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Fulcrum

Page 32

by Alexander Mikhaylovich Zuyev


  Now Frolov rose from his desk. “Perhaps, Captain. But I am not authorized to endorse such a discharge. The entire matter of force reduction is under review by the chief of staff of the VVS.”

  I remained stubbornly rooted in my chair. This was my last chance. The elaborate deception was coming apart, about to fail completely. The physicians had judged me fit for ground duty, and Frolov’s recommendation as a psychologist would confirm the diagnosis. I had perhaps ten more days of follow-up tests here at the hospital before the board met, then I would have to return to Tskhakaya. In two months the final divorce process would be finished. Prozukhin would make sure to see me transferred to the dusty abyss of Central Asia. I had gambled, and I had lost.

  “I’m no longer a Communist,” I blurted out. “I’ve come to hate atheism. I want to learn more about religion. How can I serve as a Soviet officer?”

  Frolov even had an answer for this. He nodded gravely. “Captain, many pilots are religious. You are not alone. You may have doubts about the Party, but you have sworn to serve the Soviet people.”

  How could I respond? Finally I stood, and Frolov quickly shook my hand, eager to see me go. “Just take your medication, Captain,” he said. “Everything will be better soon.”

  Two days later I learned exactly why Frolov had been unable to help me. Lieutenant General Vasily Semakhin, chief of Air Force personnel, came to the hospital with an entourage of aides to brief all the pilots undergoing treatment on the impact of Gorbachev’s well-publicized force reduction policy. Over 350 active-duty and retired pilots — some of them white-haired veterans of the Great Patriotic War — crowded the hospital theater to hear Semakhin.

  The chunky, thick-waisted general spoke brusquely, his face set in an overbearing frown that signified his impatient distaste at having to personally explain such a policy to this collection of aviators. Having the ultimate decision on personnel assignments was a gold mine. And Semakhin was known to be a true Moscow general, a man who had made a personal fortune from the blat that came his way during the Brezhnev era. Some poorly qualified but well-connected fighter pilot who had received a plum had reportedly contributed to Semakhin’s wealth.

  Semakhin began his remarks by noting that the press had distorted Gorbachev’s United Nations speech. True, the general said, there would definitely be cuts in the ranks of all the services. But this did not mean officers would be arbitrarily relieved of their service obligation. Reductions in the Air Force ranks, Semakhin said, “will come first from those who have already completed twenty years’ service. If we can’t fill our allotment of cuts with these officers, we will next discharge those with medically documented alcohol problems. That will more than cover our quota.”

  Around me in the theater, pilots whispered. There were a few barely audible groans. Men, like me, who had come to this briefing hoping to be discharged soon, had those hopes abruptly punctured.

  Now Semakhin was speaking about unit reduction and reassignments. Frontal Aviation regiments would be cut from forty aircraft to as few as thirty-two, with new MiG-29 and Su-25 fighters replacing older aircraft. Many pilots from MiG-21 regiments would be reassigned to bombers. “I know this goes against fighter pilots’ grain,” Semakhin stated, almost sneering, “but we’re modernizing our forces, not running a popularity contest. Despite glasnost,” he added, “the Air Force still reaches its decisions without the benefit of public opinion polls.”

  Again there were groans. I stared at the heavy-faced general and his silent coterie of colonels in their well-tailored uniforms. Despite Semakhin’s scorn for glasnost, it had been foolhardy to reveal the cold truth about Gorbachev’s actual intent in his famous policy speech. This force reduction had nothing to do with a shift to a defensive military posture. Gorbachev and his Defense Minister, Marshal Yazov, intended to streamline and modernize the forces. Pilots taken from obsolete aircraft were to be reassigned to bombers. Was that a “defensive” posture?

  “This whole matter has been badly handled by the politicians,” Semakhin added with unfeigned disgust. “A full eighty percent of the pilots serving in Siberia and Central Asia have already submitted written requests for discharge. This is ludicrous. All your units will soon receive official guidelines. Unless you have twenty years’ service or the medics have certified you an alcoholic, don’t waste our time applying for a discharge.”

  Semakhin, a man who had never even flown an L-29, looked at his elaborate pilot’s watch and snapped that he would have time for a few questions.

  One old veteran of the war stood and unceremoniously demanded to know if the Air Force intended to raise veteran pensions to a reasonable living standard.

  Semakhin said the Defense Ministry was trying to “pass legislation” on the matter in the Supreme Soviet. This was hardly a reassuring answer to a brave old man trying to survive on 120 rubles a month.

  A major wounded in Afghanistan now rose. “When can we expect an all-volunteer military?”

  Semakhin was not taken unprepared. He smiled now, a reasonable leader. The USSR, he said, “simply cannot afford” such a force. “We would have to increase salaries tenfold. This is not realistic.”

  A colonel rose at the rear of the room. “Does that mean there’ll be no increase in pay?”

  “A good question, Comrade Colonel,” Semakhin crooned, again stressing his reasonable nature. “We’re working on a proposal for a thirty-ruble pay raise to come this summer.”

  The groans were louder now, but Semakhin pretended not to hear. After a moment another decorated senior pilot stood up to address the general. “A thirty-ruble salary increase is an insult.”

  Again, Semakhin had a ready answer. “We are soldiers, comrades. And a soldier can never be wealthier than a merchant.”

  “What shit,” a stocky major seated nearby said, not even trying to whisper. Semakhin’s reputation as a profiteer was well known.

  This briefing was unlike any military meeting I had ever attended. Although few of the assembled officers knew each other — and no one could tell who might be an Osobist knocker — men were boldly speaking their minds. Now it was my turn.

  “Comrade Lieutenant General,” I asked, staring directly into Semakhin’s mottled face, “is the decision to reduce our forces by five hundred thousand servicemen a reflection of our grim economic situation or an indication of our nation’s peace-loving policies?”

  No one groaned, but I did hear chairs shift as officers strained to see who had the audacity to ask such a question.

  Semakhin spun on his polished heel to face me, as if squaring off for a fight. “Our reduction offerees, Captain,” he said coldly, “was clearly explained in the press by the President of the USSR, the respected Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev.”

  It was a clever response that shielded Semakhin from the potential criticism of hard-liners in the room.

  But I remained standing to ask another question. “I have been grounded from flight duty,” I explained, “but still have seven years’ service. I have no need of my pension because I want to work in a civilian field. Can you help me be among the five hundred thousand to be discharged?”

  Semakhin seemed about to dismiss me brusquely, but then his face softened. It would cost him nothing to humor me. He nodded toward one of his aides, a tall colonel. “Give your name to this officer after the meeting, Captain.”

  I sat down. There was still a slight chance that the general would personally review my case. Around me in the theater, my colleagues were frowning and speaking quietly. They seemed troubled and confused. All of us were.

  Four days passed and I heard nothing from Semakhin’s office. When I tried to call the colonel, a typically rude secretary said he was away on an official mission and that I would be contacted “in good time” after I returned to Georgia. I had heard often that phrase on trips to Moscow when I was trying to secure patronage for my application to the Akhtubinsk test pilot school. From that frustrating process, I’d learned that a man’s most successful pa
tron was himself. The medical bureaucrats would not complete the official evaluation of my case for at least a week, so I planned to use the time to prepare for the worst case.

  I would probably have at least two months of ground duty at Tskhakaya before Prozukhin managed to have me transferred. That was ample time to prepare my unofficial exit from the Soviet Union. But whatever means of travel I chose would cost money. And here in Moscow there were unusual opportunities for making money. Jana had been in Kiev for several months the previous year and I had actually managed to save most of my salary. I now had almost one thousand rubles. That certainly was not enough to bribe smugglers to guide me over the mountains into Turkey or Iran, but I discovered a way to invest my money profitably.

  My Georgian friend Malhaz had asked me to bring back color posters of girls, preferably blond Western girls in skimpy bikinis or lingerie. These tantalizing items had just appeared in Moscow, but were unknown in the southern republics. Georgian men were crazy about girls, especially blondes. Although patients were under orders not to leave the hospital grounds, many of us ignored the restrictions. One afternoon I climbed the low wall and took the elektrichka commuter train into Yaroslavski Station. I found exactly the posters I needed in a new private stationer’s store in a narrow street off the Arbat. The shopkeeper was a young Estonian in stonewashed jeans with matching jacket. At first he wanted five rubles apiece. But I pointed out that the color separation was blurred on several, and offered to buy a hundred on the spot for two rubles apiece. We settled for two rubles fifty kopecks.

  I got through on the phone to Malhaz the next night and described the posters. “Can you see their tits?” A good businessman, he was never one to mince his language.

  “Yes, most of them.”

  “Blondes?”

  “Redheads and blondes, four different girls.”

  “I’ll pay you twenty-five rubles each. Buy as many as you can.”

  The next day I sneaked over the wall through Sokolniki Park and went into the Arbat again to buy another hundred. By investing five hundred rubles, I stood to gain five thousand.

  I realized that money for my trip would not be an insurmountable problem. But I began to have second thoughts about using smugglers’ trails into Iran or Turkey. Smugglers were close-knit tribesmen who lived desperate, often bloody lives. You paid them in cash, and once paid, there was no longer a reason to keep you alive.

  Moscow had excellent libraries and bookstores, so I used the coming days for research. A tourist visa to Hungary or Czechoslovakia was now out of the question, so I would have to find the means to travel alone over the southern mountains frontier of the USSR. What I discovered was encouraging. Since I was an experienced pilot, it made more sense to fly. From aviation club journals and hobby flying magazines, I learned that the Baltic Republics were now manufacturing hot-air balloons. I could order a small balloon with a propane burner and plans for a passenger basket for less than seven thousand rubles. And hang gliders were now available to authorized sports clubs. It would be relatively simple to form a one-man club in distant Georgia and obtain a suitable hang glider.

  One hobbyist magazine showed how you could modify the hang glider with a simple aluminum-tube frame and mount a propeller driven by a motorbike engine, transforming it into an ultra-light airplane with a range of over seventy miles. The article stressed that no one should fly these amateur aircraft without first obtaining the necessary permits. But I did not plan to seek permission for my last flight through Soviet airspace. In any event, a hang glider of thin aluminum tubing and a cloth airfoil would be invisible to radar, a real advantage in the dense PVO air-defense sector on the southern frontier.

  But I knew none of these plans would bear fruit if I was already under surveillance from the KGB. It was almost impossible to tell whether my conflict with Prozukhin and my feigned illness had provoked the Osobii Otdel counterintelligence officers at Tskhakaya to begin an official investigation. If they had, I would be arrested when I bought a balloon or a hang glider and began to modify it.

  I spent several afternoons in central Moscow, playing the foreign agent, ducking in and out of stores and steamy cafeterias, looking for the proverbial thick-necked comrade in the leather jacket. I ate my fill of stale sweet rolls and swilled dozens of cups of tea, watching over my shoulder. I did not seem to be under surveillance.

  But to be certain, I decided to go right to the lion’s den, or at least to socialize with some KGB friends. I had met a fellow named Yuri through my KGB friends in Georgia, where Yuri was completing a field-training course. Now he worked at the “new” KGB headquarters near the Outer Ring Highway. He was a specialist in secure satellite communications systems, and, like many in his service, came from a KGB family. His father was a retired colonel who had also served in secret communications, in overseas missions.

  I had visited Yuri’s family in their comfortable three-bedroom apartment off Rublovskoje Chaussee in the affluent Kuncevo district on other visits to Moscow. I telephoned Yuri’s family to announce I was in Moscow, and, as I knew they would, Yuri’s father insisted I come for dinner. Next I filled a two-liter bottle from my large canister of Armenian cognac and rode the Metro across the river to visit them. Yuri’s mother was a former physics teacher, a gaunt, very cultured person who had been partially paralyzed by a stroke. She and her husband were Communist true believers who had benefited from the system. Their apartment was furnished with handsome possessions Yuri’s father had amassed overseas. And twice a week a medical van arrived to take Yuri’s mother to the nearby Kuncevo Clinic, which was reserved for Politburo and high-ranking KGB patients.

  He was overjoyed to see me. When Yuri came home that evening, the young officer was already a little drunk. That was good. I planned to get him truly drunk this evening. I helped in the kitchen, preparing a nice collection of zakouski, small plates of herring, pickles, Hungarian sausage, and aubergine salad.

  Yuri’s mother sat stiffly at the kitchen table, speaking softly as she directed the three of us. It was an informal, relaxed situation, and I made sure to keep Yuri’s tumbler well filled with cognac as we sampled the food and exchanged toasts. This was a crucial moment. If I were under KGB surveillance, my phone call to their apartment would have alarmed the investigators. Yuri’s position was one of the most sensitive in State Security.

  Yuri and his family seemed sincerely glad to see me. I saw absolutely nothing unusual in their behavior toward me. We were still eating zakouski when “Sergei,” one of Yuri’s colleagues, arrived to join us for dinner. I had skied with him at Terskol and knew he was in training for a clandestine overseas assignment. He would be another coal miner’s canary.

  We moved to the dining table, and I kept the cognac flowing.

  Naturally the conversation turned to the unprecedented rash of street demonstrations in Moscow. In the month I had been in Moscow, unauthorized demonstrators had assembled in the thousands, not only in Pushkin Square, the traditional site for dissident demonstrations, but also at Moscow University, in the red brick pedestrian streets of the Arbat, and on the windy, cobbled expanse of Red Square itself.

  Many of these demonstrators demanded independence, or at least self-government for their republics. The Baltic independence movements were the best organized, and demonstrators brazenly unfurled illegal Latvian, Estonian, and Lithuanian flags. Other crowds were more surly, less stable. Armenians and Azerbaijanis sometimes fought each other with fists and the wooden staffs of placards. Although the city Militia and newly formed OMON counterdemonstration troops from the Interior Ministry had intervened brutally on several occasions, the sheer scale of the demonstrations overpowered the resources of the forces assigned to oppress them.

  And when the paramilitary troops had intervened, not only Western news organizations recorded the brutality, but camera crews from Vremya and a new State television investigative program, Vzglyad, “Glance,” also recorded the awful images of the OMON thugs beating peaceful men and women with rub
ber truncheons.

  But the pro-independence demonstrations were not the only tangible image of popular unrest broadcast over State television. Under prodding from reformers like Boris Yeltsin, the former Moscow Party chief whom Gorbachev had deposed, the hardliners in the Politburo had reluctantly agreed to the first free national elections in the history of the Soviet Union. On Sunday, March 26, 1989, hundreds of millions of Soviet citizens would assemble for the golosovat, the “vote” that was the most absorbing topic of conversation all across the country. They would elect the new Congress of People’s Deputies, an actual parliament that would be theoretically empowered to pass laws independent of the Communist Party. The Congress certainly fell far short of what I understood to be democracy in the West, but it was a major departure from the Party’s absolute control of Soviet life.

  Now thousands of otherwise docile citizens assembled under placards and banners to hear political candidates openly defy government dogma, their voices rasping through electric bullhorns, and the people chanting back slogans in return.

  I had seen the sullen faces of uniformed Militia and plainclothes KGB officers assigned to monitor these demonstrations. Clearly they would have loved orders sending them into the crowd with their truncheons swinging. But the rusty door of glasnost had creaked even further open. The angry men from the “Organs” had to stand there impotently and watch. And it wasn’t just political chanting that assailed them. The Memorial organization actually organized moving demonstrations in Dzerzhinski Square, opposite the brown sandstone facade of KGB headquarters, demanding that the State Security archives be opened to reveal the true fates of hundreds of thousands of “enemies of the people” who had disappeared into the black maw of the gulag.

  All this smacked of bardak, “disorder.” For seven decades the only demonstrations on the streets of Moscow, or anywhere else in the Soviet Union, had been vast pokazuka festivals, carefully choreographed to lavish praise on the Party and its leaders. Now the people were waking up, a frightening prospect for people like Sergei, Yuri, and his parents, seated around me at the dining room table.

 

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