. With a yell like that of a weightlifter hoisting a record-breaking load, she tore him from the bathtub, the weight of his blood-soaked body nearly toppling her backward.
Igor’s body slid onto the bathroom floor with a dull thud, his skin cold and clammy. Blood smeared across the tiles as Lyudmila frantically shook him, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Wake up, damn you! Don’t you dare die on me!” she shouted, her voice breaking into sobs as she fought to pull him back from the edge of death.
But Igor’s eyes remained closed, his body heavy and still. In her mind, the world had narrowed down to the sound of her ragged breathing, the rapid beat of her heart, and the slow, relentless drip of blood onto the cold tiles. 

Chapter Twenty
;November 29, 1991. Belaya Tserkov.
General Gerasimov lay motionless on the sofa in his service apartment, staring blankly at the ceiling. He was tired, but not from lack of sleep—rather, it was a weariness of the soul. The usual distractions—reading, television, even alcohol—held no appeal. He had distanced himself from friends, from life itself. He didn’t even want to fly anymore, once his escape. His mind circled relentlessly around Vera. The girl had vanished, and with her, Aleksandr Ivanovich had lost the will to truly live.
The doorbell rang, breaking the silence with its soft, melodic chime. Gerasimov glanced at the clock. He wasn’t expecting visitors. Yet, when he opened the door, he wasn’t surprised to find the KGB covert operative standing there. The man had a way of showing up when least expected but most needed.
"Come in," Gerasimov said, dispensing with formalities.
"Good evening, comrade General," the operative replied, his voice even, professional.
"It will only be a good evening if you’ve come with good news," Gerasimov said, his tone dry as he turned and walked back into the room, not bothering with pleasantries.
"Unfortunately, I bring no cause for celebration. In fact, there is some rather troubling news."
Geramisov’s face darkened. "What, have they found her dead body?" His words were sharp, though his voice betrayed the anxiety beneath.
"No. The police haven’t found her," the operative said, stepping further into the room. "I examined her apartment with the local authorities. It’s as if she simply vanished."
"Did you find anything of significance?"
"Yes and no. Everything was in order—her belongings, documents, jewelry, money—all untouched. Four hundred U.S. dollars were left in plain sight. It looks like she stepped out for five minutes and disappeared into thin air. But," he paused, "there was one small, peculiar detail. A bottle of pills was found in the kitchen, mixed in with the dishes rather than with the other medications in the bathroom. That struck me as odd. Her first-aid kit, filled with properly labeled medication, was in its usual place. This bottle, however, was unlabeled. Naturally, I took it to the lab in Kiev, and the chemists gave me an intriguing analysis."
Gerasimov, already suspicious, leaned forward slightly. "What, poison? Was it meant for me? Another American plot to murder a Russian general?" His voice dripped with scorn.
The operative shook his head. "No, comrade General, this wasn’t some grand imperialist conspiracy." He paused, allowing the weight of his next words to settle. "These pills were developed five years ago in CIA laboratories. Their original purpose was to increase endurance in field agents, specifically by raising blood pressure. However, during trials, a rather... unexpected side effect was discovered." He glanced at Gerasimov, as if expecting him to fill in the blanks.
"Go on," Gerasimov said, his irritation growing as the operative’s deliberate pacing tested his patience.
"These pills don’t just increase blood pressure," the operative continued. "They also significantly enhance male potency. In recent years, U.S. pharmacologists have begun releasing the drug commercially under the name Cialis. Your waitress—" he let the words hang in the air for a moment—"was administering this to someone."
Gerasimov’s expression shifted. "I think I know to whom," he said quietly, lost in thought. "But what I don’t understand is why."
The operative leaned against the doorframe, his eyes narrowing slightly. "That is the real mystery, isn’t it? No obvious crime has been committed, and the woman’s motives remain unclear. Since there’s no concrete evidence of wrongdoing, I won’t be reporting my findings. But my advice to you, General, is to forget her. This entire affair is cloaked in too much uncertainty. She appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as suddenly, like a ghost slipping through the cracks of reality. Chasing after her might only lead you deeper into a fog."
Gerasimov sat in silence, his mind working through the implications. The operative’s words lingered in the air. His logical mind told him to heed the advice—there was nothing more to pursue. But a part of him, the part that hadn’t quite let go of Vera, clung to the idea that there was still something to be uncovered. Something just beyond his reach.
The operative, sensing the General’s conflict, spoke again, more softly this time. "Some mysteries, Sir, are best left unsolved. They consume the mind, devour it from the inside, and leave you with nothing but shadows. Focus on what you can control. Leave the phantoms to vanish on their own.”

The Same Day. Uzyn.
Captain Alexei Zimin of the 409th Aviation Regiment, a graduate of the Kirov Military Medical Academy in Leningrad, was a striking thirty-year-old man with an athletic build. His handsome face and powerful physique made him a favorite among the garrison's women. With effortless charm, he dominated every space he entered, his strength legendary. On more than one occasion, he would confidently pick up the wrist strength dynamometer, smirk at the watching pilots, and squeeze until the needle shot off the scale, leaving his peers wide-eyed and silent.
Despite his appeal, Alexei was happily married. His wife, an assistant professor in the French department at the Kyiv Pedagogical Institute, visited him only on weekends. She never burdened him with jealousy, seemingly content with the brief but passionate moments they shared before she returned to Kyiv. The rest of the time, Alexei was left to his own devices.
Years ago, his future had seemed full of promise. A talented surgeon, he had been on the path to a prestigious medical career. But things had changed. His assignment to an aviation unit—a relatively cushy post—had shifted his priorities. Instead of honing his surgical skills, he spent more time playing cards, fishing, and, more controversially, mingling with the nurses of the garrison’s medical unit. He delighted in sharing these indulgences with his poker partners, who often included Igor Popov.
To many, his downfall as a surgeon seemed self-inflicted. "I cheated my way into gynecology," Alexei would confess at the card table, his voice tinged with a mix of pride and bitterness. "While my classmates were slogging through field surgeries, I was performing five, sometimes ten times the number of operations. By the time I graduated, I had more experience than anyone else, but no one needed me. Now, instead of cutting tumors or removing shrapnel, I’m left taking blood pressure and sniffing for alcohol on pilots’ breaths."
It was late evening when the tension of the day thickened into something darker. A high-strung drama unfolded in Lyudmila’s apartment, but Alexei had little time to involve himself. A breathless messenger burst in, explaining something incoherently about a psycho. Frowning, Alexei threw on his coat, muttering curses under his breath as he left for the garrison medical unit.
Twenty minutes later, he found himself stitching cuts on Igor Popov’s wrists in the sterile, cold procedure room. Popov sat strapped to the infamous Barani chair, his eyes vacant, his wrists limp under Alexei’s steady hands. Thick bandages wrapped his chest and arms, binding him tightly to the chair—normally used to test pilots’ vestibular systems, but tonight repurposed to restrain a desperate man.
The scene was surreal, a break from the mundane rhythm of garrison life. Behind Alexei, a crowd of nurses and attendants gathered, watching with a mixture of fascination and horror. Alexei, irritated, tried in vain to shoo them away, but his terse commands had little effect. Most of the women had shared his bed at some point, and his authority held little weight in this intimate setting. Their eyes lingered on him, unphased by his furrowed brows or muttered threats.
“Alexei, are you finished?” the head physician asked as he entered the room.
“I’m almost done,” Alexei replied, not turning away from his work.
“When you’re finished, complete the paperwork and take him to the hospital in Irpen,” the major ordered, waving a dismissive hand toward the captive pilot. “And you girls, out! Now!”
“At night? To Irpen?” Alexei asked, straightening up, his back stiff from hours of bending over Popov.
“Yes, as soon as possible. I’ve coordinated with the psychiatric department there. The quicker we get rid of him, the fewer problems we’ll have.” The major’s voice carried a note of finality, as if Igor’s fate had already been sealed.
An hour later, Alexei found himself in a military minivan, driving along a desolate country road with Popov and a nurse named Tatiana. The vehicle rattled along the uneven dirt path from Uzyn to Grebenki, where they would eventually hit the Odessa-Kyiv highway. The darkness outside was suffocating, the only light coming from the van’s dull headlights cutting through the dense black night. The air inside the vehicle was thick with unspoken tension. Popov sat in silence, eyes trained on nothing.
Suddenly, as they approached the village of Losiatyn, Igor spoke for the first time. His voice, unnervingly calm, broke the silence. “Stop the van.”
The driver hesitated and gently pressed the brake pedal, but Alexei quickly intervened. "Don’t stop," he commanded, yet the unnerved driver paused again.
“I need to piss,” Igor snarled, his tone suddenly vicious. “Or would you rather drive through a puddle of my piss?”
The driver, unwilling to risk the mess, pulled over despite Alexei’s orders.
“Go on then,” Alexei muttered, unlocking the door with a sharp twist of metal and shoving it open. The cold air rushed in, bringing with it the scent of damp earth and frozen fields. Igor, still strapped, didn’t move.
“Untie my legs,” he demanded, a mocking smile tugging at his lips. “Or would you like to carry me?”
“Untie him,” Alexei instructed Tatiana, who hesitated before crouching to release the knot around Igor’s ankles.
“You might as well untie my hands, too,” Igor added brazenly. “Unless you plan to help me aim.”
Tatiana glanced at Alexei, who nodded reluctantly. Once free, Igor stretched languidly, relishing the feel of his limbs in the open air. He walked a few paces from the van, the ground crunching beneath his boots as he relieved himself onto the frozen soil, his gaze fixed on the stars. For a moment, the world seemed still, the quiet broken only by the faint sound of his piss hitting the ground.
As he zipped up his jeans, a chilling realization crept over him: this might be his last time seeing the sky. His last taste of freedom. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face as he turned and bolted toward the nearby forest, his feet pounding against the black, unforgiving earth.


Chapter Twenty-One
;December 10, 1991. Kiev.

The grand Palace of Culture "Ukraine" buzzed with the subtle tension of power in the making. Inside its marble halls, the newly elected president's most loyal supporters—the "trusted figures" of regional and city offices—had gathered, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. This was no ordinary celebration. These men weren’t here for trivial rewards wrapped in paper. They had come to claim something far more precious: power. The power to carve out their share of control over fifty million Ukrainians.

Forty minutes remained before the formal ceremony was set to begin. General Gerasimov, dressed in full military regalia, sat in the reception room of the palace’s manager, awaiting his appointment with the newly elected President. The gold of his medals gleamed under the soft overhead lights, a stark contrast to the weariness etched in his face. He had been summoned by the Head of the Presidential Office, a formal invitation that left no room for interpretation. Gerasimov was to meet the President at precisely five-thirty. The President, a man whose smile never quite reached his eyes, was scheduled to take his place at the presidium of the assembly at six, where he would bask in the adulation of his supporters.
The minutes ticked by in silence. Then, the door swung open, revealing a stern-faced bodyguard, his black suit crisp, his expression unreadable. "Aleksandr Ivanovich, the President will see you now," the man intoned, his voice a low growl of authority. As Gerasimov rose, a group of journalists entered from another door, cameras in hand, their faces a mask of calculated professionalism.
The President, standing beneath a massive portrait of Shevchenko, moved toward Gerasimov with an air of practiced grace. He stopped a meter from the General, his smile perfectly choreographed. Gerasimov, straight-backed and rigid, saluted with military precision.
“I congratulate you, Air Force Major General,” the President began, his voice carrying the smoothness of a man who had spoken to many crowds. “For your exemplary service to Ukraine and your immense contribution to strengthening the defense capabilities of our great nation, I bestow upon you the title ‘First Kazak of Ukraine.’” He paused, drawing out the moment, as if savoring the power in his words. “In the name of the government of Ukraine, I also award you this memorial medal.” With that, he handed Gerasimov a piece of paper and a plastic box containing the medal.
"I serve the people of Ukraine," Gerasimov replied, his voice firm, though there was something hollow in it.
The General extended his hand, but instead of shaking it, the President clasped his shoulder, turning him toward the cameras.
The room filled with the sound of clicking shutters and flashing lights, the journalists capturing the moment for posterity—or propaganda, depending on how one saw it. When the photographers were satisfied, they left the room in a hurry, eager to publish their carefully curated version of events.
As soon as the door closed behind them, the President’s smile faltered, replaced by something harder, colder. He stepped away from Gerasimov, moving toward the large desk that dominated the room. From the polished surface, he picked up another piece of paper, holding it loosely in his hands as if it weighed nothing at all.
"The pleasant part of our meeting is over," the President said, his voice suddenly devoid of warmth. "Now, read this." He held out the document, his expression inscrutable.
Gerasimov’s eyes narrowed as he took the paper, his fingers tracing the embossed seal of the presidency. It took only a moment for the words to register. His breath caught in his throat.
"Discharge? From the Armed Forces?" The words slipped from his lips like a curse. "What for?"
The President leaned back, his voice tinged with something close to amusement. "Do you really need to ask? Take a closer look at the results of your medical examination."
The letters seemed to leap off the page at Gerasimov: AIDS infection. His pulse quickened, disbelief turning his stomach.
"It can’t be," he muttered. "I’m healthy—like a bull."
The President, feigning contemplation, quoted in a sing-song voice,
“As a bard Vladimir Vysotsky sang in his "Case History”, ‘I was healthy, healthy as a bull. Healthy as two bulls.’”
He turned his back on Gerasimov, his indifference palpable.
Before the General could protest further, the hulking bodyguard approached, his presence a physical manifestation of authority. "The audience is over," he said softly, yet his tone carried the finality of a command.
"It’s a conspiracy," Gerasimov snarled, his fists clenched at his sides. His voice was rising, the controlled demeanor of the seasoned officer fraying. "I did more for Ukraine than most men could ever dream. And this—this is how I’m repaid?" In a fit of rage, he tore the order of discharge in two, throwing the medal and certificate onto the floor. Without another word, he stormed out of the office, the echo of his boots reverberating through the hall.
The President watched him go, his face unreadable except for the faintest trace of a smile. "Such a good pilot," he remarked casually to the bodyguard. "But completely incapable of controlling his temper." He paused, his tone becoming almost whimsical. "He was an excellent divisional commander, one of the best. But now he’s just another man with AIDS." His voice dropped lower, more contemplative. "And behaving as if we owe him something."
The bodyguard, Boris, stood silently, his hulking form still as a statue, awaiting further orders.
"Take care of him," the President said after a moment, his voice regaining its smooth cadence. "Men like him leave a stain on our reputation. People of his rank falling ill with such diseases—it gives a very poor impression. And he’s no longer of use to us.”

December 10, 1991. Kiev.
Gerasimov sat alone in the sterile office, his thoughts crashing over him like waves. He didn’t need a blood test to confirm the diagnosis. It was clear now—he was a walking corpse. No conspiracy, no plot. Just fate's cruel hand. The Irpen doctors had known for a month, but they were too afraid to tell him, afraid of what this revelation might do to a man like him. He sighed, the weight of realization settling deep in his chest.
"I had no reason to lash out at the President. What’s the point of fighting now?"
His fingers tightened on the edge of the chair before he pushed himself up. The fight had gone out of him. Numb, he left the office and returned to his car, the cool evening air offering little comfort.
Back in the driver's seat, he exhaled deeply, the solitude settling over him like a shroud. "I’ll give you the day off," he said to his personal driver without turning around. "Go home."
Sliding behind the wheel, Gerasimov gripped it tightly for a moment, as if seeking control over something—anything. He had no desire to go home to his wife. The thought of her now only deepened his torment. I’ve given this to her too. The guilt gnawed at him, a relentless ache in the pit of his stomach.
Instead, he drove back to his service apartment in Belaya Tserkov, the only place where he could be alone with his misery. As he walked through the door, the familiar space felt alien, a reflection of the man he no longer recognized. He collapsed onto the sofa, staring at the ceiling, wondering how everything had fallen apart so swiftly.

Nine o’clock.
The phone rang, its shrill tone cutting through the silence. His assistant’s voice crackled through the receiver.
"General, we need you to come to Uzin immediately."
A bitter smile crossed Gerasimov’s lips. "They’re not wasting any time getting rid of me, are they? They won’t even let me catch my breath."
He put down the phone and left his apartment, the cold night air greeting him with indifference. His car rolled out of the city, and for once, he found himself driving steadily, maintaining a measured speed of one hundred kilometers per hour. It was uncharacteristic of him, this slow pace, but tonight was different. He didn’t have the energy to rush.
As the kilometers passed, his thoughts drifted. The last two months—it feels like being launched into space. The sudden surge, the sense of weightlessness, followed by the inevitable crash. First, the world falls apart—countries, empires... then you lose the person you love, and finally, you lose yourself. Your work, your health, and with that, your purpose. He glanced at the dark road ahead. And now, this damned tractor... where are you going in the middle of the night?
The sluggish, lumbering form of a tractor loomed in front of him. A four-wheel Belorus, crawling along the road. Gerasimov flicked on his blinker, overtaking it with a swift turn of the wheel. His eyes shifted to the opposing lane—a heavy-duty KAMAZ truck barreling toward him, headlights blinding in the darkness.
There was no time. No way to correct his course. The impact was sudden, violent. Metal crumpled, glass shattered in a deafening roar. The Volga sedan twisted like a piece of tinfoil as the General was ejected through the windshield, his body a broken mass of flesh and bone. He struck the steel radiator of the truck with sickening force, his lifeless form sliding down the crumpled hood in a trail of blood. The KAMAZ truck dragged the mangled remains of the car another fifty meters before coming to a grinding halt.
The tractor, unaffected by the tragedy unfolding behind it, turned off onto a service road, disappearing between the rows of yet-unharvested corn.

December 12, 1991. Kiev.
In the opulent office of the President, the usual morning routine continued undisturbed. Makar Kravchenko sat behind his imposing mahogany desk, scanning through a stack of documents with methodical precision. Boris, his bodyguard, poured tea, his movements slow and deliberate. The quiet clink of the teacup on its saucer punctuated the stillness.
“Mister President," Boris said casually, breaking the silence, "did you hear about General Gerasimov?"
The President didn’t look up immediately, still focused on the papers before him. "What about him?" he asked, mildly curious.
"He perished in an automobile accident last night."
The President paused, finally lifting his gaze. His brow furrowed slightly, though more in contemplation than in shock. "What?"
"General Gerasimov. He crashed into a KAMAZ truck on the road from Belaya Tserkov to Uzin. It was instant—no chance of survival."
The President removed his glasses, slowly rubbing the bridge of his nose. "And the truck driver?"
"He was having dinner at a roadside restaurant a hundred kilometers away when it happened. The truck had been stolen by unknown criminals."
The president’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face. "Stolen? Why would thieves be driving a truck on that particular road? It’s far off the main Odessa highway."
Boris set the tea down gently, his expression unreadable. "Most likely, they were trying to avoid the traffic police."
"And what of the thief?" the President asked, his voice now laced with irritation.
"He escaped. There was a getaway car following the truck. As soon as the crash happened, they picked him up and disappeared."

For a moment, the President said nothing, his gaze lingering on the chessboard that sat on the magazine table nearby. An unfinished game from the night before. Slowly, deliberately, he picked up the white knight, its smooth surface cool to the touch. Without a word, he tossed it into the trash bin beside his desk.
"It’s a shame the General perished," Makar Kravchenko said with a dispassionate sigh. "He was a good pilot."

Boris, ever the loyal shadow, remained silent. His thoughts, if he had any, were buried beneath layers of stoic professionalism. There was no need for further conversation. The matter of General Gerasimov, like the discarded knight, had been resolved.

Epilogue
February 2, 2001. Priluki.

The icy February wind swept across the runway of the Priluki Air Base, where a long stretch of red carpet had been meticulously laid out. Colonel-General Viktor Strelnikov, the Deputy Minister of Defense of Ukraine and Commander of the Air Forces, walked with measured steps, accompanied by Thomas Quenning, a high-ranking U.S. military representative in Ukraine. Only minutes remained before the ceremonial dismantling of the last TU-160 strategic bomber, the pride of the former Soviet fleet. As they walked, the two men, once on opposing sides of the Cold War, were locked in conversation, reflecting on the dissolution of empires and the destruction of once-feared arsenals.
Their last meeting had been much the same: a formal ceremony marking the destruction of five hundred air-to-ground X-55 cruise missiles. Today was no different. The end of an era.
“How’s our TU-95MS, the one with number ninety-four on the side? Have you already put it on display at the museum in Washington?” Strelnikov asked, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice.
Thomas Quenning waited for the Ukrainian translator, a young Senior Lieutenant, to finish before replying with a polite smile. “It’s already quite the attraction—more popular than our B-52, believe it or not. The public can’t get enough of that engineering marvel. They’re fascinated by how you managed to fit turbines spinning in opposite directions into the same engine.”
Strelnikov nodded, pleased despite himself. “The co-axial rotation was a brilliant feat of Soviet engineering, no doubt. We’ve used similar designs on helicopters.”
“I’m aware,” Quenning said, his tone neutral. “Kamov’s plant in Kumertau builds them.”
The conversation paused as Colonel Litvinenko, the Commander of Priluki Air Base, hurried up to the two dignitaries, slightly out of breath but maintaining military decorum.
“Comrade Colonel-General,” Litvinenko saluted, “the sub-units of the airbase have assembled for the dismantling of the last TU-160. Shall we begin?”
Strelnikov glanced at Quenning, silently deferring to the American. Quenning gave a nod of approval.
“Proceed,” Strelnikov ordered.
As the Colonel signaled the start of the operation, the melancholic chords of Dire Straits' Brothers in Arms began to echo over the base. It was an irony not lost on the assembled officers—a ballad about war and loss playing over the final dismantling of what was once one of the most feared bombers in the world.
A massive metal-cutting machine, mounted on tractor treads, began its slow crawl toward the last TU-160. The officers, both young and old, stood in rigid lines, watching as the machine approached. The sight stirred a range of emotions. Many of the senior officers clutched handkerchiefs, dabbing at their eyes in a rare display of vulnerability. Others muttered oaths under their breath, unable to mask the bitterness of seeing their nation’s once-great air force reduced to rubble. Veterans with chests full of medals stood somberly, their faces lined with grief and indignation. But the children, too young to understand, ran carefree on the grass, laughing and playing, oblivious to the gravity of the moment.
The machine’s giant shears, a marvel of Japanese precision, made contact with the bomber’s sleek, white nose. In an instant, the aircraft’s proud profile crumpled. The glass canopy shattered, shards of it glittering like ice as they scattered across the tarmac. The bomber, once capable of delivering nuclear payloads across continents, was now reduced to scrap under the relentless bite of the cutting blades. The enormous wings and tail section were next, severed methodically, their dismemberment a stark symbol of the end of Ukraine's strategic bomber fleet.
Regimental mechanics approached with chainsaws, their faces emotionless as they began slicing through the remaining sections of the fuselage. The cuts followed precise lines marked long ago by American aerospace engineers—ensuring that these magnificent machines could never be reconstructed, no matter who controlled the territory.
Quenning observed the scene with the detachment of someone used to such ceremonies. “I trust the seven million dollars we allocated for this destruction were put to good use?” he asked, his tone light, but his eyes sharp.
Strelnikov, who had been watching the destruction unfold in silence, glanced at Quenning. “Of course. Though the contract for dismantling all of Ukraine’s strategic bombers was signed for thirteen million. We’re still waiting for the remaining six.” There was no mistaking the edge in his voice.
Quenning’s response was swift, cold. “You’ll never see it.”
Strelnikov’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
“You should never have returned those eight TU-160s and three TU-95s to Russia in 1999, let alone the five hundred and eighty X-55 cruise missiles. I warned you against it, Viktor. Personally.”
Strelnikov’s jaw tightened, but he kept his tone measured. “That decision wasn’t mine to make. It was a matter of international relations. You know as well as I do that Russia agreed to write off two hundred seventy-five million dollars of our gas debt in exchange for those aircraft and missiles.”
Quenning shrugged, unimpressed. “Then why are you worrying about the six million Congress promised you?”
“Because we didn’t get that money from Russia. They simply deducted it from our national debt. What we need is real money.”
Quenning’s smile was thin. “Everyone needs real money, Viktor. But let me give you some advice. When your country finally finds leaders more inclined to cooperate with us, you’ll have your money.”
The tension between the two men was palpable, though Strelnikov managed to keep his irritation in check. He’d been through this before—playing second fiddle to foreign powers, forced to negotiate for scraps in exchange for sovereignty. He could see the game being played, but had little choice but to play along.
Quenning, sensing his counterpart’s frustration, softened his tone slightly. “For what it’s worth, Secretary of Defense William Cohen recently signed a bill to continue financing the dismantling of offensive weapons systems in Ukraine until 2006. Congress has allocated another sixty-nine million dollars for this program. You’ll still have a reliable partner overseas.”
Strelnikov’s lips twisted in a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “And the cost of that partnership?”
Quenning gave a small chuckle. “Let’s call it... mutually beneficial.”
Strelnikov said nothing, his thoughts turning inward. He could still hear the grinding of metal as the TU-160 was torn apart behind him. It was more than just a plane. It was the physical manifestation of a past that was being systematically dismantled, piece by piece, and sold to the highest bidder.
Quenning clapped him on the shoulder, his tone suddenly jovial. “Come on, Viktor. Let’s head back to Kiev. Perhaps we can find some good Russian vodka to take the edge off. Your men can finish cutting up this heap of scrap metal without us.”
Strelnikov glanced one last time at the bomber’s carcass, now little more than shattered glass and twisted steel. He gave a curt nod and turned to leave, walking alongside his former enemy as they made their way back across the red carpet—both men bound together by the strange dance of history, each one carrying the weight of their nations on their shoulders.