Northern Fury- H-Hour

by Bart Gauvin

  “What are you doing here?” demanded the president, the birthmark on his head blazing red as it always did when he was agitated. “You are part of this coup as well, are you? I should have known.”

  “Tovarich President,” Medvedev began, ignoring the questions and quietly shutting the door behind him. “We desire your help, your cooperation, in averting the disaster that is engulfing our country—”

  “You want me to get out of the way so those idiots out there can plunge Russia into violence for some pipe dream of a glorious socialist future?” interrupted the president. “Do you really think—”

  “Do you really think,” Medvedev broke in, exasperated, “that this ‘Union Treaty’ is anything less than a death sentence for our country, for our place in the world? Can you not see, that path only ends in our country’s impotence and international chaos? If we continue, tovarich President, then this ground we are standing on won’t even be Soviet a year from now!”

  “You cannot know that,” responded the president, calming himself and pushing his glasses back into place. “Our best hope of holding the Union together is through mutual respect, through reform of our government systems. You of all people know how badly we’ve been mismanaged for the past seventy years.”

  “No, tovarich President, we are far beyond the point where talk will suffice to hold the republics to our will. You’re already letting the Baltics go. You’ve abandoned our buffer against another invasion from the West. Who will be next? Georgia? Kazakhstan? Belarus? Ukraine? If we sign this treaty, if we do not take bold steps right now to quell the devolutionary forces within our borders…”

  Medvedev’s voice trailed off. His right hand, almost of its own will, wandered forward to the plush of an armchair next to him.

  “And what would you have us do, eh? Send in the tanks like it’s 1968? If we accept that you’re right about the future—and I don’t—,” said the president, shaking his finger, “do you really think that holding this country together through bloodshed can ever solve our economic problems? Do you have any idea how the West will respond if we use violence to hold onto this empire? They can cripple us without ever firing a shot.”

  Medvedev sighed. This argument was going nowhere it hadn’t already been dozens of times before. “How do you think the West will treat us when our nation is dismembered into twelve or more divided states instead of being a single powerful one?” he asked, his voice beginning to soften. “How do you think they will look on us when the United States is the only superpower in the world? When they are free to do whatever they want without us to counterbalance them? No, tovarich President, we must keep the republics with us by any means. Any other choice will lead our nation, and the world, into chaos.”

  Medvedev could see the wind blowing out of the president.

  “We’ve been over this many times, Pavel Ivanovich,” the president said wearily, turning away, “you and I cannot see eye to eye on these things. You and your friends in the other room are going to try this,” he waved his hand, “this plot. You won’t succeed. Even if you do, you will come to see that my way is the only one we can take.”

  “You are a great man, tovarich President,” Medvedev said, his hand slipping from the velvet of the armchair into his coat. “I truly regret that we cannot agree on these things. I would gladly follow you, if I did not know with such certainty that the road down which you are leading us will end in disaster for Russia and the Soviet Union. I cannot allow that.”

  The president turned back to look Medvedev in the eye. The gunshot exploded in the enclosed space of the room and the man jerked upward violently, clawing at his shirt as if there was a stinging insect against his chest. Then he fell backwards and slumped onto the couch, looking up at Medvedev through thick-rimmed eyeglasses that were now askew, the shock on his face turning slowly to understanding as his mouth worked to draw in a last breath.

  Arm outstretched, Medvedev looked down over the smoking pistol. “I am truly sorry, but there is another course for Russia.” Lowering his arm and wiping the pistol on a corner of his coat, he continued, “This was the only way. You and I could not agree on how, but I promise you, I will preserve Russia’s greatness. Take comfort in that.”

  Slowly, the light faded from the president’s eyes, and then he was gone. Medvedev had aimed for his heart, rehearsing the shot in his mind over and over on the flight down from Moscow. His hand began to shake and he willed it to stop. As he returned the pistol to its shoulder holster, the door behind him crashed open. The other conspirators burst in, led by the general and followed by KGB officers with weapons drawn. They stopped and looked in shock at the scene: Medvedev, the slumped figure of their president behind him, the blood.

  “What have you done Pavel Ivanovich?” gasped the general.

  Medvedev looked the man full in the face and said, “Tovarich Minister, the president has suffered a heart attack. I do not believe he will recover.”

  The tall, broad-shouldered general stood in shock, his tousled wavy gray hair completing the image of a man completely out of his element. He stared past Medvedev at the former president seated on the couch, head rolled back in death.

  Medvedev crossed the room in three great strides and grasped the general’s shoulder with one hand to give him a gentle shake. Firmly but calmly he said, “Minister, we must now declare a state of emergency. The president is dead. Our country is in grave danger.”

  The general jerked a nod and turned to face the others. He opened his mouth, but closed it again. He swallowed, trying to speak, but no words came.

  Must I really do all this myself? Medvedev thought. He stepped past the general and began issuing orders.

  “You,” he said, pointing at the senior KGB officer in the room, whose sidearm was pointed down at the floor. “Get a doctor. Someone you can trust. The president has died from a heart attack and his body must be cared for. Take your men and make arrangements while I talk with the officials here. The Soviet Union is in grave danger.”

  Unsure what to do, the officer looked to the others in the room for guidance. None contradicted the order, so the man withdrew in bewilderment with his subordinates.

  Medvedev walked over to the door and closed it again, turning his attention to the CPSU Secretary, who was silently staring at the body.

  “What measures have been taken to secure Moscow?” asked Medvedev.

  The secretary shook out of his stupor and in a halting voice said, “Em…the Ministry of Defense will…will be moving troops into the city tomorrow. The defense minister is seeing to it. We have ordered a quarter million handcuffs and, em, three hundred thousand arrest forms to be delivered from Pskov. KGB has doubled the pay of all officers. It,” the man had to stop and think, “these should be enough measures…” His voice trailed off.

  Do they not have more of a plan than handcuffs? Medvedev wondered, growing more annoyed by the second.

  He stepped back and looked at the four men in the room. The general represented the military. The CPSU Secretary represented the Party. Also present was the deceased president’s personal secretary, who had provided insider intelligence on the president’s intentions. Finally, there was Oleg Drugov, last to enter the presidential salon, a junior member of the Politburo and one of Medvedev’s closest allies in his ongoing crusade to hold the Soviet Union together. Together, they represented a transitional body, the old, reformist government giving way to a new, hardline one, though killing the president had not been part of anyone’s plan except Medvedev’s. The four stood still, processing the shock that Medvedev’s action had just inflicted upon them and the impact it would have on their futures.

  “Listen to me, all of you.” Medvedev said, snapping their attention back to the present. “The fate of our country rests on a fulcrum. I know none of you intended for matters to unfold this way,” Medvedev gestured at the corpse behind him, “but if we are to succeed in pullin
g our Union back from the brink of dissolution we must now be absolutely firm in what we do. No one can be allowed to stand in our way. No one! There will be more unpleasantness in the coming days. Our countrymen will die, many perhaps. If you thought we could accomplish this civilly, you were gravely mistaken. We are executing a coup, whether you admit this to yourself or not, and it will only succeed if we strike hard and strike quickly before the enemies of our country understand what is going on.”

  Medvedev paused, then said, “I have committed us to this gamble. If you disagree with what I have done, you must arrest me now and go on by yourselves. But heed my warning: if you are not completely ruthless in this hour of peril then the tide of history will turn against each of you and against our country.”

  The others stood in silence, staring at him for several moments.

  Then the CPSU secretary said in a quiet voice, “What would you have us do now, Pavel Ivanovich? You have committed us to this path, what is your plan?”

  Medvedev had prepared himself for the other conspirators to order his arrest then and there. He was content that his actions gave them the best chance of success, even without him. But if they are willing to follow my lead, if they are willing to allow me to do what is necessary… When he spoke, his voice was one of authority and confidence. “We must move quickly to consolidate control over the central government. Where is the KGB chairman right now?”

  “He is at Lubyanka Center, in Moscow,” responded Oleg Drugov.

  “Get him on the telephone, quickly,” Medvedev ordered.

  The short, precisely-dressed man opened the door and went back into the sitting room where a rotary telephone sat on an end table.

  “My plan, what you—what we should do,” Medvedev said to the others, “is to return to Moscow and eliminate anyone that still wishes to lead us down a path of liberalism and fragmentation. Then we must use what state power we still have to quell the counter-revolutionary elements in the republics. Once we have reasserted the central control of the Party over the outlying regions, we can concern ourselves with repairing the dysfunction in our economy and government. None of this is possible if we allow the Union to dissolve.”

  The others nodded, growing more composed behind Medvedev’s firm leadership.

  A call from the adjoining room announced, “Pavel Ivanovich, the KGB chairman is on the line here.”

  Pavel strode into the sitting area. He took the receiver from Drugov’s hand, placed it to his ear and, “Hello, Vladimir Alexandrovich.”

  “Pavel Ivanovich,” came the frosty reply, “I hear you have taken matters into your own hands down there. You should have consulted the rest of us in the Emergency Committee before taking such a drastic step.”

  “My friend, it was the only way,” Medvedev said this slowly, carefully. “I think you know that. Regardless, what is done is done and there is no going back now. Are you prepared to maintain order in Moscow?”

  “We are prepared to do so,” responded the KGB chairman, “but if I am not to arrest you for murder I must know what you are thinking. What is your plan for restoring order to the country and for cleaning up this mess you’ve made?”

  Even he doesn’t know what to do, Medvedev thought, taken aback.

  “Tovarich Chairman, where are our opponents? Where is the RSFSR president?” he used the acronym for the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic within the USSR.

  “At his dacha outside the city. He returned from Kazakhstan yesterday,” answered the KGB chairman. “We’ve had him under surveillance for weeks. What do you propose?”

  “He must not be allowed to return to the capital. It would be best,” here Medvedev’s tone became stony, “if he suffered some sort of natural death or accident in the next few days.”

  A pause followed.

  “You are serious about this, Pavel Ivanovich?” the KGB chairman asked, surprise creeping into his voice.

  “He is dangerous to us, very dangerous,” Medvedev responded. “He has already done our country much harm. He must be removed if we are to reassert control over the Russian Republic and the rest of the Union.”

  There was silence at the other end of the phone for a few moments, then, “Who else do you intend to kill before this is over?”

  “Anyone who threatens the security and cohesion of the USSR, tovarich Chairman,” Medvedev responded without hesitation. “You must have lists of those who would oppose us. There must be hundreds, maybe thousands. Arrest them all. Whether we succeed or fail will depend on how well we can control the situation in the next few hours while we have the benefit of knowing what’s going on, and they do not.”

  There was another long pause from the man in Moscow, then, “Very well, Pavel Ivanovich. I will do as you suggest. I had hoped to accomplish our objectives with as little turbulence to our citizens as possible, but it appears you have set events on a different course.” Pavel heard papers shuffling through the earpiece, then, “I have an emergency plan to shut down the Metro here in Moscow tomorrow morning, to restrict air and rail travel, and to suspend the sale of petrol. These measures should allow us to do what we need to without the chaos of people in the streets.”

  “Yes. Do it,” agreed Medvedev. “What about our media?”

  “I have already arranged to take radio and television stations loyal to the republics off the air tomorrow,” answered the chairman. “The only stations broadcasting will be the ones we control.”

  “We should wait as long as possible to make our own public statement,” urged Medvedev. “The longer we can keep our opponents in the dark, the better. How long can you control the news?”

  Preventing journalists from filing and broadcasting stories from the capital was still possible, but it would only be a matter of time before news started leaking out through the Western embassies’ diplomatic channels. Once that happened, the news would start to filter back into the USSR through conduits such as Radio Free Europe and other liberal propaganda. In the hours before that happened Pavel hoped that he could keep the Soviet people ignorant of the goings on here and in Moscow.

  “I agree, Pavel Ivanovich,” said the KGB chairman. “We have the newspapers, television, and radio under our thumb. This can be held for perhaps seventy-two hours. But you and the others need to return here as quickly as possible. I predict things are going to be very interesting in the coming days. My men down there will handle the president’s…the former president’s affairs. I will see you soon.” There was a brief pause in which the KGB chairman coughed uncomfortably. Then he concluded with, “Oh, and Pavel Ivanovich, please don’t shoot anyone else without telling us first.”

  The line clicked off.

  Medvedev let out a breath before returning the receiver to its cradle. I might actually survive this, he thought. He looked up to see Oleg Drugov staring at him. All he needs is some training and he’ll be really effective, thought Medvedev, and I have many tasks for him.

  Turning to the general, Medvedev said, “You must contact the Defense Ministry and ensure they are ready for unrest in Moscow. Tell them to begin planning for interventions elsewhere in the Union if that becomes necessary. What are the defense minister’s plans?”

  The general had recovered some of his composure. He responded, “We have thought this through. The Tamanskaya Guards and Kantemirovskaya Tank Division will move into the capital tomorrow morning to maintain order. Alpha and Vympel groups will be prepared to deal with resistance. The interior minister has several OMON teams ready.” He referred to special police and counter-terrorism teams of the KGB and Interior Ministry. “We are bringing in a battalion of desantniki as well.” These were the elite paratroops of the Red Army.

  Will Misha be among them? wondered Pavel, thinking of his son. He put the question out of his mind. It was not the time to be distracted by family or pride for his two sons, the younger in the desant forces and the older serving
as a naval officer. “What about Voyska PVO?” demanded Medvedev. “What about our air defenses? While the government is in flux over the coming days we are vulnerable to a surprise attack from the outside. Are there plans to mobilize reserves?”

  “I do not know, we had not discussed it,” answered the general.

  Medvedev swore to himself. They clearly have no guts. Do they lack brains as well?

  To the CPSU secretary, he ordered, “See to our flight back to Moscow. We must return as quickly as possible.” Then he turned to Oleg Drugov and said, “Walk with me.”

  Medvedev turned and left the president’s salon, Drugov following him closely. The two men squinted as they emerged into sunlight and onto a semicircular patio overlooking the sparkling Black Sea several dozen meters below. Medvedev’s one working eye adjusted more quickly than his friend’s two. They walked away from the palatial dacha and to the edge of the patio before either man spoke.

  “You should have told us what you were going to do, Pasha,” chided Drugov when they were beyond earshot of the house, using his friend’s familiar name.

  “And would any of you have agreed?” responded Medvedev.

  Oleg smirked. “Nyet.”

  “Committees are weak, Oleg,” explained Medvedev. “That is where we are vulnerable. We are incapable of swift action because everyone is waiting for everyone else to assume the risk. If we continue like this our efforts to preserve our country will fail.”

  “But killing the president…” interjected Drugov.

  “Highly regrettable. He was a great man, far better than those weaklings back there,” Medvedev jerked his head towards the dacha. “That’s why I had to do what I did. Had he lived, he could have rallied forces against us. On our side, we have too many who have grown used to the safety of bureaucracy, of shared responsibility. If we are to succeed we need swift, decisive, ruthless action, not half measures by this so-called ‘State Committee on the State of Emergency.’ The very name sounds like a product of bureaucratic negotiation.” Pavel spat to show his disgust.