He attended Moscow State University, joined the Young Pioneers, the Komsomol and the Communist Party, and when he graduated with masters degrees in mathematics, physics, philosophy and psychology, he enlisted in the newly formed Strategic Rocket Force as a captain.
But then disaster struck. His father and mother had become too moderate and too vocal in their views. They were friends with Andrei Sakharov, but they did not have the physicist’s importance so they were sentenced to a Siberian gulag for crimes against the State, where five years later they both died.
It was the beginning of Tarankov’s real education, he once admitted to a friend. At that moment he became a realist. He embraced the Soviet Union and the Communist Party as he never had before, working equally as earnestly with Gorbachev’s moderates as with Vladimir Zhirinovsky’s ultra-nationalists. But when the Wall fell he shed no tears. Nor did he openly mourn the loss of the Baltic states and the disintegration of the Soviet Union. Instead, he began to consolidate his power base in the military, the Militia, the old KGB, the Kremlin and the Communists.
They passed a shack in the morning mist, a curl of smoke rising from the chimney. Then another shack, and two more, as they entered the outer suburbs of Kirov which was an industrial city on the Vyatka River.
“Just eight hundred kilometers to Moscow,” Liesel said, straightening up. “Not so far. Maybe eight hours or less.”
“More like eight light-years,” Tarankov replied. He finished his brandy and handed the glass to his wife. “Have Leonid join me.”
“Here,” a dark figure said from within the shadows of the doorway behind them.
Liesel was startled, but Tarankov didn’t bother to turn. Leonid Chernov was like an extension of his own personality, a brother, a kindred spirit. They understood each other.
“I’ll see that Colonel Drankov is ready,” Liesel said, and she left.
“There could be resistance in Kirov,” Chernov said joining Tarankov. “It might be better if you remained aboard until we have Government Square secured.”
“Do you think that’s for the best, Leonid Ivanovich?”
“For your personal safety, yes.” Chernov shrugged. “For the cause … no.”
Tarankov turned to look at his second in command who was ten years younger than him and stood a full head taller. Like everyone else aboard the train, including Colonel Drankov and his two hundred highly-trained commandoes, Chernov wore Russian battle fatigues with no insignia. They were a well-oiled team. Everyone knew everyone else, and all of their duties were clearly defined and perfectly understood. Everyone from the lowliest APC driver to Tarankov himself was equal, only their jobs and responsibilities differed.
“That’s the whole point.”
Chernov smiled humorlessly, but said nothing.
“Maybe I’ll make you director of my KGB.”
“Maybe I won’t want it.”
“There aren’t many causes left worth your special talents,” Tarankov said.
“Now it’s you who are the idealist.”
They passed the railroad siding for the Kirov Lumber Works complex, which looked all but deserted this morning. Where the yards should have been teeming with workmen, only a half-dozen men stood atop piles _of lumber as the train roared by. A few of them waved, but most of them merely watched.
“They know we’re coming,” Tarankov said.
“It would seem that not everyone is thrilled by the prospect.”
Tarankov studied his number two’s eyes, but this morning he could discern nothing other than an amused indifference. They’d been together for more than five years, and in that time there’d been a few moments like these in which Chernov was unreadable. Stalin had once said the same thing about his secret service chief La vrenti Beria, a killer whose cause and loyalty wasn’t always so easy to determine. “What are you thinking?” Stalin asked. “You don’t want to know,” Beria replied. “Except that I’m yours.” So long as it suits me, Tarankov finished the thought as he was sure Stalin had.
They passed other factory complexes that like the lumber works were mostly deserted of workmen. The word had spread that Tarankov was coming. They would be gathering downtown to witness what a western journalist described as “… a revolution so typically Russian that no one in the West has a chance of understanding it. The distance from apathy to passion is nowhere shorter than it is at this time and place in history.”
They roared into the city at more than a hundred kilometers per hour, not slowing down until they’d passed through the central switching yards and entered the downtown section where the tracks made a huge loop to the north, passing over the river still choked with dirty ice floes. The main railway station was two blocks off the city square, and as they approached it Chernov ducked inside for a moment returning with Tarankov’s Makarov pistol and his fatigue cap with a red star on the crown.
Tarankov put on his hat, strapped on his pistol and checked the gun’s action. Carrying a sidearm was his only concession to his personal safety. But everyone from Liesel to his military commander insisted on it, and at the rallies the crowds seemed to expect it. This was war.
Thousands of people lined the tracks, many of them waving the hammer and sickle flag of the Soviet Union. Others raised banners with Tarankov’s name, and still others held posters with his picture. Most of them chanted his name, many of them held up their right fists in the sign of solidarity. There were no police or military in sight.
“It could be a trap,” Chernov said. “Then we die here,” Tarankov replied, not taking his eyes off the crowds. His chest was swelling and blood pounded in his ears. He was more alive now than he’d ever been. Russia was his.
The train rumbled to an abrupt stop a hundred meters east of the big, iron latticework central depot, its iron wheels screeching on the tracks, throwing up sparks. Loading doors on twelve of the cars crashed open, and a dozen troop-carrying armored vehicles roared into life, their half-tracks clattered down steel ramps, and they quickly formed into a unit of a hundred commandoes, and four smaller squadrons of twenty-five men each.
Liesel, also wearing a sidearm, joined Chernov and her husband on the rear platform. They climbed down and boarded the lead APC in the main group from which Colonel Vasili Drankov would direct his forces. This was their tenth campaign in the past eighteen months, but Kirov, which was a city of 300,000, would be by far their largest conquest. Any number of things could go wrong, and they all knew it. By sheer weight of numbers the citizens could stop them dead, just as Yeltsin’s supporters had protected the White House during the Kremlin coup.
Drankov saluted. “Radar is still clear. Air traffic has even been diverted from the civilian airport. And all the military channels are dead between Moscow and the air base as well as the army post.”
Thousands of people raced down to the train, but mindful that something was about to happen, kept clear of Gruzinskaya Boulevard that led from the station to the city square. The noise was deafening, a roar that began to coalesce into the single chant: “Tarankov! Tarankov! Tarankov!”
“The military would be stupid to interfere,” Tarankov shouted,
Liesel at his side was beaming. Chernov stood in the gunner’s turret surveying the crowds and watching the taller buildings for snipers.
“This won’t be another Chechnya,” Drankov said with assurance. “Not with all this support. These people don’t like the apparatchiks any better than anyone else we’ve seen. But the Party is still timid of Moscow.”
“Not for long,” Tarankov said harshly. “This time we’ll give them a message they won’t soon forget.”
“As you wish, Comrade,” Drankov said tightly, and he began issuing orders by radio. The main body of their forces would head directly into the city square which was at the heart of the government and financial district. Units One and Two were to head directly to the television and radio stations and the biggest newspaper, and summarily execute not only the corporate censors, but the left-wing intellectuals and democratic reformers who’d been identified by Tarankov’s people months ago.
Unit Three was to proceed to the Arbat Bank, which was a branch of the powerful government-directed Bank of Moscow, execute its president and chief officers and rob the vault. The money and gold, if any, was to be brought back to the square and distributed to the people after Tarankov’s speech. The confusion it would cause would help cover their retreat should the local militia decide in the end to retaliate. Anything was possible.
Unit Four was to round up the mayor, the entire city council, the chief prosecutor and his staff, the directors of public works, housing, transportation and all six of the regional court judges, and bring them to the central
