Northern Fury- H-Hour

by Bart Gauvin

  The marshal rankled at this intrusion upon his prerogatives. “You wish to tell me how to do my job, Pavel Ivanovich?”

  “No, tovarich Marshal,” Pavel said, soothingly, “I only bring you a report from the critical front in the battle, and my own assessment of what must be done. We cannot allow personal loyalties to interfere with our duty to serve the state. I also wish to inform you first of what I will tell the Emergency Committee, because I know a soldier like you will see need for action more clearly than others. You are able to start the machinery in motion here for what must be done.”

  “What is your recommended course of action, then?” asked the marshal, placated a little by the deferential response.

  “We must conduct an assault to recapture the White House as quickly as possible and eliminate the dissidents inside,” Pavel said decisively. “We cannot allow popular support to build behind the traitors cowering there. Right now, the people are confused, but if they start to believe that the quislings are the champions of their rights, then our cause is doomed. Do we have forces that could do the job tonight? During darkness would be best, I think.”

  The marshal grunted, then responded, “The combined Alpha/Vympel team that seized the Russian president last night is here. They could be over at the White House in a few minutes. They are accountable to the interior minister, but it appears he is having a nervous breakdown. Coward.”

  Always trying to spread out the responsibility, aren’t we? lamented Medvedev. “In that case, you must assume sole control over the security forces.” He pressed, “No one else has your experience or authority. Will they be enough?”

  “There is a desant battalion in the southern part of the city, a unit from the Tula division. I would trust them first to support an assault. Your son is with them, I believe,” answered the marshal.

  So, Misha is here. Aloud Medvedev said, “I urge you to order the assault, tovarich Marshal. I will go to the Kremlin and convince the others, but we must crush the resistance before it can coalesce. Will you order it?”

  The man pondered Medvedev for what seemed a long time. Then he spoke. “You are a bold man, Pavel Ivanovich. I don’t approve of what you did down in Foros, but you are right. Bold action is what is needed now to save our country. I will order the assault troops into position. Persuade the rest of the State Emergency Committee, and I will give the order for the attack.”

  Pavel arrived back in front of the White House several hours later. The young major from earlier was gone, he noted, replaced by a loud, stocky colonel whose loyalty was less inhibited by intelligent questioning. The crowds had dissipated as night fell with no sign of action. That was good. Medvedev didn’t want spectators to what was about to unfold.

  After departing the Defense Ministry, Medvedev had arrived in the Kremlin to find the other members of the Emergency Committee once again indecisive about how to proceed. As he entered the conference room, a television set was playing a news broadcast of his speech from atop the tank. His stock soared with the other plotters, not least because his public actions had removed the onus from each of them to assume the dangerous role of leadership. He’d leveraged the emotional thrill of his new-found influence, convincing them to approve a nighttime assault on the legislative building. Now he was back to ensure it happened.

  Before making the short drive from the Kremlin to the White House, Medvedev led the other plotters into the Kremlin’s press room, where they confirmed Pavel’s ascendance in front of the media by deferring to him and his forceful, logical arguments in front of the television cameras. Medvedev proved a persuasive voice in opposition to the dissidents while the other plotters largely looked on and nodded approval as he spoke. Now he was unquestionably the public face of what none of them would call a coup, at least publicly. Even the Soviet vice-president had remained passively silent, allowing Medvedev to dominate the media event with his unique mixture of Soviet populism, Russian nationalism, and firm hostility to the dissidents, who he repeatedly referred to as “traitors” and would-be oligarchs.

  Medvedev walked through the gathering darkness with his entourage, turning off of Noviy Arbat Street and passing under a grove of trees. The special assault element, composed of commandos from the Soviet Union’s two elite counter-terrorism teams, Alpha and Vympel, was assembling in a park one block east of the objective, shielded from view by a large office building.

  Medvedev scanned the scene, trying to make sense of the formations of dark shapes moving to and fro on the yellow lit pavement. The counter-terrorism teams seemed to be gathered at the north end of the lot, looking dangerous in an odd, relaxed way, with their black weapons, body armor, and night vision devices. At the southern end of the lot stood the paratroopers, here and there a blue-and-white-striped undershirt catching the light beneath olive tunics and equipment harnesses. Between the two groups a knot of officers from the two elements congregated. Medvedev approached the group, incongruous in his gray business suit and tie, and heard the final few words from the KGB colonel coordinating the assault.

  Medvedev approached the man as the group broke up, the officers returning to their units. “Good evening, tovarich Colonel. Can you tell me what the plan is here?”

  The man immediately recognized Medvedev, who had risen to national and even international prominence in the past few hours.

  “Of course,” the colonel responded. “In,” he looked at his watch, “thirty-five minutes we will cut all power to this part of the city. Special police units from the Interior Ministry are already blocking traffic from approaching the White House, and our main assault element,” he indicated the commandos nearby, “will breach the rear of the complex, overcome any resistance and arrest the dissidents inside. The desantniki will, at the same time, breach the front fence with an armored infantry vehicle and seal off all exits from the front of the building, arresting anyone who tries to flee.”

  Medvedev nodded. Then he said, “I wish to speak to the officer in charge of the assault sub-unit.”

  “Of course, sir,” the colonel said.

  The KGB officer led Medvedev over to the commandos, then called to one of the dark shapes in the crowd, “Major Khitrov! Someone to see you.”

  Medvedev saw one of the men turn. The lit end of a cigarette dangling from the man’s mouth flared as the dark shape appraised the newcomers through the semi-darkness. Medvedev felt the hair on his neck stand up the way it did when a wolf looked directly at him on one of his hunting trips in Siberia.

  “Yes?” the man asked around his cigarette.

  “Major, a word?” Medvedev said, and his hands itched for a cigarette of his own to banish the uncomfortable feeling.

  “Certainly,” the tall, athletic figure responded, the cigarette still held perilously between his lips.

  “Walk with me,” Medvedev commanded. The major complied, easily falling into step with the older man as the two moved away from the larger group of commandos.

  When they were a sufficient distance away, Medvedev turned to the commando and asked, “Major…Khitrov, yes? Do you know what is at stake in this assault?”

  “My skin?” came the irreverent response.

  Anger flared within him at the flippancy of the younger man. He controlled his emotions before going on. “My young friend,” he said coldly, “the future of our nation is at stake here. Many can see it, but none of them realize what must be done to preserve the Union. Half measures will not do. The people in there,” he jerked his head towards the office building, beyond which stood the White House, “are more dangerous than they know. Even if your attack is completely successful, many of them could prove to be dangerous to us, to our country. Even as prisoners.” He let the statement hang in the air for a second, then continued. “I’m sure you’ve seen the news reports. There are men in there with guns and masks who have sworn to resist you. What is the difference between those hooligans, the armed o
nes, and the ones they are protecting?”

  Khitrov eyed the older man with narrowed, predator eyes as he took another long pull on his cigarette. The fiery glow glinted off his own dark eyes under his specialized helmet. Then he turned his head up and blew smoke into the darkness above them. “Sir,” he said, still looking up, an air of amusement still in his voice, “what exactly is it that you want me and my men to do?”

  “Only what is necessary to preserve the Soviet Union,” Medvedev answered. “The deaths of a few traitors is sometimes necessary. Now is one of those times. The stakes are as high as they have been at any time since the Great Patriotic War.”

  Khitrov’s eyes came back down, catching the light of the cigarette again as he looked directly at Medvedev. His face was classic Russian, with high cheek-bones and Slavic eyes, but Medvedev fleetingly realized that it lacked the deep, almost-hidden emotion of a true Russian. Khitrov remained quiet for a moment. He reached up and took the cigarette from his mouth, flicking it away nonchalantly. Then he spoke. “Very well, sir. I will kill who you need me to kill. I respect a man who can see what he wants to accomplish and won’t let anything get in his way. But, allow me to offer you a warning. Violence sends many messages, and the one received is often not the same message that was sent.”

  “I will keep that in mind, Major,” answered the Medvedev, tamping down his annoyance at being lectured by this younger upstart. He held out his hand, and Khitrov took it. The men shook once. Khitrov turned and walked back to his men, calling his lieutenants to him.

  Medvedev rejoined his entourage, then walked towards the groups of paratroopers gathered at the other end of the lot. Maybe I can find Misha, he hoped, then dismissed the idea. Duty first. Let him accomplish his mission. I will find him afterwards. Instead he moved among the dark shapes of armed men, observing their preparations, hearing low murmurs of conversation and smelling the damp nighttime smells of summer in Moscow: the sweet smells of lime and alder trees that lined the sidewalks and buildings mixing with the damp, musty odor of the nearby river and the smoke of dozens of cigarettes. He peered into various small circles of soldiers, many of whom were checking each other’s equipment or just standing quietly, smoking as they waited for the coming assault. Within a few minutes a series of not-quite shouted commands prompted the dark milling shapes to spread out. The same was occurring with the Alpha group at the opposite end of the lot.

  The soldiers shook out into loose formations at either end of the lot, then waited in heavy suspense. Minutes passed, then a shrill whistle blast pierced the air. The city around them went dark. Street lights, buildings, and the floodlights that usually illuminated the White House itself, which just before had been reflecting a glow onto the low clouds overhead, all extinguished. In the trees the engine of the BMD, an infantry vehicle on tracks, revved. Shouted commands penetrated the darkness, and the two assault groups flowed quietly but quickly out of the assembly area. The commandos moved past the northeast side of the office building, the desantniki around the southwest, amid the swishing sounds of uniforms and soft creaking of webbing.

  Medvedev and those with him followed the KGB colonel coordinating the assault as he moved behind the paratroopers to the Svobodnoy Rossii plaza. From there they could watch, or rather listen, as the assault unfolded in the enforced darkness of the blackout.

  The first tell-tale sound was a metallic crash as the BMD breached the heavy front gate, followed by the rush of paratroopers quickly securing the front of the building. A minute passed, then two, then there was a muffled explosion from the rear of the structure, followed by several bursts of automatic gunfire. More explosions, fainter now, sounded from within the building, along with more gunshots as the operation progressed deep into the massive structure. Gradually the sounds of combat from inside the building changed from bursts of automatic fire to single shots.

  At this point the colonel, monitoring progress from a staff car, spoke a sharp demand into his radio handset. Medvedev watched the man’s reaction closely. He couldn’t hear either the question or the metallic response, but when the answer came through the colonel looked up with narrowed eyes and studied Medvedev. The shots continued, singly and in pairs, and now Medvedev could hear people fleeing the front of the building, some loudly begging the paratroopers outdoors to take them into custody, to protect them from the horrors inside.

  Medvedev walked over to the colonel by the staff car and asked, “What is going on?”

  The man was uncomfortable. He responded, “Major Khitrov reports he is mopping up resistance inside. He says the building will be secure shortly. No casualties to our force.”

  “Very good. I wish to enter the building, once the Major thinks he has things under control.”

  It only took half an hour. The colonel led Medvedev and his party to the front entrance. In the dark paratroopers held dozens of prisoners, kneeling in front of the legislature building, fingers intertwined behind their heads. Flashlights shone into some of their faces as the soldiers processed them with the help of uniformed KGB troops.

  Medvedev touched his guide’s elbow and said, “Colonel, I want these prisoners at Lefortovo before sunrise. This whole scene must be cleaned up before first light. Maintaining order in the city depends on it.”

  The man nodded and called one of the KGB officers over to give the order.

  “Father?” a familiar voice pierced the darkness from among a knot of paratroopers nearby.

  Medvedev looked up. His heart swelled with pride as he saw a tall, athletic paratrooper wearing captain’s insignia approaching. He couldn’t make out the man’s face in the darkness, but his gait was unmistakable.

  “Misha!” Pavel called. The older man stepped forward and enveloped his son in a powerful embrace. Throughout this day Medvedev had put on one act after another, but there was nothing feigned about the love and pride he exuded as he leaned back to look at his youngest child. “How are you, my boy?” he asked warmly as he released his son. “I came here hoping to see you.”

  “Normalna, father,” responded the young officer. Medvedev could hear concern in his son’s voice as Misha continued in a hush, “What is going on in there? So many dead…the prisoners here are saying that the soldiers inside were killing everyone they saw!”

  “I will look into it,” Medvedev promised. “But these people,” he indicated the prisoners kneeling on the concrete, “are dangerous. They wish to destroy our country.”

  Misha remained silent, unconvinced. He has always been the intelligent one, the sensitive one, Pavel reflected. Medvedev changed the subject to distract his son from the ugly business.

  “It has been too long since you visited,” Medvedev chided. “Once your duties here are complete, take some leave. I would love to spend time with you. Come over to the apartment.”

  Misha was non-committal. “I will need to ask my commander, father.”

  “I will speak to him.” Pavel offered.

  “No!” came the firm plea. “Please, father, don’t. I will ask him; but allow me to complete my duties.”

  The answer only made Pavel prouder. He had been prevented by his blind eye from serving in his nation’s armed services, something he’d always regretted. But the pride he would have felt in his own military service paled in comparison to what he felt for his two sons.

  “Very well, son,” Medvedev said warmly, “you are a grown man. Just remember, it does my old heart good to see you.”

  “I will, father.” The young man’s voice softened.

  Out of the dark a voice called out. “Mikhail Pavlovich! Have your sub-unit start moving these prisoners to the trucks.”

  “I must go, father. It is good seeing you, but I have duties to perform,” Misha said. Medvedev didn’t notice, but the young man’s eyes touched on the White House with concern.

  “Of course, of course,” Medvedev answered quickly. He embraced his boy again, and t
he young officer merged back into the confusion of shadowy shapes moving through the nearby darkness. Best he be protected from the ugliness of what must occur here, thought the father.

  The KGB colonel had been waiting impatiently several paces away. Now he approached.

  “Sir,” he announced, “Major Khitrov says all is safe inside. We may enter when you are ready.”

  “By all means, lead on,” said the older man.

  They walked up the front steps and passed through a bank of glass doors, entering the dim foyer of the grand building. Alpha commandos, holding lights, provided the only illumination inside as they moved between dark shapes that lay crumpled on the floor. The colonel led Medvedev and his party through the room. The metallic smells of gunpowder and something else, something with a sickly-sweet flavor that Medvedev couldn’t quite place, filled his nostrils. As Pavel passed one of the shapes he felt his shoe slip slightly on the smooth, faux marble floor. He looked down to see that he had stepped in a dark puddle, and then he knew what the smell was. Blood, he realized as he walked on, leaving dark footprints as he went.

  They continued on to the rear of the foyer, where the shadowy shape of Khitrov leaned against a large reception booth. His helmet was off, revealing a bristly, shaved head. A cigarette dangled from his lips, its end glowing red. His body language communicated nonchalance, but the cigarette’s glow glinted off hard eyes as he watched the party approach.

  “Major Khitrov, your report,” demanded the colonel.

  The major made a show of slowly smashing out his unfiltered Russian cigarette onto the reception booth’s counter before responding. Medvedev could see the colonel’s frame tense in anger. There is conflict between these two.

  “Tovarich colonel,” he said easily, “all resistance in the building has been eliminated. My men suffered no losses. Some of the work was… messy. But,” he spoke now to Medvedev, “nothing you won’t be able to clean up, I think.”