by Jamie Smith
Yerin’s face had turned beetroot red with fury. “You cannot remove me. The KGB are loyal to me.”
“The KGB are loyal to the Soviet Union, something that you managed to forget when being blinded by pure ambition, Viktor. To seek to provoke nuclear war with the United States before we are prepared… it would mean the destruction of everything we have built.”
“You have built nothing,” spat Yerin through clenched teeth. “You only seek to take us apart piece by piece with your perestroika shit.”
Petrenko sighed. “Come, Viktor, you are one of the very few even in the Politburo who knows of my grand plan. Perestroika, Glasnost — these are not real; they are words to manipulate the world to the will of the USSR. You disappoint me greatly, Viktor. I thought we could revive the fortunes of our nation side by side. You cleansed the American spies so wonderfully! What did Veselovsky promise you? I will have your honesty.”
“Honesty!” Yerin laughed. “You lie to the world with a dagger behind your back and you ask for my honesty! You make Russia a home for Jews, chernozhopiys and gypsies and talk of making us great again. You are contaminating us enough with Turkmen and Armenians. Your nuclear plan will not succeed; our Empire will have collapsed before you can ever bring it to fruition. All relying on Klitchkov’s favourite, a Nigerian no less, to save us. We must destroy our enemies now. There is only one way for the Soviet Union; splendid isolation.”
“You Hohli fool, Viktor,” sighed Petrenko, deliberately antagonising his victim further with talk of his Ukrainian origins. “Pamyat is a cancer that is spreading like Hitler’s Germany and enough blood has been spilt by this nation fighting the very thing you choose to promote. You fought at Leningrad to defend us from their evil. Now, it is you that is evil. Pamyat will be stopped, and now so must you be.”
“We both know you can’t just accept my resignation,” said Yerin, sinking into his chair, defeated. “You have a revolver in your desk; please use it, General Secretary. It would be merciful.”
“Alas, Viktor, you know that is not the way out for traitors. First, we will need to know everything you know. If you cooperate, perhaps then we will show mercy.”
“It is too late to stop what is already in motion.”
Petrenko pressed a button under his desk and immediately two armed guards walked in. Behind them sauntered a familiar face.
“You!” said Viktor, fury in his eyes once more as he looked upon the face of one of his key protégés.
“Yes, Viktor,” replied Maxim Denisov, dressed in full navy KGB uniform, complete with the hat despite being indoors. “Let us not make this awkward. I am prepared to treat you with more respect than a traitor deserves, but only if you do not make things difficult.”
Yerin did not move. “Please kill me,” he pleaded.
“Very well,” said Denisov and drew the ceremonial revolver from the holster at his belt and pointed it directly at the face of the old man, whose will, immediately dissolved, and he held up his hands, sobbing.
“Lieutenant-Colonel, remember where you are,” said Petrenko sharply.
“I am not a politician,” the KGB trainer said in his reedy voice, “I am state security, and this man has made our state insecure, sir.”
“You also report to me, or have you forgotten the discipline that you preach to your recruits?”
Denisov immediately holstered his weapon, and saluted Petrenko. “No, sir.” He whistled to the two guards who picked up Yerin by the armpits and dragged him from the room. Denisov again saluted and walked from the office, drawing the doors closed behind him.
The general secretary of the Soviet Union sat down heavily, and poured himself another glass of vodka. He walked over to a cabinet and opened a small freezer, from which he withdrew some ice cubes, and added them to the glass.
He raised his glass. “To the last of my trusted comrades,” he said to himself, and took a sip of the cool alcohol.
Picking up the phone on his desk, he pressed number one. “Anna, get Colonel Klitchkov here as soon as possible.”
***
VILLAGE OF SURKHAB, EASTERN AFGHANISTAN.
Colonel Klitchkov climbed down from the helicopter and stepped delicately over the bullet-ridden body of a young Afghan mujahideen soldier lying in the middle of the street, and gazed around him.
The small village was made up of low, square rammed earth wall and mud brick buildings built up into the low hill behind him, with the larger number pooled around him on the main dusty track leading through it. Bodies lay scattered throughout the village, with many buildings destroyed. Most of the corpses were dressed for combat, but women and children could also be seen among the dead.
Ahead in the distance he could see the looming white peaks of the Spīn Ghar mountains, stretching in a spine that separated the Eastern spur of Afghanistan from the north west of Pakistan. They sparkled in the midday sun, a mass of peaks, rocks, canyons and caves.
A trail of people were making their way away from the village towards the mountains. Some were already there and could be seen beginning their ascent.
Colonel Klitchkov squinted in the sun. “What level of opposition have we faced today, Captain?” he asked the strong-jawed soldier standing behind him.
“They have fought strongly despite their inferior numbers, sir. There is a covered approach to the Spīn Ghar range using the Tobagi Plain which many have used. It has made our superior force inconsequential. We are doing our best to flank them. Losses have been great on both sides. Once they get to Tora Bora, we will not be able to reach them. The men are not used to mountain combat; the Afghans will win any battle up there.”
Colonel Klitchkov looked round sharply at the captain’s words. Tora Bora was a network of limestone caves naturally hollowed out over millennia, and the home of the great mujahideen warlords who had been fighting relentlessly for almost nine years to repel the Soviet invaders.
“So it is the famous Tora Bora caves they seek refuge in? This may well be perfect for what I plan, Captain.”
“Sir?”
“It is not your concern, Captain. Your concern is to finish the job here.”
“I do not take orders from the KGB,” the muscled officer said with a slight sneer. The reputation of Klitchkov was fearsome, but he could crush this old man in his hands if he wanted, he thought to himself.
Colonel Klitchkov looked curiously at the soldier before him. “During the Battle of Stalingrad, we would crucify soldiers who did not show respect to their superiors, and leave them there as a reminder to anybody else who was thinking of doing the same thing. It is a practice I wholeheartedly support. I even carried it out a few times myself,” he said clinically, showing no emotion.
“What are your orders, sir?” The captain asked quickly, instantly realising his misjudgement of the man.
“Kill them.”
“The mujahideen?” the young captain asked, his tanned skin glowing in the intense sunlight.
“All of them,” Klitchkov said with chilling detachment. “Destroy the village and then tell your men to enjoy the women if they wish to contaminate themselves with these Muslim peasants.”
At that moment there was a woman’s scream from one of the nearby huts and the crack of a gunshot. A Soviet soldier strolled out of the crumbling hut, buckling his trousers and laughing. The sound of a baby crying could be heard from the building.
Klitchkov looked at the captain. “I see my instructions were unnecessary.”
The soldier froze as he saw Colonel Klitchkov and his face dropped in horror. He stood to attention and saluted the colonel, leaving his trousers to fall to his ankles. His grey underwear was stained with blood.
“Prostite, Colonel! Prostite!” he said, apologising to the point of grovelling.
The colonel smiled. “You are enjoying the spoils of war, comrade?”
The soldier, whose pale face was flat and quite wide, with spots around his chin and a tattoo of a curvy woman on his arm, relaxed slightly. “Da, sir!�
� he replied, leering. “I think these bitches actually like it.”
Colonel Klitchkov laughed merrily and walked towards the soldier. In a smooth motion he withdrew his revolver and shot the soldier in between the legs.
The man screamed and dropped to the ground, holding the hole at his crotch and trying to stem the bleeding. What remained of his manhood could be seen on the floor next to him. He looked up in horror.
“Now, soldier, spoils of war are for the victors. Not for a job half done,” Klitchkov said and emptied the remainder of his bullets into the man on the floor.
Klitchkov turned and walked casually back towards the captain, whose face had gone white with fear, matching the grey of the colonel’s hair.
“Now, Captain, I expect you to better discipline your men… and yourself,” he said. “Otherwise, I will be forced to treat you the same way as your subordinate back there,” he added, waving the gun over his shoulder in the direction of the dead soldier, and giggled a shrill, manic laugh.
“Yes, sir, of course, sir,” the captain replied, standing to attention and saluting the colonel.
“Very good,” said Klitchkov, tucking the gun back into his belt, still chuckling. “It is important that you destroy all of these citizens and soldiers; is that understood? Scorched Earth tactics, raze it all to the ground. It needs to be complete by the end of today, with nobody remaining other than the warlords in those caves. You are now under KGB jurisdiction for this offensive.”
“Understood, sir,” replied the captain, the colour beginning to slowly return to his face.
“I can get you any resources you need. Succeed in this and there is a promotion in it for you, provided you can keep it in your pants for the next twenty-four hours.”
A young man in KGB uniform stepped down from the helicopter. “Colonel? We have just received a message from the Kremlin asking you to contact them as a matter of urgency, sir.”
“Very well,” replied Colonel Klitchkov, and started walking back towards the helicopter. As he passed the captain he added, “Radio through to HQ when the mission is complete. If you fail, do not bother coming back at all.” He climbed back into the helicopter; the rotors began spinning immediately as the engine fired up and clouds of dust blew in all directions.
The captain covered his eyes from the dust before squinting upwards at the chopper moving off over the foothills, quickly just a black speck against a field of blue.
Only then did he allow himself to exhale, gasping on the dusty air. It was one of those rare occasions where the myth paled in comparison to the reality.
Inside the helicopter, Klitchkov watched as the mountains passed far below him and wondered how effective the region would be for his plans. The principles were perfect, but he knew too well how rarely perfect principles translated into perfect execution.
He closed his eyes wearily. “What is the time in Moscow?” he asked the KGB soldier across from him.
“It would be just after twelve hundred hours, sir.”
“I have lost track of time in these recent days with much travel. How long until we land at the base in Tashkent?”
“It will take just over two hours, sir, conditions permitting.”
“Was there any mention of the nature of the Kremlin’s request in their transmission? Our work here is too important to be abandoned at this key moment. The future of the Soviet Union depends on it.”
“I understand, sir. But they gave no indication, only of its urgency.”
Klitchkov’s smooth granite jaw rippled as he clenched his teeth and counted the minutes until he reached the capital of the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic.
Two hours later, the helicopter began its descent towards the large square of grass behind what had historically been the government offices of Russian Turkestan. The sprawling city was stretched out for miles ahead of them, the largest city in central Asia.
The city was a testament to durability, being reborn from the ashes of Genghis Khan’s destruction and rebuilt again following the earthquakes of 1966. Now little of its Silk Road history could still be seen and despite its southern location there was a chill in the air which suggested winter was on its way.
Colonel Klitchkov, however, cared little for the aesthetics of the city, or indeed its weather, but more about its strategic location. Rooted in the south of the USSR, it had the great territorial advantage of bordering China and the Turkestan states, and beyond that Afghanistan, Pakistan and India.
The helicopter had barely landed before he was striding his way across the well-kept lawns to where the Tashkent commissar stood waiting.
The commissar held out his hand in greeting but Klitchkov strode straight past him and into the building beyond, his dusty black boots clicking on the tiled corridors, his KGB assistant hurrying to keep up.
They entered the communications room, which was a hive of activity of humming monitors, ringing phones and reams of post being sorted into boxes. All of the staff stopped and looked up as the doors slammed open.
“Everybody out,” barked Klitchkov’s assistant while the colonel leant nonchalantly against the wall, inspecting his fingernails.
Nobody moved, so the young KGB soldier drew his weapon and fired it at the ceiling. There was a deafening silence followed by the scraping of chairs and steps as everybody in the room hurried to get out.
As they filed out of the room, Klitchkov put his arm in front of the last person to leave, an elderly woman who was shuffling towards the door. “You, stay,” he commanded.
The woman stopped her shuffling and tutted. She turned and walked back to her radio desk where she sat down heavily, her white permed hair wobbling as she brushed away dust that had fallen from the bullet hole in the ceiling. “What do you want of me?”
“Get me the Kremlin; I understand they are urgently trying to contact me,” said Klitchkov sharply, walking to stand beside the woman who began expertly negotiating the system in front of her with her veined, knotted fingers.
“Not via radio, you old crone, that will be too easily intercepted. Dial them for me,” he snapped.
She tutted again, and picked up the phone next to her desk, patiently putting in the numbers she was clearly familiar with on the rotary dial.
“Da? This is the commissar’s office for Tashkent; I have Colonel Klitchkov of the KGB waiting for an urgent message,” she croaked.
She put her hand over the receiver and said to the colonel, “They are patching you through, dear,” before handing him the telephone.
He raised an eyebrow at her tone but clearly decided against commenting on it, instead taking the phone from her grasp and putting it to his ear.
“Colonel?” said a wheezy voice at the end.
“Denisov?” Klitchkov replied, surprised. “What are you doing at the Kremlin?”
“I have been reassigned back to Moscow, sir. Is the line secure from your end?”
“Da, they have full encoding equipment for the commissar’s communications here.”
“Good. Yerin is gone; they need you back in Moscow immediately.”
“Gone? What do you mean?”
“All will be explained to you upon your return here, sir; even a secure line can be tapped.”
“I am overseeing a vital mission in Afghanistan at present; I cannot return to the Kremlin until that is complete. It is a matter of national security.”
There was silence at the other end and he could hear voices faintly discussing it.
“OK, Colonel Klitchkov. Our esteemed leader has decided that Yerin is a Nazi traitor and has removed him from his position with immediate effect. You are now Chairman of the KGB.”
“What are you saying, Maxim? Livenko was Yerin’s deputy. I am several steps down from leading the KGB,” said Klitchkov, fearing he was part of a hoax.
“Petrenko fears others in Viktor’s circle may be entwined in his treachery. You are now the head of the KGB. You will be required in Moscow as soon as your Afghan operation is completed.”
There was a moment’s pause before he added, “Congratulations,” and hung up the phone. The line went dead with a hum, and Klitchkov replaced his receiver, a look of ecstasy on his face.
***
More than eleven thousand kilometres away in Washington DC, Vice President Gerald T. Phillips stood in the traditional home of the vice president, Number One Observatory Circle in quiet contemplation, a state he was best known for. He had not tried to use the vice presidency as a place to press his own agendas, but instead had patiently and quietly done whatever was asked of him by President Callahan for seven long years.
He had stepped away from his bickering campaign team in the other room to clear his head, and gazed out at the grounds of the United States Naval Observatory. Secret Service agents could be seen patrolling the grounds. He couldn’t stand them, and not for the first time he wondered if he was making the right decision but the wheels were too far in motion now. Too many people would be let down, and he knew the burning ambition in the pit of his stomach would never go out; he owed it to himself to try.
The vice president saw his glazed reflection in the window, smoothed down his pale brown side parting and allowed himself a small smile. Who would have thought that the boy raised in Connecticut would be so close to becoming the leader of the free world?
Phillips walked over to a drinks cabinet and poured himself a scotch whisky, taking a small sip and releasing a sigh. He left the room, waving his new bodyguard away; the implacable man seemed to take his duty too seriously and was never more than a couple of feet away, even inside his own home. “Take the afternoon off, John, I’m perfectly safe in my own home,” Phillips said to the wiry but solid man of an indistinguishable age due to a perfectly smooth face devoid of any blemishes. An unusual look in a bodyguard.
“I believe that is what the secretary of defense thought too, sir,” the serious man said stiffly.
Phillips sighed, too resigned to the reality to try arguing back despite his position of superiority. With the tumbler of whisky still in hand, he returned to the large office he kept at the home, and the din from the carefully selected members of his team subsided. He leant against the doorframe and took another sip of whisky.